Take Me Home for Christmas. Brenda Novak
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had said at Black Gold Coffee last week about the possibility of Sophia DeBussi applying to be his housekeeper, he was afraid of who it might be. She had to do something to support herself and her daughter, didn’t she? What else could she do except go after any menial job that might be available? In high school, she’d partied so much she’d barely graduated. She had no college credits, no work experience.
He supposed she could model. She was pretty enough. But she couldn’t do that here in Whiskey Creek. And if her situation was as dire as he suspected from all the news reports, she wouldn’t have a car—at least not for long. She wouldn’t even have a house once the bank foreclosed.
Pushing away from his desk, he got up to stretch his legs, spotted his cell on a side table and scooped it up. The call he’d missed had come from his agent. Damn. He should’ve taken that one. But he’d deal with Jan Andersen in a minute; he had another call to make first. He’d limped along without any domestic help for the past ten years, since he started writing. He figured he could manage for a few more months, until whatever was going to happen to Sophia DeBussi happened, and he could interview applicants without fear that she might knock on his door.
Ed down at the Gold Country Gazette answered on the first ring. “What can I do for you, Ted?” he asked.
Caller ID, no doubt. “I’d like to cancel my ad.”
“But it hasn’t even run yet.”
So far, he’d posted on Craigslist, but hadn’t received much interest. A woman named Marta, who’d actually used Sophia as a reference, had applied; however she had a slew of other clients and couldn’t focus strictly on him. Besides, she didn’t cook, and she didn’t know how to use a computer. He wanted someone who would act as maid, cook and secretary. An all-in-one assistant wouldn’t be easy to find, especially since he didn’t have time to sift through applications. So it wasn’t just that he was afraid Sophia might apply for the job, he told himself. Delaying the process meshed better with his schedule.
“I’m aware of that,” he said. “I’m planning to hold off until after the holidays.”
“But the holidays are the busiest.”
“I don’t have time to interview, Ed. And I don’t have time to train anyone. Just yank the ad, okay?”
“Does that mean you’re pulling it from Craigslist, too?”
“Of course.” He was walking to his computer to do that this very second.
“I’ll take care of it. Let me know if you change your mind.”
Another call was coming in. Ted said goodbye and switched over. He wasn’t getting any writing done, anyway. “Hello?”
“Ted?”
It was his mother, Rayma, who’d raised him as a single parent after his father left them for his female law partner. He and his mother had moved to Whiskey Creek from affluent Atherton, south of San Francisco, when he was three years old and she was offered the position of vice-principal at the elementary school. She was principal now, and had been for twenty years, but recently she’d been talking about retiring and moving back to the Bay Area to be closer to her mother and sisters.
“What’s up, Mom?”
“Rough day,” she said. “Since when do sixth-grade students bring guns to school?”
“A twelve-year-old showed up with a gun?”
“The nephew of those trashy people in the river bottoms. Carl Inera and his clan.”
“Drugs have a lot to do with Carl’s situation.”
“Chief Stacy said the same thing.”
“So...what? Are you planning to retire even earlier than we talked about?”
“No. Nothing’s changed there.”
“Something’s different. You don’t normally call me while you’re at work.”
“Mrs. Vaughn over at the middle school wanted me to hit you up for a donation.”
“For what? You usually reserve my resources for your own school.”
“She’s aware of how much you’ve done here and hoped you might see your way clear to helping over there, too.”
“What do they need?”
“They’re raising funds for a new gymnasium.”
How could he say no? The school system had provided the job that’d enabled his mother to make a living and provide for him. And with the way schools were hurting these days, he helped out whenever he could.
“How much?” he asked.
“Could you do $10,000?”
“That’s not exactly pocket change, Mom.”
“Is it too much?”
He considered his bank account; he could afford it. “No, I’ll do it.”
“I’m proud of the man you’ve become, of your accomplishments. I hope you know that.”
He smiled. “What are you talking about? You don’t even like my books.”
“All that murder...it’s too graphic for me, but I can appreciate your talent.”
“I’m glad. Because I’m proud of you, too,” he said, and it was true.
“Have you seen Sophia since the funeral?”
He’d been heading to the window overlooking the same river that ran past Carl Inera’s shack some miles away. But at this, he froze. “No. Why would I?”
“Just checking.”
His mother was an attractive, strong, capable woman. Unfortunately, she was also highly opinionated and often stuck her nose in his business, which he didn’t appreciate. “You mean you’re worried that I might take up with her again now that she’s available.”
“I remember how much you loved her.”
“Loved, past tense, being the key word. There isn’t much I even respect about her these days.”
“But let’s face it. You’re a sucker for a damsel in distress. And she’s attractive. I can’t deny that. Please don’t feel you have to swoop in and save her from her misdeeds, though.”
There was so much he wanted to respond to in what she’d said he hardly knew where to start. “You believe she’s to blame for what Skip did?”
“She’s the one who married him to begin with. I thought she was certifiable at the time. Just like her mother.”
Ted winced. “That’s kind of a low blow, don’t you think? She can’t help that her mother has mental problems. Even her mom can’t help that.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve never liked Sophia, and I’ve never made any secret of it.”
He scratched his neck. “Because you were afraid I’d marry her before completing my degree.”
“And because her values are all screwed up.”
“How do you know she hasn’t changed? Grown up?” God, he was sounding like some of his friends. Only his mother could push him to the other side of an argument that easily. He loved her, but they were too much alike—both of them opinionated, take-charge people.
“It’s obvious.”
“A lot of people choose the wrong marriage partner.”
Although he hadn’t meant to imply anything about her own decision to marry his father, the silence that followed indicated she’d taken it that way.
He opened his mouth to clarify, but she spoke before he could. “At least I didn’t marry for money,” she said. “And it’s how she went about getting