Nacho Figueras Presents (5 page)

A
re you sure you don't want more, hon?” asked Kat's mother as she bustled around the immaculate kitchen. “Everything is still nice and hot.”

Kat used her biscuit to mop up the last of the gravy on her pink Fiestaware plate and popped it into her mouth. She washed the bite down with a sip of sweet, creamy coffee and sighed contentedly. “No, thank you, Mama. It was so good, truly, but I couldn't eat another bite.”

Corinne shook her head of neatly tended iron gray curls. “I wish you'd eat more, baby. You're nothing but skin and bones.”

Kat laughed. “Mama, I'm already at least three sizes bigger than any woman is supposed to be in Hollywood, and if I keep eating your biscuits and gravy, they're never going to let me back over the border.”

“Oh,
pish
,” said Corinne, “that is nonsense. And even if it was true, you're behind the camera, not in front of it. No one cares about your dress size.”

Kat brought her dishes to the sink and began to wash up. “You'd think that would be so, wouldn't you?”

Her mother joined her at the sink, drying the dishes as Kat cleaned them. “Isn't it?”

Kat snorted. “Heaven forbid any woman in Hollywood should forget that they are, first and foremost, eye candy.”

Corinne's brow wrinkled. “Well, that must be an awful hard place,” she said, “if someone as beautiful as you is convinced that they aren't good enough.”

Kat smiled. “It's not so bad, Mama. I'm just telling you about the worst parts, is all. There's a lot of good stuff, too.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, lots of things. There's the weather, for one.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “We have perfectly good weather here.”

“You have humidity so thick you can practically eat it with a spoon. The weather in L.A. is always warm and dry, but not too hot, and the sky is always a perfect blue.”

“Well, the sky is blue here, too.”

Kat laughed. “And everyone thinks that Hollywood is full of mean, selfish people just looking to make a buck, but actually, if you think about it, it's full of artists. Deep down, almost everyone in Hollywood is a dreamer. Even the people making the worst movies and the crappiest TV shows started out planning to make something great.”

Corinne frowned. “Katy Ann, are you sure you're going to be okay cleaning for me today? I just haven't had a chance to replace the maid that quit last week, and I need someone I can trust to fill in. But it seems like an awful lot to ask of you.”

“Oh, Mama, I did it with you all through high school. I guess I'm not too proud to pick up a broom.”

“How about scrub a toilet?”

“I don't suppose I've forgotten how to do that either.”

“I could always go to work—and you could go to the hospital.”

“I was with Daddy for hours last night. He needs you. He's trying too hard to be strong for me. He needs someone he can lean on.”

Corinne nodded. “True enough.” She sighed. “You know I hate to even ask, Katy Ann.”

“I know, Mama.”

“But with the hospital bills and your daddy missing work for a while…”

Kat looked at her mother. “Mama, I'm going to help you however I can. I just wish I could do more.”

“You're doing plenty.”

Kat put her arm around her mother's shoulder and squeezed. “You go on. I got this. I'll take care of those Del Campos, no problem. I'll do such a good job, they won't even miss you.”

Corinne looked at her daughter, deadpan, “Well, maybe don't do
that
good a job, hon.”

Sebastian lay on his back, squinting at his brother through his one good eye, his broken wrist propped up on the back of the couch. “I told you,” he said. “This is not my fault.”

The muscles in Alejandro's jaw twitched. “Then just whose fault is it, Sebastian? Because I do not see anyone else to blame at the moment.”

Sebastian struggled to sit up, ignoring the pain in his sore ribs. “I could have just as easily broken my wrist on the field, Jandro. It's not as if we don't get injuries all the time.”

“But you didn't hurt yourself on the field. You broke it in a bar fight.”

“It wasn't even a fight. It was a more like
una masacre
. There were three of them. And they were huge—gigantic.”

“And please tell me again, why did they attack you?”

