Stepping Up To Love (Lakeside Porches 1)

STEPPING UP TO LOVE

LAKESIDE PORCHES SERIES BOOK 1

KATIE O’BOYLE

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

STEPPING UP TO LOVE

Copyright©2013

KATIE O’BOYLE

Cover Design by Niina Cord

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the priority written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher.  The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-
270-4

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

For my inspirational friend John

whose 90th birthday brunch

on the porch at Belhurst Castle

sparked the idea for the characters

and stories of Lakeside Porches.

Acknowledgements

Heartfelt thanks to Debby Gilbert for taking a chance on Stepping Up To Love and for guiding every phase of the publication process. Warm hugs to my test readers—Chrissie, Tracy, Jackie, Debbie, Anne and Martha. Respectful bows to the writers who critiqued sections of this work, from the Lilac City Rochester Writers and the Golden Pen contest. Special thanks to Nina Alvarez and Joy Argento for their expert workshops at Writers and Books.

Chapter 1

A barrage of ice pellets on the windshield roused Manda from the sleep of the dead. She poked her head out from the cocoon she’d made with her hooded parka. Her muscles hated her as she fumbled for the micro flashlight on her key chain and stole a look at her wristwatch. Three thirty. One hour since the last time she’d checked. At least she was getting some sleep. And she was safe.

Just a few hours ago, Manda had slammed out of the designer home on Cady’s Point at ten o’clock and driven aimlessly until the gas gauge caught her attention. With no more gas to spare and no place else to go, she’d pulled into the parking lot of the Manse where she worked, and tucked her car between the half dozen staff vehicles.

Even though the main lot offered more protection, she knew her car would stick out like a sore thumb among the dozens of luxury vehicles driven by the guests. Kristof might or might not be looking for her, but it was a sure bet she’d be in major trouble if Manse security spotted her rusty, twelve-year-old VW Beetle hobnobbing with the Jaguars.

Security was tight at the Manse Inn and Spa; she hadn’t figured out how to get into the spa showers to make herself presentable for work in a few hours. She had hoped Remy would be on the premises by seven, an hour ahead of the administrative staff. The big boss usually arrived at eight thirty, but he’d been known to make an early morning sweep every few months to keep everyone on their toes. Probably the kitchen staff might be there even earlier than Remy, but she had no “in” with them. Remy owed her; she’d filed his personal taxes for him last week and he hadn’t paid her yet.

Last night she wished she had that money to get something to eat, but maybe it was going to work out after all. A spa shower would help with her bruises and the spasms in her pelvic area. Don’t think about the pain, she told herself. Think about the steaming shower, the fluffy towels, the fragrant body lotion.

A spasm along her inner thigh made her cry out.
Who am I kidding? I am in major trouble here.
Way more than a shower could fix, she admitted to herself.
God, if you’re paying attention, I really need some help here.
She kneaded the cramp until it eased.

Manda listened while the tattoo of ice pellets slowly gave way to a steady rain. Wind swirled around the car, whistling through every crack in the seal of the windows. She fell asleep with a comforting thought.
I didn’t drink tonight.

A jangle of keys against the window roused her just before dawn. She opened her eyes and saw Remy’s face peering down at her. He motioned to her to get out of the car and come with him. “Quick!”

Manda gathered her purse and her wits the best she could and crawled out of the car.

“You have lost your mind?” Remy scolded her, his French accent making the words comical. “
Merde
! Did you drink all night and pass out in your car?”

“I had a fight at home, Remy. I drove back here and slept in the car. Or tried to.”

“You are hurt,
ma petite
,” he realized. “Who did this?” He snapped to his full height of five foot five and declared, “I will kill him!”

Manda laughed in spite of her pain. “Remy, can you let me in to take a shower?” He was brandishing an imaginary sword with the hand that should be opening the back door to the spa. “Please, I’m going to faint if I don’t get out of this wind.”

He commanded, “Come,
ma petite,
” and grabbed her arm. She cried out in pain. Remy winced, too. He let her lean on him as they made their way through side door, past the massage rooms, into the locker room and the showers beyond.

Remy made a show of opening the frosted glass door for her and motioning her into the elegant bath enclosure with a flourish.

Manda leaned back against the cool tile wall and wiggled out of her shoes. “You are my hero, Remy,” she told him. “Thank heaven it wasn’t raining when I left the house. I’d have died of hypothermia.”

