Masquerade: a romantic comedy Read online

  Her outfit probably wasn’t nice enough, and her shoes were scuffed. She hadn’t thought much about them until she got ready for the interview, and then she remembered why she hadn’t worn her wool blazer for so long. The only shoes that matched it were scuffed. But what could she do? This skirt and blazer were the only things professional enough to wear to an interview.

  Clarissa glanced in the mirror again, this time checking on Elaina in her car seat. “Are you okay back there?”

  Elaina nodded, her twin blonde pigtails bobbing as she did. The pink bows Clarissa had tied in her hair were still in place, and her dress didn’t even look wrinkled. It was pink too. Elaina had decided it was her favorite color and lately refused to wear anything that wasn’t some shade or hue of pink.

  Elaina’s pale blue eyes looked up at her mother’s reflection. “Are we almost dere?”

  “Yes. And while we’re there, you’re going to be what?”

  “Good,” Elaina said.

  “And that means being what?”

  “Quiet,” Elaina said.

  “And play nicely with the other little girl,” Clarissa added. “Then what will we get after we’re finished with the interview?”

  “Ice cream,” Elaina said, smiling.

  “One more thing. Remember, we’re not going to say anything about Daddy while we’re there, okay?” Clarissa hoped Elaina wouldn’t question that request. It was just one more thing to worry about, and Clarissa was already worried about everything else.

  It wasn’t that she had any idealistic notions of celebrities. Clarissa had never been the type who poured over the tabloids or even watched the Oscars. Her knowledge of Hollywood was minimal by anyone’s standards, but you couldn’t be a grocery-store-shopping woman and not know who Slade Jacobson was.

  Slade had graced the cover of every tabloid when he and TV starlet Evelyn Larkin married five years ago. They had looked like such a perfect couple. Perfectly happy, perfectly beautiful, perfectly rich and famous.

  Apparently the marriage hadn’t been perfect though. The couple had made the same rounds on the tabloids about a year ago after Evelyn was caught cheating with her soap opera co-star. And the tabloids had photographic proof to commemorate the event: Evelyn draped over a blond hunk at some drunken party.

  Clarissa had felt sorry for Slade then—to have his personal life the cause of so much public speculation. Everyone wondered who was to blame for the affair. Was there something wrong with Slade or with Evelyn that she would cheat on a guy that eighty percent off American women would willingly ditch their boyfriends for?

  Perhaps Evelyn was a fool, walking away from that sort of knee-weakening specimen of manhood. Or maybe Slade was one of those overbearing jerks that a woman could only take for so long.

  Well, Clarissa was about to find out, wasn’t she?

  Clarissa turned away from the busyness of the main streets and toward Malibu Canyon. Even though it was late October, autumn only brought slightly cooler temperatures. California was still blue skies, sunshine, and tourists.

  The farther Clarissa drove up the hill, the harder her heart pounded. I’m really going to do this, she thought. I’m going to walk up to Slade Jacobson’s house and knock on the door. Then he’ll open the door, and my brain will stop working, and the first thing I’ll blurt out is, “I’m not married.”

  Clarissa gripped the steering wheel and resolved to remain poised and in control of her tongue. Her marital status didn’t matter. Slade had only requested a married woman so he didn’t have to worry about getting applicants who were just conniving little flirts in sheep’s clothing—or in this case, wool blazers. But Clarissa had no designs on Slade. In fact, after spending the last five years with Alex, she was likely to remain designless, as far as men went, on a permanent basis. If she ever felt lonely for someone whose main purpose in life was to point out her every shortcoming, she’d buy a subscription to a beauty magazine.

  She pulled up Ocean View Drive and then into a long driveway. She stopped in front of an imposing metal gate and pressed the call button.

  “Yes?” a faraway sounding female voice said.

  “Hi. I’m here for an interview,” Clarissa said.

  “Just a moment.” A few seconds of silence ticked by, and then the gate slowly swung open.