“Because a girl one of them was with—okay, she turned out to be his wife, but I didn't know that part—gave me a little attention. As I said, not my fault.”

Alejandro groaned in frustration. “We have another two months of games, Sebastian.”

Sebastian held up the cast on his wrist. “I know. And I'm truly sorry. But obviously you're going to have to find someone else. Unless you'd like me to play
zurdo
—left handed.”

For a moment, Alejandro looked like he was going to explode, then he shut his eyes, took a long, deep breath, and let it out again. “Maybe this is for the best anyway.”

Sebastian looked at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

His brother ran his hands through his hair. “I think you taking a break from the game isn't the worst idea. Your heart hasn't been in it lately. Perhaps some time off will help.”

Sebastian felt stung by the truth of what Alejandro was saying, but forced himself to smile, determined not to show his feelings. “Maybe so. Who will you get to replace me?”

“I'm sure Hendy knows someone. Or perhaps Enzo can take it on.”

“Great idea,” said Sebastian casually. “Give the
piloto
some time on the field. I'm sure he'll be thrilled. Now”—he used his one good hand to fluff his pillow before he lay back down on the couch and grabbed the remote control—“I'm going to drown my disappointment in a bottle of tequila and a marathon of terrible movies.”

Alejandro sighed as he left the room. “But of course you are,
hermano.
I expected no less of you.”

T
he house was enormous. Beautiful, but enormous. Filled with high coved ceilings and sweeping arches, Aubusson carpets and silk window dressings, dark wood floors and jewel-colored velvet upholstery. The whole place was lush and luxurious and brimming with art and books and glorious natural light from the countless floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows. Kat now understood how it kept her mother busy full time, even with the small army of regular staff helping her.

Before Kat left for college, Corinne had worked for a dozen different clients around Wellington, cleaning houses from top to bottom all on her own. But this job for the Del Campos was different, Kat realized. Her mother had kept telling her that she was a housekeeper now, not just a maid. But it was only seeing the scope of Corinne's duties in person that made Kat finally understand. This was not just a cleaning job—this was a production. One that was, in some ways, every bit as complicated as any movie set Kat had ever been on.

Her mother supervised the other workers in the house, making sure every corner of the home was immaculate. She worked with the head gardener to keep the grounds up to par. She kept shopping lists, and hired and fired staff when needed. She made sure that there was nothing left unnoticed, no task left undone, and judging from the list of tasks Corinne had written out for Kat, she wasn't afraid of rolling up her sleeves and doing some of the dirty work herself when it was needed.

Kat had started cleaning early that morning in the enormous kitchen, taking note of the twelve-burner Wolf range, the huge glass-fronted refrigerator, and the way every bit of food inside it was arranged like a still life.

After living in Hollywood for so long, Kat was used to a certain level of luxury. Wealth no longer intimidated or impressed her in the same way it had when she was a girl. But this home was truly unlike any place she'd ever seen.

There was something old world about it. It was an estate—not just a house—but despite its size, it felt lived in and welcoming. As she wandered through the house, taking note of what needed to be done, and contemplating its most intimate spaces, Kat sensed a kindred soul in whoever had carefully curated the pieces in this home.

The bedrooms were restful and luxurious, painted in the kind of soft, glowing colors that would change with the light throughout the day and fade into a tranquil whisper at night. The shining dark wood floors were softened with subtly patterned silk carpets that tempted Kat to slide off her shoes and sink into them with her bare feet. The huge windows were tempered with linen drapes just the right thickness to change the light to a flattering twilight glow when they were pulled. The beds were covered in generously fluffy down comforters, with enough pillows to make them feel lush, but not smothered. In a few of the rooms, there were fireplaces abutted by big, comfortable chairs that Kat imagined would be perfect to curl up in and spend the day reading.

The en suite bathrooms were equally luxurious, with deep soaking tubs and glassed-in showers. In one bathroom, Kat admired what she imagined must be Pilar Del Campo's Art Deco dressing table. It was made of rosewood and topped with an elegant triple-folding mirror framed in light green Murano glass.

