Great Mother Mountain

By Sabra Morgan

Sidney Mason is a hard-edged espionage novelist who is as gritty and self-reliant as the great-grandmother who raised her. When Mattie Mason dies, Sidney drives herself even harder to mask her grief.

Steven Wade, Sidney's literary agent, fears his top writer is headed for a mental meltdown and urges her to hire an assistant. Enter Parker Bannister, wannabe writer and house sitter, whose career as a Postal Inpector abruptly ends the day a lone assailant shoots her in a post office robbery gone awry. Parker easily adapts to Sidney's home in Fredericksburg, Virginia.

Coping with Sidney Mason is another matter. She must supercharge her wits to keep up with the famous writer's demands. During the ensuing months, the two women discover just how intrisically their lives are connected. Past and present merge into reality when Grammie Mason speaks from the grave and at last reveals the true nature of a great-grandmother's legacy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 29, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469712956

Sabra Morgan

Great Mother Mountain, Valley Echoes, and soon to be released late spring, 2003?The Majesty of Trees?3rd in the series. These titles may be previewed at iUniverse.com by clicking on the ?bookstore? tab.

Book preview

Prologue

The garage door yawned open. I drove the Mercedes inside and switched off the ignition, relishing the moment when the door slipped back into place. This was our mammoth cave, our sanctuary from a frenzied world. All was quiet but for the few sounds that now existed: an occasional pop and ping of the car engine as it cooled, and the slight rhythmic breathing of the woman draped across my lap. Sidney slept like a small child, so at peace, waking her seemed intrusive and unnecessary. A mere touch of a button and my electric seat reclined. I nestled against the soft leather and gathered the child-woman into my arms. In another world, two mountain women kept the vigil, protecting us in our mindlessness.

One

Viewed from the Jersey Turnpike, the Meadowlands appeared mono-chromatic—a wasteland of concrete and steel, sprawled out and dingy. Shades of gray overwhelmed the landscape.

Chaotic madness surrounded me. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and sucked in a deep breath, forcing my old Supra into a hard sprint toward the City. Pearl’s valves rattled, but she forged forward, nimbly switching lanes when space and opportunity presented themselves. When the toll booths came into view, the two frenzied motorists flanking my car suddenly accelerated, vying for the same piece of highway ahead. Forced to retreat or collide, they gestured crazy coded messages to me and anyone else who did not heed their staccato tail lights.

If these jerks cause an accident and back up traffic, I’ll show them what real road rage is, I thought. Forcing madness from my mind, I concentrated on the writer’s seminar I was about to attend. Greatly anticipated, this trip promised refreshment and the opportunity to recharge my creative endeavors.

Nothing is cheap in New York City. The cost of hotel parking alone would pay my utility bills for nearly a month. But ‘Pearl’ was worth it. We had been through the wars together, and although she was old, she was still plenty spiffy. After registering, I hastily tossed my luggage into the room and grabbed a quick look in the mirror. A little repair to my makeup, and I was ready for the afternoon mixer in progress. On the way, I taped a few of my business cards in the elevator and deposited several throughout the lobby. What better way to attract new customers to my home-sitting services, and meet publishing contacts at the same time, I reasoned.

The meeting room was nondescript and typical—tables, chairs, a podium—standard meeting room attire. Attendees huddled in small clots and quickly emptied the appetizer trays that were thrust in their midst by agile waiters. Bartenders at the two pay bars labored to satisfy requests.

Book people busily mingled. The vast majority of us desperately wanted one thing: an agent or a publishing contract. Eyes darted everywhere. Chatter became more animated and loud as liquor loosened tongues. Soon enough I ended up in an out-of-the-way corner commiserating with a young woman about publishing houses, book buying trends and the problems we faced securing a worthy agent. Mid-sentence she swooned. Oh, my god, it’s him-m-m! Look.

Him, who? I asked.

Steven Wade. He’s coming our way. Oh, gosh…do you think?

