So Far Away (California Dreamers #2) (3 page)

And is there a reason he has to call me
kiddo
? The word is so condescending it makes me bristle.

He points a stubby finger at me. “This job is perfect for you.”

He may be right about that, but only because no one else in the country will actually offer me a job.

“I’m very interested,” I reply. I try to leave the revulsion I feel towards him out of my voice. I give him a weak smile instead.

“So when can you start?” He stares at me, waiting for my reply.

I’m not sure what to say. He hasn’t told me anything about the position, nor has he asked me anything about myself.

“Doesn’t the writer have to meet with me first?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not necessary. Jackson Drake likes to do these things his own way. It’s like a trial by fire sort of thing.

I gulp. “Okay…” The word barely slips out of my narrowing throat.

“Tomorrow?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“You haven’t really told me anything about the position.”

“He wants his assistant to live on site. His home is a bit of a drive from LA.”

“How far?” I squeak. “Like Malibu?”

He moves his index finger away from his thumb to indicate a little bit further.

I rub my temple
. How much further
?

Living in New Haven, Connecticut while I attended Yale I realized how much I missed living in LA. Now that I’m finally back in town I don’t want to leave again.

“Laguna Beach,” he says.

That’s an hour away. It might as well be New Haven. My friends aren’t going to drive all the way down there to visit me.

My mother rarely makes it out of the Valley. I can hear her voice in my head. “Laguna Beach? That’s just
so far away
.”

I heave a sigh. I have to take the job. I can’t live with Nellie and Roscoe forever.

“Tomorrow,” I tell him. “Just give me the address.”

Two

As I pull into the driveway of Jackson Drake’s spectacular Oceanside mansion my heart is beating so wildly I feel like it’s about to explode.

I was so filled with anxiety I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I spent most of the night on my laptop doing research on Jackson Drake.

This is what I found out. He’s fifty-six years old. Thirty years older than I am. He taught creative writing for several years at UCLA until his professional writing career took off in the early 1990s. He published steadily, about one book every year, until 2005, when he stopped writing. I’m sure it’s not a coincidence that his wife of over thirty years died in 2005.

Jackson Drake and his wife never had any children. I suspect it’s because she was diagnosed with MS at a fairly young age, but that’s purely speculation on my part.

Maybe they just didn’t like kids.

Jackson Drake has fifteen books in print, all of them suspense thrillers. And he’s sold over 20 million copies. Several movies were adapted from his books and were released in the early 2000s.

For the last 10 years he’s been a recluse.

I didn’t have enough time to read any of his books in their entirety, but I did skim through a few of them. Suspense thrillers aren’t really my thing anyway.

If I’m going to make time to read, which I don’t do very often, it’s usually something non-fiction.

I’m not sure where he wants me to park so I leave my car in a spot away from the front of the house.

Not that I have to worry about him having guests if he’s truly a recluse.

Jackson’s magnificent multi-level home overlooks the Pacific Ocean. My mother dabbles in real estate when she’s not planning her next wedding, so I know a little bit about what oceanfront property sells for. At current market value a place like Jackson’s is probably worth about 30 million dollars.

I lock my car and stare at the exquisite grand entrance which is bordered by two waterfalls on either side of the front door.

I’m surprised the guy doesn’t have a moat.

I take in a deep breath then exhale. It’s time to meet my new boss.

I ring the doorbell and wait.

And wait.

There’s no answer.

I try knocking. Then I pound on the door. There’s still no response.

I’m not sure what to do. Jackson’s manager didn’t give me a phone number. He said Jackson never answers his phone anyway. Apparently he doesn’t answer the door either.

Did his manager even bother to tell him I was coming?

It only takes me a moment to realize how stupid that is. How could he tell him if he doesn’t answer his phone?

Something tells me he probably doesn’t respond to emails either.

On a whim I decide to check the door to see if it’s locked. When I turn the handle I’m not that surprised to find that it isn’t.

Now the question becomes: do I barge right into Jackson Drake’s home?

Right now I can’t think of any other option.

