She’d played clubs smaller than this.
The house hadn’t misspoken either; there really was more than one kitchen, and each was larger than her old apartment in DC. Peter Lee stood at the counter in one of them reviewing the week’s menu with the chef but paused when he saw Con.
“Afternoon. I bet you’re hungry.”
“I could eat,” she said in one of the great understatements of the twenty-first century.
“Breakfast or lunch?”
“Breakfast. Definitely breakfast.”
“How does an omelet sound? Coffee. Wheat toast. Grits. A medley of fruit.”
“And a side of bacon?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound too much like Oliver Twist. She’d been dreaming about bacon since the broken food printer at the diner.
“A woman after my own heart. All our meat is locally sourced from a sustainable farming collective. Mr. Gaddis is an investor,” Peter said, clearing a space for her at a rough-hewn farmer’s table piled high with books and papers. It was the first place in the house that actually looked occupied and not carefully staged for a photo op. Peter explained that this was where Mr. Gaddis worked most days. Since his wife’s passing, he preferred the bustling energy of the kitchen to the solitude of his office.
“What about his kids?” She remembered reading that Vernon Gaddis and his wife had three children.
The faint outline of an expression crossed Peter’s face, but it was gone too quickly for Con to name it. At the kitchen counter, the chef stopped working, knife poised above an onion.
“The children don’t live here at the house,” Peter explained. There was clearly much more to the story, but his tone made it plain that the subject was not open for discussion.
“So is your boss around? When do I get to meet him?” Con asked.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Gaddis had to go into DC this morning.”
“I thought you said he never left the island,” she said, frustrated by the delay. She needed to get down to Virginia and didn’t have time for any games.
“I said rarely. It was an emergency, but he expects to be home in time for dinner. He hopes you’ll join him.”
He hopes? She didn’t know why people with power had to play it like it was up to you when they had you up against a wall and you both knew it. Maybe it helped them sleep at night.
The chef brought over her breakfast, and she ate in peace while Peter finished his work. She couldn’t tell what his job was exactly, only that he seemed good at it. He radiated competence, and she found his presence reassuring. After she had used her toast to clean her plate, he offered to show her around the house.
“Actually, do you have scissors I could borrow?” Con said, gesturing to her hair. “I need to do something about this situation.”
Peter laughed unguardedly for the first time since she’d met him. “I can do you one better. Follow me.”
He walked briskly, with the purpose of a man who could navigate the house blindfolded if necessary. Con hurried to keep up. They entered a small room that was essentially a one-chair barbershop. It was as well equipped as any salon she had ever been in.
“What’s all this?” she asked.
“Mr. Gaddis likes his hair done once a week. We were making a mess of his bathroom floor, so he built this instead.”
“You do hair too?”
“I do.” Peter spun the barber’s chair around for her and gestured for her to sit down.
“Seriously, what exactly is your job title?”
Peter laughed again, and she found she liked when he did. “I think he and I settled on majordomo.”
“Which is a what exactly?” It was one of those words that Con knew but had never actually heard said out loud. “Is that like a butler?”
“A majordomo was the head steward in an Italian or Spanish palace. I oversee Mr. Gaddis’s affairs, manage the household, keep his life running smoothly.”
“And that includes cutting hair?”
“I’m a man of many talents. But fair warning, I haven’t cut a woman’s hair in a long, long time. As long as you’re not looking for high fashion, I think I can manage.”
There weren’t a lot of people she trusted with her hair, but something about Peter made her take a seat. He let her hair out of its ponytail and cleared his throat apologetically.
“We may have to go a little high and tight.”
“How high, how tight?” she asked, although she knew exactly how dire the situation was up there. “You know what, just do what has to be done.”