Remy helped her out of her coat and surveyed her ruined clothes.

Manda’s spirits sagged even further. “How am I going to get dressed for work?”

“I bring you everything you need,
ma petite
. Here are towels, tiny bottles—lotion, shampoo, you take what you need. I go through the lost and found and bring you nice clothes. Clothes for a lady,” he said, humming his way back toward his office.

Manda turned on the shower as hot as she dared and sat for a moment on the wooden bench of the shower stall, stripping off her torn clothes and letting the steam warm her. She hoped Remy could find something that would cover the bruises. Pants and a long-sleeved top maybe. She would leave it to him.

Halfway through the shampoo, she heard him tap on the frosted glass door and slip some clothes onto the hook in the dressing area. “I owe you, Remy,” she said over the noise of the shower.

“Shhh!” he commanded. “I know nothing!” he declared and hummed his way back through the locker room.

The bubble of laughter that rose in Manda turned into a flood of tears. She let them flow and mix with the hundred-degree simulated rainwater pouring from the ceiling.

Finally warm, and thoroughly clean, shampooed, conditioned, citrus-scented, and far less achy than she’d been, Manda turned off the water and drew back the linen curtain dividing the shower stall from the dressing area, and screamed. Standing at the glass door was the big boss. Remy’s boss. Her boss's boss. She wasn’t sure, but Joel Cushman was probably everybody’s boss.

“Geez, Joel, I thought you were a pervert!” she yelled at him.
I can’t believe I just called Mr. Cushman “Joel.” I am in so much trouble here.

“Manda? What—?” His voice cracked like an adolescent.

Manda stifled a laugh. His eyes were drinking in her body as though he couldn’t believe what she’d been hiding under her baggy clothes.
Drink your fill now, Joel, because I am off men for life.

“I thought you were a criminal. What are you doing in the shower at seven fifteen in the morning? And stop batting that curtain around.”

Manda tried desperately to grab hold of the linen shower curtain, flapping this way and that in the current created by the open door. “Do you mind?” she scolded him.

Giving up on the curtain, she crossed her arms and turned her back on him.
He probably likes that view, too.
“Could you hand me a towel, please, or get out of here?”
Why am I yelling at the boss? Seriously dumb, Manda.

He was silent now, which was worse.
What is he doing, standing there, looking at me?
Panic overtook anger, and she turned back to look at him.

He had dropped the admiring once-over, and she saw he was taking a second look at her purpling bruises. Silently, he handed her a towel from the top of the stack and looked her in the eye.

Manda wondered if he could read the shame and fear clouding her vision.

Joel cleared his throat and ordered, “In my office. Five minutes. Dressed.”  His jaw was hard as he turned on his heel.

Manda wrapped herself in the towel and reached for another to dry her hair. The black linen slacks and blue silk shirt Remy left for her fit perfectly and caressed her skin. After Kristof, she never wanted another man to touch her, but the silk and linen felt beautiful and, more importantly, made her feel beautiful.

Joel stood fuming at his office door. He directed Manda to the chair that squarely faced his intimidating desk. After glaring up and down the hallway to clear the area, he gave the door just the right amount of slam. He turned on her and cut through the preliminaries. “I got the plea from Remy to go easy on you, but I’m not inclined to do that.” He perched on the corner of his desk and glared down at her. “What were you thinking, living with this lothario professor in the first place? Aren’t you supposed to be a student? A top-of-your-class business major, the kind we’re proud to employ at an upscale inn and spa? Do you get that’s not consistent with shacking up with some divorced sot that doesn’t know how to keep it in his pants?” He bet that was language she never expected to hear from Joel Cushman.

“I so don’t deserve that!” Manda glared at her boss and he glared right back. He wanted to wring her neck, her beautiful bruised neck.

“And please," she continued, "quit yelling at me. I’ve had enough explosions.” She choked on the last word. She pressed the back of her hand to her nose to stop it running.

Joel crossed the room, grabbed a box of tissues, and tossed it at her. “Use these.”

“Thank you.” She pulled two out of the box and dried her eyes and nose.

“Nice clothes. You need a scarf. Ask Remy for one. You’ve got three minutes to save your job.”

She got her voice under control but not the tears. “I came to Tompkins College on a full scholarship—tuition, books, room and board. I did really well, made Dean’s List freshman year, yada yada. Scholarships were cut across the board sophomore year, and I only had tuition support from then on.”