Based on the things I had read about Steven Wade, he was a man who had combined his two greatest loves—literature and law—into one highly respected literary agency. Renown for using the internet as a valuable resource for rooting out writing talent, he negotiated tough and lucrative contracts for the writers he represented, including Sidney Mason, his top property. Between her exceptional ability to turn a word as an espionage novelist, and Wade’s professional savvy and contacts, Mason immediately hit the top ten charts every time she published. If she never put another word to a sheet of paper, millionaire status was hers for perpetuity.

Wade approached us in a steady, no-nonsense gait, purposefully dividing the crowd with a straightforward gaze. A collective buzz followed in his wake. Professional in appearance, his demeanor undeniably exuded importance, but without swagger. As soon as he reached us, he stopped. Excuse me for intruding. I’m looking for Parker Bannister. Holding up one of my business cards, he smiled pleasantly.

As if in school, I raised my hand. I’m Parker Bannister.

Might I have a moment….

Envious, my new acquaintance nodded when I excused myself. Curious eyes followed us as Wade brusquely ushered me through the crowd and stopped only after we arrived at the elevator bank. He introduced himself and said, I represent someone interested in interviewing you.

We entered a private elevator decorated in blue terrazzo. He pressed the button for the penthouse suite, then clasped his hands together. I wanted desperately to say something profound, make a good impression. Standing tall, eyes glued to the digital readout, Wade squared off in front of the elevator door and kept his distance as we zipped toward the heavens. Friendly chitchat was definitely out of the question.

When we reached the top floor, the car eased to a stop and the doors glided open revealing a deserted hallway. Wade graciously stepped back, my clue to exit and take the lead. In one long step he was by my side, matching me stride for stride as we proceeded down the long corridor toward a set of blood red doors ornately carved with Chinese lettering. We’re here, he said at last. He tapped on the door twice, once, then twice again.

Silence surrounded us as we waited. The hair began to stand on the back of my neck. My previous job as an Postal Inspector had taught me a thing or two about observation, how to do it, and when it was happening to me. And at this very moment, it was happening. Someone was peeking through the security hole. At last the door opened, revealing none other than Sidney Mason, in the flesh. She was the last person I ever expected to meet, and yet here I was. Stepping away from the door, she admitted us, every nuance of feminine motion perfectly paced, flawlessly timed. Lightning bolt eyes quickly took in my full length, then searched my face as if looking for some deeply embedded knowledge. By the same token, I searched, too. I knew this woman, almost as well as I knew myself. Tossed blond hair topped a petite frame. She mirrored my height. Nothing else, not even the decorating details of the suite, captured my attention like her face. She wore no makeup, and didn’t need to. Even the lines that underscored her eyes could not diminish her natural beauty, or disguise an inner softness. In direct conflict, Sidney Mason’s demeanor spoke a different language. With her hands crammed into her pockets, she did not appear soft or genteel, but all businesslike in spit polish twills, denim shirt, and leather loafers.

When Wade began introductions, Mason interrupted him with a wave of the hand. Squaring off in front of me, she fixed her eyes on mine. Do you usually stare?

Her physical attributes aside, each time I read a Mason book, the pages touched an inner place, tweaked something buried deep within. My mind raced for an answer but stumbled. Forgive me, but the color of your eyes intrigue me. To be frank, I thought you might wear contacts or the photos were doctored.

What do you think? Is this color fake? she asked brusquely.

I worried about body language and pondered my answer. I wear glasses. Quite honestly I can’t say. I apologize for staring, it is a rude thing to do.

Just so you know, no contacts. I only need correction when I read.

Mason got down to business. I gather by your business card you house-sit. What exactly does that entail?

I ensure your home is well cared for during your absences. I’m familiar with heating and cooling systems, swimming pools and pumps, plumbing and the like. I also do the small but necessary household chores. No yard work, though. You know, weeding and such, those things are out. If you need the oil changed on the car, no problem, I’ll take care of it. Contract people, lawn maintenance—I’ll oversee their work, make sure you’re getting the service you pay for.

What do you charge for these services?

Wade stood back and looked like a spectator at a tennis match.

I drew in a silent breath. Now was as good a time as any for creativity. It depends on who’s asking. Someone like yourself would be unique. I probably wouldn’t charge anything other than free room and board. In lieu of a salary, I would ask for advice toward becoming published. Perhaps a well placed phone call to a reputable agent. I nodded in Wade’s direction. If that agent is not interested in my manuscript after he or she has read it, that’s on me. You will have upheld your part of the bargain.