Kat decided to start her cleaning right then and there. She wanted an excuse to handle every little thing on that table. As she dusted and polished, she gripped the heavy silver and horn comb in her hand, enjoying its substantial weight; brought the cut glass bottle of Joy perfume to her nose for a delighted sniff; ran the tips of her fingers over the beautiful sable and tortoiseshell makeup brushes; and opened a heavily carved teak box to find a pirate's chest of gleaming, multicolored jewels.

Expensive jewelry had been the one thing that Kat had never really indulged in, reasoning that it was too easily lost or damaged, but these sparkling pieces made her gasp—they were so alluring—and she couldn't help reaching to touch them, softly running her finger over the glowing stones before she carefully shut the box and left the room.

Kat had been in houses this big before, but never one that also managed the trick of feeling like a real home. This place was full of pretty patinas and soft surfaces, sun-lit corners to curl up in, gorgeous art to get lost in, a snug little library brimming with books. Kat smiled when she found the playroom. It was filled with cushy, child-sized furniture, an antique rocking horse with a real saddle, and in the corner there was a large birdcage, where several canaries cheerfully hopped about and sang. One wall was painted with an enormous mural of life-sized horses and foals. She sighed, looking over the carefully arranged toys, games, and books. It almost made her ache to imagine the kind of magical childhood the Del Campo children must be experiencing.

She got to work, and by late afternoon, Kat had lost count of the number of bedrooms and bathrooms she'd been through. So many beds to make, so many floors to mop.

She supposed she should have felt miserable, going from meetings at Soho House to changing some stranger's Frette sheets, but there was something oddly soothing about the work. She'd helped her mother on and off in high school, earning pocket money by pitching in on weekends. Kat knew precisely the most efficient way to whirl through a room, knew how to reach the places that most people didn't ever think of cleaning. And though it had been years since she'd last done this kind of work, she fell back into her old rhythms in no time at all.

She didn't have to think. She didn't have to worry about meeting deadlines or propping up egos. Nobody cared what she was wearing or who she knew…It was just hospital corners and dusting, tidying up and running the vacuum. Every room started out beautiful, but looked even better after she left it, and that felt good. More tangible, at least, than staring at a blinking cursor on her laptop, wondering whether she'd ever write anything decent again.

She was dragging the Dyson down the stairs to the bottom floor when she heard it—music so familiar that, in a split second, she felt she was back in sound mixing, arguing with the producers about which version of the song they would use to score the credits.

It was, unmistakably, the bombastic closing number they'd used for
Red Hawk
.

She dropped the vacuum and followed the song into a room at the end of the hallway, where she saw, projected on a screen almost as big as the wall, the scrolling names of her entire cast and crew, intercut with what the execs had deemed to be “hilarious” outtakes and bloopers from the film. Kat scowled. She hated the credits. She'd fought and lost her battle over them just as she'd lost control of every other part of the movie.

For a moment, she froze, thinking that this had to be an elaborate joke someone was playing on her. What were the chances, after all, of this particular film being mysteriously played just at the moment she had walked down the stairs?

But then someone laughed. A low, rich chuckle over one of the more obvious pratfalls in the outtakes. Kat craned her neck to see who was lying on the enormous tufted leather couch in front of her and gasped when she spied the bruised and battered version of the man who had delivered her father's flowers just a day ago.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted out.

The man's face popped up from behind the couch and blinked in surprise. “Me?” he said incredulously. “I live here. What are
you
doing here?”

Kat's mind whirred. Oh, for Pete's sake, so he wasn't a delivery guy, he was a Del Campo brother. She should have known. Her mother had been talking about these guys for years…

“Okay. I'm guessing you're Sebastian, not Alejandro.”

A smile played around his mouth. “What makes you so sure?”