I walk into the foyer as quietly as I can and close the door behind me.

Now what
?

The place is eerily quiet.

I glance around. When I think of the word
recluse
I guess I think of those hoarders like they show on television who somehow manage to live amongst piles of junk. 

Jackson Drake’s house is nothing like that. Quite the contrary. It looks more like a model home than a place where someone actually lives. It’s beautifully decorated and immaculate.

I’m startled by the sound of tiny footsteps. A small gray cat scampers past me without giving me as much as a second look. 

I decide to follow the feline.

The cat makes its way into the living area, which is nothing less than spectacular. The ocean views, which are the centerpiece of the room, take my breath away.

Nature’s artwork never ceases to delight me.

The cat hops on a large overstuffed leather chair, curls up and goes to sleep.

That’s when I hear the faint sound of snoring.

I look over at the leather couch and find what I hope is Jackson Drake, arms and legs sprawled in different directions, almost like he’s passed out.

My hypothesis is confirmed when I notice the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting in front of him on the coffee table.

It’s ten thirty in the morning. So he’s either still passed out from last night, or he started drinking really early in the morning.

I’m not sure which of those scenarios is worse.

As much as I don’t want to disturb him I know I have to announce my presence. It’s my first day of work and I need to actually work.

I shake his shoulder as gently as I can.

He makes an indecipherable grumble and turns over so his face is crammed into an expensive looking decorative pillow.

A decorative pillow that he is now drooling all over
.

I reach over and shake him a bit harder.

He lifts his hand and starts swatting at the air around him.

I shake him a third time even harder.

This finally rouses him. As his eyes slowly open he squints. “Sadie?”

“I’m Maddie. Maddie Malone. Your new assistant.”

He rubs his eyes. “What happened to Sadie?”

“I don’t know. Did you fire her?”

He tilts his head like he’s giving this some thought. “Maybe I did.”

“You can’t remember?”

He shakes his head then places his palm to his temple. “Shit. How much did I drink last night?”

Ever so slowly he rises to a seated position on the couch. Staring straight at the whiskey bottle he says, “I put a good dent in it.”

A half of a bottle by himself is more than a
dent
, but I don’t say anything.

“How did you get here?” he asks.

“I drove down from LA.”

“No, I mean how did you get inside my house?”

I gulp. “I rang the doorbell and I knocked. I didn’t have your phone number.”

I bat my long lashes at him and try to look as innocent as possible so he won’t fire me. Or call the cops for breaking into his house.

Although I didn’t actually
break in
; I just
walked in
. I think that’s still illegal though.

“Your door was unlocked,” I add.

He shakes his head. “I don’t answer my phone anyway.” As he rises from the couch he wobbles a little. “What did you say your name is?”

“Maddie,” I repeat. “Maddie Malone.”

He rubs his temple. “I hate alliteration, especially in names. I can’t stand when authors do that. Why the hell would anyone do that to their child?”

“My mom’s name is Margo Malone. I guess you could say alliteration runs in our family.” I laugh at my attempt at literary humor, but it doesn’t seem to faze him a bit. He just stares at me.

Jackson’s fifty-six years look like they were hard won. His graying hair is a bit too long and shaggy. Like it was styled nicely at one time, but is long overgrown. His forehead is creased with lines as thick as the crow’s feet which circle his dull hazel eyes.

His rumpled t-shirt and jeans look liked they’ve been slept in for more than a few days. And if I’m being perfectly honest he reeks of alcohol and sweat.

If you were to pass by Jackson on a street corner instead of him standing in this mansion you might mistake him for a bum.

“My head feels like it’s going to split open.” He massages his forehead.

“Maybe a shower?” I suggest.

He looks me up and down as if he’s actually noticing me for the first time. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

He frowns. “Why do you want to work for me?”

I swallow. I’m not one to hold back, or be dishonest. “Because I can’t get a job anywhere else.”

He laughs. “That’s as good a reason as any I suppose. What’s wrong with you?”

I decide to lead with some of my qualifications, sparse as they may be. “I have two Master’s degrees from Yale.”

