“No.” I noted that the mansions had now turned into spreads with separate guesthouses. “I’ve been to Baldwin Hills. That’s where my boss lives. And I once delivered a BunnyGram to a record producer in Beverly Hills, but that’s about it.”
James turned left down a road with a “No Outlet” sign. “Well, I hope you like my place.”
At the end of the road there was a gate, which slid open with quiet precision to admit us. James drove through, and the road twisted and turned a few more times before we finally stopped in front of a large two-story, Mission-style villa.
And if that setup didn’t beat all, there was a butler—yes, an honest-to-God butler—standing at the top of the stone steps, which led to two humongous dark wood doors.
“Are you serious?” I asked James.
“What?”
“I expected ostentatious. But come on.” I shook my head.
“Ostentatious,” he repeated. “That’s a big word.”
I looked at him. “I may be country, but I’m not dumb.”
He just chuckled. “Believe me, Davie. Nobody’s accusing you of being dumb. Stubborn, yes. Dumb, no.”
The butler opened my door for me and held out his hand to help me out of the car.
With considerable embarrassment, I gave him my paw and stepped out into the hot sun. Bless his heart, if he thought there was anything strange about his employer showing up with a girl in a bunny suit, he wasn’t letting it show on his face.
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” he said, revealing a faint Jamaican accent.
Now that he was closer, I recognized him as the same guy that I had once seen taking out the trash during one of my many sneak visits to Farrell Manor back in the day. In the early nineties, his hair had only been dotted with gray, but now the gray had taken over his entire head.
“Thanks, Paul,” James said. He came around the car and tossed the Porsche’s keys to Paul, who let go of my paw to catch them.
James wrapped his arm around my waist. “You wear a seven-eight, right?”
I nodded. “Paul, she’ll need some clothes. Can you have something delivered?”
“Of course.” Paul’s eyes lingering on my bunny suit for just a second too long was the only indication he gave that this situation was kind of strange. “Have you eaten yet, sir?”
“No, but we’re going to take a shower first.” James started walking us up the stairs. “Can Mildred send up something in about half an hour?”
“Of course, sir,” I heard Paul say behind us.
Then we were walking into a foyer with high ceilings and cork floors.
“Mi casa,” James said with an offhand wave.
He led me toward the winding staircase, and I tried not to gape as we climbed the stairs to the second floor.
“I have a butler, too. But I gave him the night off,” I joked.
James squeezed me against him. “Paul’s not a butler. He’s the house manager. He kind of does a little bit of everything, and he makes sure everything runs well. His wife, Mildred, cooks and takes care of all the housekeeping. It’s a little more service than I really need, but they’ve been with the family since I was young. When my parents started spending more time in Washington, they thought Paul and Mildred might be happier out here with me.”
“Are they happier with you?”
“I know they don’t miss Mississippi. Same as you.”
I highly doubted it was the same as me. Farrell Manor didn’t even compare to the shack I grew up in, but it was a common story out here in California. Almost everybody liked here better than where they came from.
We stopped in front of a set of thin double doors, so intricately carved that I couldn’t help but bring my paw up to trace them.
“They’re Andalusian,” James said. “My interior designer found them at an abandoned monastery in Spain.”
“They’re beautiful,” I said.
He started tracing the patterns on the door, too. “Yes, beautiful. And complicated and mysterious. Like you.”