How can you do that? she questioned.

Do what?

Not be paid.

I’m retired. I have a reasonable pension that serves my purposes.

You don’t look old enough to be retired. Which company did you retire from?

The U. S. Postal Service.

Mason glared at me, waiting for more explanation.

I’m an ex-Postal Inspector. I took an early retirement.

More silence from her sector.

Health reasons, I mumbled, in hopes she would not pursue this.

Mason stepped forward and lightly stroked my arm. As if peering into my past, she said, Inspection Service. A life-threatening event forced your retirement?

Something like that.

I know that look. I’ve seen it hundreds of times in the vets I’ve interviewed. Don’t worry, I won’t force you to discuss it. So, now you’ve launched a new career. What if I ask you to pick me up at Dulles Airport in the wee hours of the morning, two or three o’clock?

Relieved, I answered confidently, I’m accustomed to odd hours. Driving at night doesn’t bother me, either.

Where’s your home?

Maryland,.. .Annapolis. I have a small townhome there.

Any significant others? Relationships?

None, not even an animal, I answered without hesitation.

Your orientation? she asked, expressionless.

Pardon me?

Are you hard of hearing? Her gaze held mine.

That is a question I see no point in answering. If that’s an important issue to you, then you have the wrong person. Grit collected in my throat. I swallowed hard to avoid a harsh tone and plunged on. You should know my reluctance in answering neither affirms nor denies, it’s simply not relevant.

The relevance of the question depends on my reason for asking it. Your response was more important than your answer, so don’t get defensive. What if I ask you to do clerical work—respond to messages from the answering machine, check my schedule, answer phones, things of that nature?

Clerical work is fine. I’m not too picky,…except cooking, cleaning, lawns., as I said.

Wade could no longer hold his expression in check. Tight lips lifted at the corners.

You should know my personal habits are stellar, I continued. I’m a neat freak.

Mason paced back and forth, head bent down as if examining the carpet. Good. We wouldn’t last very long with one another, otherwise. Suppose I call you at two in the morning and tell you I need the house to myself. In other words, get lost?

I’d find a hotel room. This sounds like long term employment.

That’s my plan if you work out. Any questions?

Gag orders, confidentiality agreements? I asked.

Would you sign them?

As long as they’re legal. I believe you have a right to that level of security. They work for me, too. By the way, I’m not bonded, but I do have references.

Mason turned to Wade. Steven’s people will check them. You should also know, some would say I’m difficult, too demanding.

Wade’s smirk disappeared. He cleared his throat and spoke genuinely, That’s because they’re not aware of your rigorous schedule.

Sauntering back in my direction, Mason asked, What about your family? Do you have children, other close relatives?

Various relatives scattered around. No children.

What about holidays?

I don’t care much about them one way or another, including Christmas, I said pointedly. I do have a few questions for you.

Mason’s eyes narrowed. She nodded.

If you smoke, do you do it in the house? I asked boldly.

La-dee-da…listen to you. What if I say I do?

Then we’re wasting each others time. I cannot handle the smell.

Oh, one of those, for sure. Mason made no effort to mask her unbridled sarcasm. A reformed smoker, no doubt.

In a sense, that is true. A severe illness and subsequent treatment affected my olfactory system. Cigarettes and their byproducts are now an anathema to me.

Mason turned on her heel and crossed the room. On the end of a credenza sat an old corncob pipe propped in a pipe stand. She picked it up with both hands as if it might fall apart. You’re very direct. What about these?

No problem, unless you smoke something unpleasant or illegal. Illegal is not good.

Illegal? How old did you say you were?

We haven’t discussed my age. For the record, I’m forty-something and holding, I muttered unconvincingly. Some maxim about vanity quickly crossed my mind—’It is vain to look for a defense against lightning’’.

Mason turned to Wade again. In a softer voice, she said, Thank you, Steven. As usual, your advice is on the mark. I need a few moments alone with Ms. Bannister.

Wade relaxed. I’ll be down at the mixer if you need me. He shook my hand, then winked. Good luck, he whispered.