  Clarissa continued down the driveway until she reached a two-story colonial house—a gray-brick splendor with dark green shutters and a crisp white porch that extended the length of the house. Rose bushes bordered the porch, their red and pink blossoms splashing color against the wood. To the side of the house, a grove of oak trees towered over an expanse of plush green lawn. It seemed like a place fairies would visit and not like the home of Hawk Hawthorn.

  Clarissa parked, got Elaina out of the car, and they strolled silently up the walk. On the doorstep, she squeezed Elaina’s hand again. “Remember to be good.”

  Elaina nodded. “Ice cream.”

  Clarissa rang the doorbell, and moments later it opened to reveal a well-dressed, trim, middle-aged woman. Her gray hair was cut in a bob and neatly curled under. Even from where Clarissa stood, she could tell the woman’s lip color exactly matched the shade of her fingernail polish.

  And now the flowers made sense. Clarissa was at the wrong house. Somehow there had been a horrible mistake, and Slade Jacobson was waiting for her somewhere in a house decorated with cactus, boulders, and the skulls of small animals that had wandered onto his property.

  “I . . . uh . . . was looking for Slade Jacobson,” Clarissa said.

  The woman smiled and opened the door farther. “Come in. He isn’t finished with the last interview, but I’ll show you to a waiting room.”

  Clarissa took in the entryway in a glance. A chandelier cascaded from the high ceiling. The walls were cream, hung with large paintings of parochial hunting scenes above a border of hip-high wood molding. A vase of lilies overpowered a glass-topped table at the foot of a curved stairway, and the mahogany floor shone as though just recently buffed. There were still no signs of cactus or animal skulls.

  As they walked through the entryway, the woman extended a hand to Clarissa. “I’m Meredith Allen, Slade’s assistant.”

  Clarissa shook her hand. “Clarissa Hancock. This is a lovely home.”

  “Thank you. I decorated it myself.” Meredith leaned closer to Clarissa. “Slade hasn’t quite forgiven me for all the florals, but he’ll get over it eventually.”

  Meredith then bent down and surveyed Elaina. “You must be here for the job of playmate, is that right?”

  “I get ice cream if I’m good,” Elaina said.

  This was perhaps not the best way to start out an interview on child-rearing practices. Clarissa cleared her throat uncomfortably. “It isn’t bribery. It’s rewarding appropriate behavior.”

  Meredith straightened, her smile still intact. “Oh, you don’t have to convince me. I frequently reward myself with ice cream. What’s the point of being good otherwise?” She walked a few paces down the hallway and motioned through a doorway. “You can wait in here until Slade is ready for you.”

  Clarissa gave a soft thank you to Meredith and led Elaina into the room. It was the size of a small living room with an oversized couch in one corner and a matching chair in the other. Several silk trees stood against the walls, and a rustic-looking coffee table displayed an assortment of magazines. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase completely covered one wall, and two large ceramic dogs lay sprawled on the floor.

  Another door—a slightly open door—stood directly across the room. Clarissa deposited Elaina on the couch, told her to sit still, and then went to investigate the door. She planned on closing it. As she got closer she heard voices coming from the room beyond it. One voice she recognized immediately: Slade’s.

  “And discipline?” he asked. “How do you handle that?”

  Instead of closing the door, Clarissa sat down in the chair beside it. It wasn’t really eavesdropping, she told herself. Meredith had told her to
wait here, and the door was already open. It wasn’t her fault if she overheard the interview questions, and after all, it would help her prepare her own answers.

  “I’m firm where discipline is concerned,” the woman said. “I let parents set the rules and I expect children to follow them.”

  Elaina bounced up and down slightly on the couch. “Sweetheart, sit still,” Clarissa whispered.

  Elaina stopped bouncing and slid off the couch. She started toward her mother, then stopped in front of the ceramic dogs. “Look, Mommy, doggies!”

  “Yes, sweetheart. Don’t touch.”

  From the other room Slade asked, “When do you think is the right time to ask for the parent to intervene?”

  Clarissa tried to judge from the sound of his voice whether or not he approved of the woman’s last answer. His voice sounded clipped, but perhaps that was just his interviewing voice.

  “I don’t expect a parent to have to intervene when I’m tending,” the woman said. “That’s my job.”