He throws up a hand to stop me. “I didn’t ask you about your education, as fine and pretentious as it may be.”

He looks directly into my eyes for the first time and it gives me a chill. The man is definitely fighting some demons. There’s no doubt about that.

“I want to know why you can’t get a job anywhere else.” He stares at me expectantly.

My chest tightens and my heart begins to race. Is he going to fire me before I even have a chance to start?

“I was working as a nanny for Dannabelle.”

He furrows his brow. “What the hell is a
Dannabelle
? 

“The actors Daniel Robinson and Annabelle Miller,” I clarify.

I’m glad when he gives a nod of recognition. I would be really worried if he had never heard of them. They were an even bigger celebrity couple than Bennifer, Tomkat or Brangelina.

“There was a bit of a scandal. The press called the ordeal Nannygate. I got fired when Annabelle accused me of having an affair with her husband.”

He raises an eyebrow then winces in pain. “Did you screw him?”

I shake my head. “Of course not. I would never do anything like that. Annabelle wanted to divorce Daniel and she used me as a convenient excuse. That way she didn’t look like the bad guy. Or bad gal, I guess.”

He takes in a deep breath as he seems to consider my story. “Okay. I just want to make sure that there’s not going to be any hanky-panky going on.”

Hanky-panky
? I know the guy is old, but he’s not
that
old. That term makes him sound like he’s ancient.

“I can assure you there will be no
hanky-panky
on my part, sir.”

He makes a finger circling motion. “This is a hanky-panky free zone.”

I nod. “I understand.”

“And don’t call me sir. Jack is fine.”

“Jack? You don’t strike me as a Jack.”

He narrows his gaze at me. “What do I strike you as?”

“You’ve kind of got a Jeff Bridges vibe.”

His expression is blank. “Who?”

“The actor. Jeff Bridges. You look like him. You know. The Dude.”

He shakes his head. “No. I don’t know.”

“Never mind.” He’s definitely a recluse. No doubt about that.

“I think I’d better go to bed.” He rubs his temple. “My head is killing me.”

“No!” I don’t mean for my voice to be that loud. It startles both of us.

“No?” He glares at me.

“You just got up,” I explain. “I think it would be better for me to make you coffee. We could sit down and you could tell me some of your expectations for me as your new assistant.”

He looks me up and down. “You make coffee.”

“Of course.”
Is that a trick question
?

“Is it good?”

“I think it is.”

His forehead wrinkles even more than it was already. You would have thought I’d just asked him for one of his kidneys with as much thought as he’s giving my suggestion.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Do you make toast too?”

I laugh. “It’s one of my specialties.”

Jackson’s kitchen is enormous, and just as immaculate as the rest of the house. He must have a housecleaner, but I don’t see any signs of anyone else anywhere.

After I find the coffee-maker and very expensive Kona coffee I start brewing a pot. Being unemployed for so long I could only afford the cheap stuff. Getting to have high quality coffee is definitely a perk of what so far seems to be a really weird job.

I’m not surprised that he has trouble keeping assistants. The job seems to require a high tolerance for ambiguity. Not many people possess that quality.

Normally I don’t either, but you know what they say about desperate times and desperate measures. Count me in on that cliché.

His large fridge is stocked with lots of food. Additional evidence that he has a housekeeper. Someone has to acquire this amount of fresh produce.

There are several different types of bread. I select the whole grain. I also grab the butter and raspberry jam.

He’s got one of those eight-slice toasters and I’m immediately jealous. I’ve always wanted one of those.

I make eight slices, just because I can. And I’m not sure how much he’ll want to eat.

Once the toast pops up I grab the slices, the butter and jam, and a couple of plates and knives and bring them over to the table.

Then I grab two mugs, pour us both coffee, and join Jackson at the kitchen table.

He savors his first sip of coffee like it’s a treasure. Kona coffee just may be as expensive as gold.  

“How did you know I like it black?” he asks.

“Call it a hunch. The flavor of the coffee is too good to dilute it with cream or sugar.”