As soon as the door closed behind Wade, Mason turned my way. I have one last request. It may seem odd to you, but it is important.

Whatever, I said, wondering what she might want.

Mason stepped within arm’s length, shyness replacing former bravado. I wish to. She drew a deep breath and forced strength into her voice. I wish to hold you, she said at last, looking squarely at me. If you grant this request, we can finalize our interview.

I stood solid as a bronze statue. This is a trick, right?

Mason’s eyes never wavered from mine. This is not some frivolous indulgence.

Hesitantly I stepped forward.

Sidney Mason, famous writer, closed the space between us. If time can stand still and yet race on in the same moment, it did so. Slowly she slipped her small arms through mine, and around my waist, drawing me to her, finalizing our union. My arms hung limp, unsure of their purpose, but not for long. When desire compelled me to return her warmth, my emotions grappled for sure footing. Her slight frame evoked more erotic feelings than I had ever experienced. I wanted to be all things to her—mother, sister, daughter, lover. Most of all, high priestess protector.

For a few brief seconds Mason’s body yielded its strength, deeded me possession of her. In the brevity of that moment we bonded.

At last she withdrew, albeit slowly, and gazed intently into my eyes. Almost as a tease her hands lingered at my waist. You’re hired, she said, back in business mode. This is for an indefinite period of time, you understand. The first three months will be a trial run for both of us. My home is near Fredericksburg, Virginia. All necessary instructions will be provided before you arrive there. Of course, you will be reimbursed for any fees and expenses lost on this trip. I leave for California on Sunday. I need you immediately—day after tomorrow, at the latest.

As if triggered by some mutually understood inner code, we stepped back from each other. Nothing could still my insides. That’s doable, I managed to say. I’ll return home this afternoon. My number is on the card, including my fax number.

Apparently pleased, Sidney Mason offered a firm handshake before we parted.

Two

Ritchie Highway buzzed with traffic as I passed through Glen Burnie on my way to Annapolis. At least I had missed rush hour, arriving home at a decent hour.

As soon as I entered the townhouse, the fax machine upstairs greeted me with a loud chirp that indicated it was nearly out of paper. I threw off my coat then headed for the staircase. In the bedroom I had converted to an office, the paper hopper overflowed with messages as it beeped in loud disharmony with the answering machine. Mason had kept my equipment busy. No time for the working poor, I muttered.

The first fax, a copy of the confidentiality statement, indicated I would sign an original upon my arrival at Sidney Mason’s home. The second, third and fourth sheets summarized our discussion and Mason’s understanding of what my duties would consist of, as well as what she agreed to do for my writing career. In simpler terms than what she had written, Steven Wade would review any completed manuscripts I might provide him; and offer explanations and assistance as to why they could or could not be published. If he found them to have merit, his agency would accept me and actively promote my work for print and ebook publication. That certainly seemed fair enough. In return, I would not request any salary or moneys, other than reasonable expenses incurred whenever I left the premises for ‘emergency’ purposes. It should also be understood that I was on call twenty-four hours a day. I did not recall our discussing those terms, but it didn’t bother me to agree to this clause. Of course, no mention was made of the hug.

Pages five through ten detailed her explicit instructions for me—how to get to the Mason property, what to tell the gate guard when I arrived, and her schedule while away. I should also review the attached schedules for her landscaping and lawn maintenance company, including supervisors’ names and telephone numbers. The lists continued ad nauseam with the maid’s number and what she expected the maid to do. The last list was brief. It indicated which neighbors were ‘okay to talk to’. Telephone numbers and fax numbers including her own, concluded this section. The last entry on the final page of instructions indicated we would have a driving lesson in her Mercedes at ten o’clock the next morning. I was to fax a copy of my driver’s license, the name and number of my insurance policy, as well as the make, model and tag number of my personal vehicle. Finally I was instructed to sign the last sheet notifying her that I had received the first ten pages and fax it back. If nothing else, she was a detail freak. I had already surmised that from reading her books. Mason rarely made mistakes. When I did find one, I suspected they were not hers, but rather someone else’s sloppy work. After re-reading everything, I dutifully faxed back the signature sheet, then got busy packing.