  “I see.” His voice definitely sounded disapproving that time, although Clarissa had no idea what he disapproved of.

  She glanced over at Elaina and saw her gingerly touching one of the dog’s heads.

  “Elaina, I told you not to touch that.”

  “But I’s petting it nicely,” Elaina said.

  “Mommy said no.”

  Elaina frowned. “I want to go home.”

  “In a little while. Here, come look at these stickers in my purse. You can play with them when it’s time for me to talk to Mr. Jacobson.”

  Elaina walked toward her mother, then stopped at the trees by the couch instead.

  Clarissa tuned back to the conversation in the next room. Slade asked, “What are your favorite activities to do with children?”

  This was an important question and one she hadn’t considered before. She would answer . . . reading. No one could take issue with that. Cooking was another good answer. It sounded homey and educational. She could talk about the way Elaina liked to stand beside her as she made dinner and help dump ingredients into the bowl. But then, perhaps Slade wouldn’t approve of that. He probably had someone do his cooking for him, and besides, maybe he’d worry about his daughter being burned or cut. Cooking was definitely out. Board games, perhaps . . .

  Elaina moved behind the trees and giggled mischievously. “You can’t find me,” she cooed, and then giggled again.

  “Where is my sweetie pie?” Clarissa asked. She knew this question would prolong the game and keep Elaina busy for a few more minutes. Then Clarissa blocked out the giggling and listened to the conversation in the next room again. They were talking about children’s self-esteem, although Clarissa didn’t know how they’d gotten on that subject. Slade seemed to think it was of the utmost importance, though. So when Clarissa went over her background in family science, she could slip in something about how appropriate achievements boost a child’s self-esteem.

  And—oh, she had it . . . the perfect answer to the “What are your favorite activities to do with children?” question. When Slade asked her, she’d smile and say, “Whatever the child’s favorite activity is. I find children are happiest when they’re pursuing areas of their own natural interest.” How could Slade find fault with that answer?

  I might have a chance at this job, Clarissa thought. I might be able to pull it off.

  Slade said, “Thank you for coming, Mrs. McGrath. My assistant will call you tonight and let you know my decision.” Clarissa’s gaze instantly swung back to the silk plants. “Elaina, come here. It’s our turn now.”

  The plants remained still and silent.

  Clarissa stood and walked to the trees. She pushed aside the foliage. “Elaina?”

  No one was there.

  Clarissa’s eyes now swept over the room, looking for her daughter’s hiding place. She could hear the click of heels across the floor in the next room and knew Mrs. McGrath was leaving.

  “Elaina,” Clarissa whispered. “Come here, right now!” She glanced behind the chair, and then, because it was the only hiding place left in the room, Clarissa knelt down beside the couch.

  The couch stood high off the floor with a ruffled skirt, which concealed everything underneath. It probably could have accommodated several small children. Clarissa lifted the ruffle and looked to see if it hid hers. The area was dark, and it was impossible to see anything, so Clarissa reached out her hand to see if she could touch something that felt like a three-year-old.

  “We evicted the dust bunnies from underneath the furniture,” Slade’s voice came from directly behind her, “but if you’re interested, we have a fine lint collection behind the washing machine.”

  Clarissa jumped at the sound of Slade and, in doing so, banged the side of her face into the bottom of the couch. Then, more slowly, she turned to look up at him. He was taller than she’d expected and even more striking. In real life his hair was darker, his features stronger, and his brown eyes had an intensity she never saw on TV. There was something about him that reminded her of a lion. Something sleek, powerful, and full of pent-up energy.

  Clarissa got to her feet. “I was looking for my daughter. She seems to have wandered off.”

  “Under the couch?”

  “Well, no. I just figured she must be in here someplace, and I’ve looked everywhere else.”

  Slade appraised her silently. “You lost your daughter?” And although he didn’t actually come right out and say, “And yet you want a job taking care of mine?” the question hung in the air.

  “She was just here and I . . .” How could she explain? She couldn’t tell him she’d been so busy eavesdropping she hadn’t been paying attention to Elaina. “She can’t have gone far.”