Joel flinched. He knew all about that, because he’d voted for those cuts, with the understanding that the Presidential Scholars—the best and brightest—would be given some options to make up for the shortfall. Someone had dropped the ball on the follow-through; he made a mental note to track it down.

“I didn’t want to get a loan or drag out my program if I didn’t have to. I answered an ad by Mrs. Lothario Professor Kristof,” she snipped at him, “as a live-in, part-time housekeeper.”

Joel snorted and muttered, “Housekeeper.” 

Manda snapped, “I don’t need it, Joel. I mean Mr. Cushman.”

“Joel. Go on.”

“I had no means of support and no time to find any. I wasn’t going to give up on college if I could find a way to continue.” She drew in a sharp breath and put a hand on her stomach. Her face paled, and her forehead creased with pain. Manda took a few deep breaths and tried to get back some control.

Joel was not doing well in the control department either. Mangled jumbo paperclips littered the rug where he’d missed the wastebasket. He tried again, his voice more reasonable this time. “So, what were you a nanny?”

Manda shook her head. “No, she kept the children with her always, except for a private child care person. It was my job to fix the evening meal every weekday and do some minimal day-to-day straightening up.”

“You cook.” He failed to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

“Lorraine—Mrs. Kristof—wasn’t looking for a gourmet chef. Just someone to fix nice salads and light, healthy meals for her — and her husband if he ever came home. The kids were on special diets, and she had a nutritionist handling all of their meals. The biggest need was to keep the toys and stuff picked up and the place looking”—she rolled her eyes—“‘serene and lovely’. How hard is that? I did that for a year, and it was great. I lost weight and got fit swimming and biking all over Cady’s Point. It gave me a place to live and enough money for books. That summer I got an internship here, and it turned into a part-time job, but the money wasn’t enough to get my own place or even share an apartment, plus books, fees, food, computer—”

“I get it. Go on. You stayed on at the Kristof palace on Cady’s Point.”

“I didn’t find out until after the holidays last year that Lorraine had filed for divorce. She apparently traded the house for the kids. Over the holiday break, she and the kids moved to England and I came back to a half-empty house and a different employer.” Manda’s eyes widened and she sucked in a breath.

“Mr. Lothario Professor Kristof,” Joel supplied. “Go on.”

“A very angry.” Manda could not continue. The silence dragged on. Manda seemed to be fascinated by her hands.

Joel did not like the sound of her breathing, shallow and labored. Her hands were trembling, and he could see bruises on her wrists and lower arms.

Fear replaced his rage. “Manda, what’s been going on in that house the past fourteen months?”

Incapable of answering, Manda folded into herself, trembling.

“Okay, we’re finished, for now. Tell me what you need.” She just shook her head. He moved carefully off the desk and crouched down beside her chair. “When is the last time you ate a meal?”

“I don’t know,” she said in barely a whisper.

“Can you eat something?”

She nodded gratefully.

Joel’s call to James in the breakfast room landed them a private table, a full breakfast, and a pot of coffee. Joel worked on his smartphone while Manda worked her way through a plate of eggs, a bowl of fruit, and three croissants with strawberry jam and butter. When she pushed the plate away, he silenced the smartphone. She sat, eyes down.

Joel sipped his coffee and studied her, wondering how a bright, beautiful Presidential Scholar could turn into a basket case without anyone at the college seeing it. Stellar grades, no doubt; was that all anyone paid attention to? He tapped a nervous rhythm on his coffee mug. No one at the Manse had seen the decline either, including himself. He watched Manda run her tongue over her lips, nervously, not seductively. That mouth of hers should be laughing, flirting, teasing. “You’re a business major?” he asked, testing to see if she was ready to talk again.

“Accounting,” she said and cleared the frog in her throat. “Business and accounting.”

“Why?”

She turned puzzled eyes toward him. Beautiful, sapphire eyes. “Why?”

“I’m not a numbers guy. I can’t imagine picking accounting as my major.”

She let out her breath in a soft chuckle and smiled at him. “Numbers are fun. They’re like Tinker Toys or Legos. You can line them up, build them on each other, manipulate and transform them, calculate them within an inch of their lives, and they just go right on being whatever they are. They’ll tell you the right answer whether it’s what you want to hear or not.” She shrugged. “They have integrity.”