It was impossible to know when I might revisit my home. Eventually I would ask permission to move my own computer to Mason’s home, provided she didn’t have a problem with that arrangement. The episode with the hug lingered. If I closed my eyes I could still feel her closeness. It was a numbing experience; one best forgotten.

Three

At ten minutes to nine the next morning, I waited to be admitted to General Paxton’s Hill, a gated community close to Chancellorsville, not far from Fredericksburg, in the ‘grand dame’ state of Virginia, where Mason lived. The gate guard paced back and forth, cell phone planted to his ear, and gestured often as he confirmed my appointment. Evidently Mason had him as well trained with minutiae as I feared I would soon be.

Dressed in garish wool and brass, the guard looked terribly young and had enough pimples for me to surmise he had yet to reach his twenty-first birthday. I checked my watch and winced. The time hedge I had given myself was slowly evaporating. I was going to be late.

At last ‘Officer’ Thorpe closed his cell phone and returned it to one of the holsters on his belt. Raising the gate, he popped a sloppy salute. Ms. Mason says you have directions.

Yes, I certainly have plenty of those, I said dryly.

I maneuvered ‘Pearl’ through the maze of neighborhood streets, wide and unfettered. Not one car was parked along the curbs. Estate homes sported long driveways, precision landscaping, and triple door garages. Rather than offering vintage charm, Victorian street lamps looked more like Centurions. At night, no doubt, they added a romantic whimsy to the unadorned boulevards, but in the stark daylight they stood stiffly next to the curbing.

Gated communities, military bases, prisons—they all had one thing in common in my mind, and there was no getting around it: a fenced fortress was a fenced fortress; a compound designed to either keep certain groups in or out, depending on who was who. My mind strayed further: what to call those of us who lived within? Detainees, compound dwellers?

Miraculously I arrived at the Mason home on time. Taking a deep breath, I collected my thoughts and took in my surroundings. Mason’s house was expansive and without neighbors. Squarely planted within a circle of youthful oaks, the Italian Renaissance estate home would have overpowered the landscape were it not for several giant blue spruces and evergreen magnolias. Properly placed, they softened the contours of the property and ensured the house did not appear naked during the winter months. Her entire parcel, I guessed, covered four lots, enough territory to insure no one could see her, nor her them. I would soon learn she was negotiating to buy the property across the road as well.

She had told me to push the buzzer next to the garage door. I did not know if this was a means to keep me in my place as a servant, or simply a convenience, but I followed her instructions precisely. As the garage door slowly crept up, loafered feet peeked out. Only when the door clanked into place did all of her become visible. Tired eyes underscored a fatigued face that almost looked anemic. Her hair frizzed in every direction, but she was dressed.

Good morning, I said evenly, sensing I should not be overly cheerful.

Morning, yourself. Come in and cool that peppy enthusiasm. I’m not in the mood. I spent most of the night writing. At least you’re on time. That’s a novelty. No problems at the gate?

None at all. The guard is very disciplined, I emphasized.

Annoyed, Mason volleyed a sarcastic glance over her shoulder. Looking beyond me, she said, Your car doesn’t leak, does it? Oil on my brick pavers would not please me.

Trust me, this car has never leaked.

The skeptic in her wanted to argue, but she backed away from trivial concerns. We’ve a lot to do. I hope you have an excellent memory or can take shorthand.

I brought my tape recorder. Otherwise, I’ll do my best to remember.

Mason blinked disdainfully at the recording device then shrugged. I took the gesture to mean she reluctantly agreed for me to use it.

We started in the kitchen with admonitions about her cooking utensils, the fact that they were copper clad and made in France, and required extra special care. She didn’t know it, but the lecture was unnecessary. I already knew I wouldn’t use the damned things. A good Teflon skillet and boiling pot would serve my purposes. I would purchase them immediately after she left.

The tour of the main rooms delighted my senses. From the outside, my first impression of the house was that of a big box abundantly filled with differently sized rooms. Inside was a different story. There was as much openness as the structure would allow and still support the roof. Atrium windows created the back wall and provided an expansive view of what was probably the rose garden, trimmed back for winter weather. Properly situated in the landscape, the roses would be a colorful contrast to perfectly manicured lawns in another season. Beyond the garden, stepping stones led the eye down a gentle slope to a pristine lake. Hers, she proudly told me later. Natural light from the atrium windows flooded the openness, adding welcome warmth to the gracious surroundings.