“From what my mother has said, Alejandro would never pretend to be a delivery guy.”

“And Sebastian would?”

“Definitely.”

“Well, I didn't actually pretend. You assumed.”

“You didn't exactly correct me.”

“I didn't have a chance. You slammed the door in my face.”

Kat looked away, embarrassed. “You gave me the flowers,” she pointed out. “What else was supposed to happen?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I guess we'll never know.”

Kat felt herself flush.

“But I find myself at a disadvantage. You have now gathered that I am neither a delivery boy nor Alejandro, but I still don't know what your name is or why, exactly, you are in my house.”

“I'm Kat,” she said. “And I'm temporarily working here. To help my mother.”

The music changed on the screen, and she couldn't help looking up at it.

“A terrible movie,” Sebastian said. “I mean, I'd heard it was bad, but it actually exceeded my expectations of just how horrible it could be.”

She fought to keep her face neutral. “Oh?”

“Yes, it's all over the place. One minute a comedy, the next a dark drama. It made no sense.”

Kat jutted her chin out defensively. “Well, there were a lot of people involved in the production.”

“I mean, there were all these scenes where it would get interesting, and start to really pull you in, and then suddenly something ridiculous would happen. Like the female lead—why was she wearing a bikini while being chased through Detroit?”

Kat sighed in frustration. “She was wearing a bikini because she was sunbathing in the park when the Silver Shadow found her. But originally she was supposed to be wearing running gear because she was training for a marathon.”

He looked at her. “What? I don't remember a marathon.”

“No, the marathon's not in the movie. It was in the original version, but after the actress playing that part quit, they had to recast and the new actress didn't have as much clout, and so, when the producers suggested a bikini instead of running shorts and a tank top, she had to agree.”

He stared at her. “How do you know that?”

She shrugged and looked away from him. “I think I saw a documentary.”

“There's a documentary about this movie?”

“Or maybe it was in a magazine or something. I don't know.” She looked back at him, determined to change the subject. “What happened to your face anyway? You look like you got hit by a truck.”

He smiled ruefully. “Three trucks, as a matter of fact.”

She locked eyes with him for a second and felt her heart speed up. Even with the bruises and scrapes and his eye half swollen shut, he was still ridiculously good looking.

He reached for the half-empty bottle of tequila sitting in front of him. “Would you like a drink?”

She laughed, almost tempted to take him up on it. “I need to finish cleaning your house.”

“How much do you have left?”

“Just this room.”

He leaned forward and straightened some magazines on the coffee table. “There. It's clean. Now would you like a drink?”

She couldn't help laughing again. “No.”

“How about dinner?”

“Hey, wait a moment,” she said, suddenly remembering something. “You took my tip! You owe me fifteen dollars!”

Sebastian's face split into a grin. “Well then, it's settled. I shall return your tip, and
you
can buy
me
a drink.”

She was about to say no again, but then he reached out and lightly touched her hand with his, and it was as if the small throb of heat from his fingers entered her bloodstream and entwined itself throughout her body. She was flushed with a tingling warmth.

She stared at him as the mischievous smile faded from his face and something much more serious shone through his sea green eyes.

“Truly,” he said softly, “it would be my pleasure.”

He skimmed his hand over the back of hers and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, searching out her pulse with his thumb. She realized he could feel how fast her heart was beating and pulled her hand away, embarrassed.

His eyes met hers. “What have you got to lose,
linda
?”

She almost laughed.
Not much, that's for sure.

“Fine,” she said. “Why not?”

He looked at her for another moment and then his charming, self-assured smile locked back into place. “Excellent,” he said, struggling to his feet. “Well, if we are to go out in public, I think it would be a good idea if I put on a nicer shirt to distract from my mangled face. And although you look perfectly charming in your apron and rubber gloves, I assume you would like to change as well. So I shall pick you up in an hour or so?”

She nodded, a little flustered, as behind her, the roll of credits finally came to an end.