  The door to the hallway stood slightly ajar. She went to it and peered down the hallway.

  Empty.

  “Elaina?” she called.

  No one replied.

  Clarissa stood there, feeling her heart pound, and looked hopelessly down the hallway.

  Slade came up beside her and looked down the hallway himself. “How far did you say she usually wanders?”

  Clarissa wasn’t sure whether his voice was laced with amusement or just amazement. At this point it didn’t matter. “Look,” she told him, “you probably don’t consider me capable of watching children. You don’t have to hire me to watch yours, but could you please help me find my daughter?”

  He nodded slowly. “All right.” He stepped out into the hallway and tilted his head back. “Meredith?”

  She appeared in one of the doorways down the hall. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Hancock has misplaced her daughter. Could you help her search down here, and I’ll try upstairs?”

  Meredith’s gaze turned to Clarissa, and for a moment she saw sympathy there. “Certainly.”

  Slade walked leisurely down to the end of the hallway and disappeared through one of the corridors. Meredith walked to the other end of the hallway and began looking in rooms. Clarissa followed her, scanning everything for movement, and every once in a while called out, “Elaina, come here right now!”

  Clarissa tried to quell the sense of panic that nipped at her. After all, Elaina wasn’t really lost. It wasn’t as if someone had spirited her off. At least, Clarissa hoped not. She suddenly wondered how many employees Slade Jacobson had and if all of them had been given background checks. She shook off the thought. Elaina wasn’t kidnapped, she’d simply wandered off, and they would find her any moment. Still, as she searched, Clarissa said a silent prayer that Elaina wasn’t somewhere hurt, or scared, or breaking priceless antiques.

  Meredith and Clarissa systematically went from one room to another, which proved to be quite a task. Clarissa didn’t see any signs of a little girl, but she did see enough cherry wood furniture to convince her that somewhere there was a large empty space in a cherry orchard with Slade Jacobson’s name on it.

  They reached a spacious living room. As Clarissa was checking inside a fireplace tha
t could have comfortably accommodated a band, Slade reappeared at the top of a winding staircase.

  “Bella isn’t in the playroom anymore,” he called to Meredith. “Have you seen her downstairs?”

  Meredith shook her head.

  Slade’s jaw clenched, then he banged his hand against the banister and yelled, “Isabel Jacobson!”

  Only silence followed his call.

  He stormed down the stairs, mumbling something Clarissa couldn’t hear, then walked into the kitchen.

  Meredith sighed and resumed her head shaking. She leaned toward Clarissa confidentially. “This is why I don’t tend Bella anymore. I’m too old to be chasing wild fillies.”

  Wild fillies? So Slade Jacobson, Mr. We-have-no-dust-bunnies-under-the-couch, had a daughter who could be classified as a wild filly? It made Clarissa feel a little better about blowing her interview. At least she knew Mrs. McGrath would have to work for her money.

  Slade came from the kitchen with a small black dog happily trailing behind him. The dog stared expectantly up at Slade, wagging his tail so fiercely it looked like it would topple him over.

  “Blitzer,” Slade spoke slowly to the dog. “Where’s Bella? Go find Bella.”

  The dog’s droopy ears lifted momentarily, and he peered about the room intently. Then he put his nose down and ran in what seemed a random manner around the room. Clarissa watched this with her mouth slightly open.

  Slade glanced at her and shrugged. “It’s Bella’s dog. They play hide-and-go-seek together, and he can always find her.”

  “That’s because Blitzer cheats,” Meredith said. Then to Clarissa she added, “He counts to ten but never closes his eyes.”

  The dog apparently caught a whiff of the little girl, because he charged into the kitchen. Slade followed after him, and Meredith and Clarissa followed after Slade. The dog sniffed around the kitchen, then ran through an archway into the dining room. Once there, he went straight to the dining room table and stuck his head and front paws under the tablecloth. The tablecloth, like the matching curtains nearby, puddled lace onto the floor so that only the backside of Blitzer stuck out, his tail again wagging wildly.