In the gathering room, oriental and Persian rugs, including an antique Sultanbad, stretched along hardwood floors. As was the custom in my mother’s home, I removed my shoes before entering. She seemed pleased that I cared. Tastefully placed Lalique vases and hand carved jade littered the tables and shelves. Autographed original artwork hung on textured walls painted the palest pewter imaginable. In the dining room, a walnut veneered sideboard, expertly hand-crafted, hugged an expansive wall.

It’s a Thomas Day, she commented, when I stopped to inspect its joinery.

Excuse me, I’m not familiar with him.

Day was a nineteenth century cabinetmaker prior to the Civil War. A freed African American. He did most of his work in southern Virginia and the Piedmont area of North Carolina. If you want to read up on him, his bio is in the library.

I’ll make a point to do that, I assured her as we continued the tour.

The furnishings and their placement in the rooms, exuded a subtle, understated elegance. Yet there was an air of informality. Nothing dark or dreary. No heavy drapes, no damask and wool. Inwardly I beamed.

You have a strange look on your face, she said to me.

I guess it spells relief.

Why is that?

It’s open and airy. I like that. It’s good for my mood, I answered honestly.

Mine, too. For the first time she smiled. Continuing on, she said, I prefer you do not use my computer except to retrieve E-mail and the like.

I brought my laptop. When time permits, I would like to set up my own system in the room you assign me, that is if you don’t have a problem.

Mason’s smile disappeared. She walked briskly toward the staircase. I don’t assign rooms. The guest suite is upstairs. I think you’ll find it adequate.

We ascended the steps, then traversed the length of an open loft which provided an impressive view of the main floor below. She opened a set of French doors and gestured wide. This is yours. I trust you will be comfortable. Playing the hostess, she walked about the suite, opening one door after another, treating me like a guest in her home rather than an employee. I quickly took in the king-size bed, sumptuous walkin closets, and the master bath complete with whirlpool tub. Everything was elegantly appointed. Beyond the main bedroom, a sitting area delighted my soul with its soft-colored coziness. Atrium doors led to a verandah where white wicker furniture promised relaxation and day dreams.

Spectacular, I commented, referring to the lake view beyond. Are you sure? If this is your guest room…

I have other bedrooms, she interrupted, and rarely entertain company. Only family whenever they come, which isn’t often. Mason stepped back toward the doors concluding the tour. On our way downstairs, she asked, Do you drink?

Not often.

Good. Unless you want a glass of wine with your meals, please don’t. In that case, use what has already been opened. I’m a collector. It would not please me to come home and find an exclusive Bordeaux languishing in the refrigerator.

I assure you that will never happen, no more than I would open a bottle from St. Emilion, or Pomerol, or Margaux, I offered blandly.

You know wines?

I’ve tried to cultivate a knowledge. As to taste, a good six dollar burgundy pleases my taste buds just fine.

Now you’re being a wise-ass, she stated.

No, I’m being a wine ass, I countered. I refused to hide my smirk.

Mason laughed. You have a foolish grin.

The moment lightened the mood. More relaxed, my new boss droned on, launching into a series of tedious lectures, the first a discourse on the sprinkling system and its computerized control box.

I waited patiently. Has the system been winterized? I asked.

Well, yes. But in case.

I understand. A good precautionary.

Mason cleared her throat. On to the pools. She showed me the pool pump apparatus with its solar powered heating panels designed to maintain water temperature at an even seventy-five degrees. A second pool, this one for swimming laps, was enclosed and long enough to challenge the most aspiring Olympic swimmer.

Rose beds got special attention. She instructed whom to call if black wilt or mildew appeared, even though the rose stalks were already reduced to nubs, and the season for bugs and fungus long gone.

I listened intently as Mason lavished extraordinary detail on her security system. Designed to rival Fort Knox, it was far more complex than any home system I had previously encountered. Security systems are an anathema to me and this one would probably be my undoing with its random codes, television monitors, and multiple digital push pads. Lord! The list went on: room sensors, backup systems. I was forewarned of possible invasion by a crack swat team should a silent alarm be tripped.

