Jack’s hounds circle around us as we walk back to the house arguing about black coffee versus coffee with delicious sugars and creams until he reaches for my elbow. “Listen,” he says quietly, turning me to face him as we reach Hillcrest. He places a hand above my shoulder against the house. My heart bangs against my chest. “I want to say thank you for helping me. It means a lot to me.”
I should tell him that he has a huge staff of people willing to do anything for him, because the Goodwins pay them, but somehow I know he considers what we did this morning more personal than regular ole work. He smiles, and I find myself staring at his lips.
Then Yvonne waddles up with a laundry basket under her arm and Jack tries to take it off her hands, but she swats at him. “Don’t even think about it.” She wags her finger at him, and then motions for him to lean down so she can kiss his cheek. Then she kisses my cheek and heads inside where I can hear her getting on to Cindy for not drinking some special prenatal green tea she concocted. Jack and I laugh at Yvonne together.
“Anyway,” Jack says. “I have to finish balancing the accounts before school.”
He takes off for the manor house, and I sip my coffee. Mmm. Perfect.
I shower and dress for school, and while I’m sitting at the table trying to finish my stupid geometry homework, the maid bell starts ringing. Cedar Hill has several bells that date back to the Civil War. Each bell indicates if one of the Goodwins needs something. The chef bell, for food or coffee; the maids’, for laundry, bedding, or cleaning issues; the gardener, for gardening issues.
You know, in case there’s an emergency gardening issue.
The maid bell ringing doesn’t make any sense—none of the maids are down here right now. They’re making beds and serving breakfast and doing other things maids do. Then the phone rings. “Savannah,” Cindy says in a weak voice.
“Is something wrong with the baby?” I rush to ask.
“I’m not feeling my best…I’m so tired,” she replies. “I need you to send Paula up to work breakfast instead of me.”
“She’s not here.”
“Oh no, I just remembered it’s her day off.”
“I can come up before school—”
“No, no,” Cindy says. “Mrs. Goodwin doesn’t like it when the help track mud in the house.”
“I’ve already changed clothes.” I peek down at the pink Converse Dad gave me for Christmas last year. “I’m coming.”
I jog up to the manor house and barrel into the kitchen. Cindy’s sitting at the island, wiping sweat off her face. Jodi, the Goodwins’ chef, is frying an omelet and writing down notes at the same time.
“I can’t serve breakfast,” Cindy says, on the verge of tears. “I don’t know how I’m gonna make it another four months. I’m so tired.”
“You should take some time off.”
“I need the money,” Cindy whispers, shaking her head. “You know I need a root canal and I won’t be able to afford it for a long time and I want to buy your little sister clothes and start a savings account and—”
“Shhh,” I say soothingly. She Who Must Not Be Named should be able to take time off if she needs to. But with Dad still paying off Mom’s medical bills, having enough money to take time off seems like a fantasy. What the hell are we gonna do after she gives birth?
“Jodi? What do I do?” I ask in a harsh tone.
“Refill their coffee. Mr. Goodwin drinks his black. So does Jack. Mrs. Goodwin drinks tea. Shelby likes hot cocoa with lots of whipped cream, so make sure she has enough.”
I quickly wash my hands in the sink and take a deep breath.
“Come back to grab Shelby’s omelet,” Jodi says.
I tie on an apron and grab the coffeepot before striding into the dining room. A chandelier hangs above the table made of a deep cherry wood. Sunlight illuminates the room through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Shelby is doing the word search in today’s paper. Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin look up at me.
“Short-staffed today,” I say, holding up the coffeepot.
Mr. Goodwin sets his paperwork down. “Is everything okay?”
“Cindy’s a little under the weather. She’s really tired. And Paula has the day off.”
“Oh, of course,” Mr. Goodwin says, returning to his papers. He’s reading printouts of the Daily Racing Form. Dad and I read it every day so we can stay up-to-date on the best horses and jockeys and their news.
“Welcome to the team,” Mrs. Goodwin says, toasting me with her teacup.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say. I saw her at the races on Sunday, but this is the first time she’s spoken to me. I can see where Jack and Shelby get their good looks from—Mrs. Goodwin is exquisite.
Jack chooses that moment to enter the dining room, looking fresh in a pair of dark jeans, cowboy boots, and an Oxford button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, of course. His hair is still wet from the shower.
He sees me standing there and stops moving. Avoids my gaze. God. This is the most. Embarrassing. Moment. Ever. He kisses his mother’s cheek before taking a seat and placing a napkin on his lap.
“Morning, sweetie,” Mrs. Goodwin says to him, smiling as she sips from her teacup. Then she goes back to sorting through the pile of mail in front of her. It’s probably invitations to charity balls, political fundraisers for her brother who’s the governor of Alabama, and cocktail parties, or it’s about her cookbook.
Apparently every year she develops recipes for a special cookbook—Entertaining with the Goodwins: Prizewinning Recipes from Prizewinning Cedar Hill Farms. She sells them for charity. We have a copy on the Hillcrest common room coffee table.
I move to pour hot coffee into Jack’s cup. Dear God, don’t let me spill.
“You know,” he says under his breath. “Just because I brought you coffee doesn’t mean you had to bring some to me.”
I freeze as Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin exchange glances with each other. I move to pour coffee in Mr. Goodwin’s cup, but he puts a hand over it.
“I’m fine. I’ve had enough.”
Jack selects a muffin from the breadbasket. “Dad, I’m selling the Big Society yearling.”
“To who?”
“Bushy Branch Farms in Georgia. Got Paulsen up to $320,000.”
“Good boy,” Mr. Goodwin says with a smile, making Jack practically glow with pride.
Jack sorts through the mail at his place setting. He opens an envelope and pulls out a card. The embossed initials on the paper read AW.
“Crap,” Jack mutters, dropping the card on the table.
“What is it, dear?” his mother asks.
“It’s just a card from Abby Winchester. I saw the AW on the front and thought it was about A&W Root Beer.”
“You goof,” Shelby says.
“I love root beer,” he replies, sounding sad and overly emotional about root beer. Boys.
Mr. Goodwin opens his mouth, presumably to talk about AW of the Abby Winchester variety, not the root beer, so I go back into the kitchen. Jodi hands me a tray loaded up with the omelet, little bowls of something I don’t recognize, and another basket of scones and muffins. I reenter the dining room to another interesting conversation.
“I want pink streaks in my hair,” Shelby says as she licks hot cocoa off her upper lip.
Mrs. Goodwin sets her letter opener down. “No.”
“C’mon! I want pink hair for my birthday! Carla got blue streaks and Whitney has purple streaks and I think I would look good with pink!”
“No,” her parents say simultaneously. Mr. Goodwin never looks up from the Daily Racing Form.
I put a bowl at each spot. It looks like some sort of wonderful egg casserole bacon mash-up? I bet it totally rocks the socks off the Fruit Loops I had for breakfast.