On too many occasions, Mason’s soft husky voice lulled me somewhere else. Rather than listen to her innocuous instructions, I caught myself listening to her voice instead. When she challenged me to regurgitate some simple point, I faltered, inviting mild irritation. It is my practice to always review the manuals that apply to each piece of equipment. It just makes sense to do that, I said to appease her.

By now my brain was in overload and I needed to change the subject. Exercise is important to me. Do you mind if I take long walks? What about trips to the store for groceries and such?

If you have a need then go, but I don’t want the house unattended for long periods of time. This comment surprised me, considering the advanced technology of her alarm system. Unless you prefer leaving the house, the exercise room is well equipped.

That should suit my needs, I said, positive it was the response she expected.

By now we had toured full circle and ended up back at the garage. Time for my baby, she announced before backing the Mercedes out. I sat on the passenger side and listened dutifully while she defined all the buttons and levers in a series of staccato orders. At last, we swapped places so I could drive. The wheel is yours. Be sure to adjust your seat and mirrors. Always, I repeat, always buckle up.

I tinkered with the mirrors and glided the seat back a notch, then waited for an approving nod before we motored down the street.

Give me a rundown on your daily routine, she said.

I usually wake around six or so and rarely sleep in. I’m on the computer first thing and type anything I’ve thought about before I even make coffee. Breakfast at ten, then exercise. After a shower, I’m back at the computer. Early dinner around four. After I clean up, I read everything I’ve written, and top off with an evening walk. Swimming will be a nice option. Off to bed by eleven. Read until midnight. Naturally, that routine will change to conform to your needs, I added, as an afterthought to please her.

Reasonable thinking. I’ll call often, and I expect quick answers. What about a cell phone? Do you own one?

Ah, yes, the benevolent curse of technology. I have one, but I wish to hell I didn’t. They’re expensive and an invasion of my privacy. On the other hand, I feel more secure—a carryover from my Inspection Service days.

No doubt. Like it or not, if you work for me, you’ll be plugged in. Have the contract transferred to my name. Be sure I have every number where I can reach you, anytime, any place. That’s very important to me.

I understand, I said, wondering if I would ever again have a private life.

Several spins around the neighborhood satisfied her that her Mercedes would be well treated. Should I question her about a chauffeur’s license? A uniform? No, Parker.

How familiar are you with the back roads around Northern Virginia? she asked.

I know it’s important to know the escape routes, especially along the interstates and around the beltway, I said. With all the construction, I’m not up to speed. Those road pretzels change on a daily basis.

We have that in common. I hate being vulnerable to traffic catastrophes. Check out the roads and stay tuned in to the special equipment installed in the car. I’ve marked my maps with all the shortcuts, especially those to and from the various airports. Stay on top of road construction—it’s never ending. Check the websites I have book marked. Just the thought of a traffic jam agitates me. I go stark raving bonkers. Her face screwed into a comical grimace. I ducked my head.

You think that’s funny?

No, not at all. Your expressions…they’re priceless.

You’re laughing at me again.

Never, I said with mock seriousness.

We were now back in the driveway. Compulsive to a fault, Mason cautioned how she wanted the car parked in the garage. See the tennis ball suspended from the ceiling on a string? I painted it bright orange. You can’t miss it. Now ease in until the ball barely kisses the blue dot. She pointed to a small blue dot stuck to the upper center of the car’s windshield. See? A full two and a half feet clearance beyond any fully opened car door, she remarked proudly.

Clever. Quite efficient. I smiled to myself and remembered the importance I once gave to precisely parking my own car inside a garage. It all seemed rather foolish to me now. The garage is sumptuous—large enough for three vehicles. So, if you parked the car in the middle of it, you wouldn’t have to worry about a damned tennis ball.

I prefer you park your car in the garage. The tennis ball technique is the best method for parking in the same place every time. Hang one for your car.

Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to think I should park inside.

No. I want you to do that. It is a large garage.

"I will make sure to hang the ball immediately. ‘Pearl’ will