My eyebrows rose. “Maybe I will.”
“Will it disturb you if I vacuum?”
“Not at all; thanks for asking.”
I watched her disappear into the outer foyer, amazed at how comfortable she was discussing orgasms within the first five minutes of meeting me. Her openness felt natural and unassuming, though, and I couldn’t help liking her.
She returned pushing a fancy vacuum with multiple attachments. As soon as she turned it on, Jasper went streaking from his hiding place behind the couch and gave her a baleful glare before he shot down the hallway toward the guest room.
I had set up his litter box behind a large potted palm on the main balcony, and the cat door was hidden behind the window treatments on the unused end of the sliding glass door—both purposely out of sight.
I had a suspicion that the hotel didn’t allow pets, but now the cat was out of the bag, so to speak. Angelica switched the vacuum off and stared after the frightened feline.
“That’s Jasper,” I said in chagrin. “I wasn’t sure if he was allowed, so I kind of snuck him in.” I watched for her reaction.
Angelica blinked at me, reading the concern in my expression. “Oh, please don’t worry Miss Corrigan. I would never abuse your privacy by talking about something I’d seen in your home! Be it your cat or something more personal in nature.” She grinned suggestively.
I laughed in relief. “Thanks Angelica. And please call me Sydney.”
“You’re welcome. He looks like a beautiful animal. And what interesting markings! Is he black all over, except for one white spot on the tip of his tail?”
“Yep, pitch black except for that one speck of white ruining all his witchy-ness.” I smirked.
She gave me an odd look and I got the feeling it was the witch reference. I made a mental note: sex talk okay, but ixnay on the itch-way.
“Anyway,” I continued hurriedly, “thanks again for not ratting me out.”
“Think nothing of it—I believe everyone should have the right to privacy and to conduct their lives the way they see fit…Sydney,” she added with a belated smile.
She switched the vacuum back on and began a thorough sweep of the penthouse. I watched her for a moment, wondering at her odd choice of words, and then I decided I’d better get to work as well.
I called Cindy to give her my new phone number and the banking update. I rolled my eyes and jotted down some things she wanted me to do, like printing and faxing her emails to her, and checking the results of a horse race for Mr. H, who was screaming at her in the background.
Then I listened to her complain about money for a while before reminding her that the electric and telephone were past due. I knew she didn’t want to hear it, and therefore it was the quickest way to get her off the phone. It worked like a charm.
As we hung up, I could hear Angelica humming softly from the hallway. “You know, Sydney,” she commented as she carried the used bedding to her cart, “depending on your partner’s height, that tall bed of yours would be perfect for certain standing positions.”
I blinked after her in confusion, exhaling in amusement when her words sank in. She disappeared back into the bedroom, apparently unconcerned with receiving a reply to the observation.
She moved into the kitchen next, which I had barely touched, but she found my tea mug in the sink and stuck it in the dishwasher. She emptied all the wastebaskets and wiped down the balconies; she even dusted the ceiling fans. When she was finished, not a fleck of dirt or clutter was left anywhere. And it had taken her less than an hour.
“Well, I think that’s about everything. I saw your laundry basket, but I wasn’t sure if you were ready to do a wash. Would you like for me to start one?”
“No, thanks—I should do something myself or I’ll be completely spoiled. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to survive without you again as it is,” I joked.
“It’s my pleasure,” she replied sincerely. “I actually enjoy cleaning. There’s something calming and almost sensual about the repetitive physical movements. So if you need anything, just put a call into Cleaning Services and ask for Angelica. Otherwise, I’ll plan to come by again on Thursday.”
I thanked her again as I saw her out the door and she pushed her cart into the elevator. I wasn’t sure about the sensual properties of cleaning, but I fully intended to let Jeremy cover our mortgage for a while and redistribute some of my freed-up cash into tips for Angelica.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
After forcing myself to concentrate on work for a couple more hours, I made my way down to the garage and hopped in my station wagon to pick up some paperwork from Cindy and do the grocery shopping for the week.
Staying at the hotel cut my usual half hour commute down to five minutes. It was great, but there was no way I was telling Cindy or she’d have me running errands all day. I called to let her know I was outside and pulled up near the rear entrance. I waited for a moment before I saw her bustle backward out the door, calling, “Yes, Sir!”, no doubt to Mr. H. My not having to go inside and risk a confrontation with him was part of our working arrangement.
Cindy was a plumply attractive woman in her fifties with dark blonde hair and grey eyes. She struck me as someone who’d probably been a cheerleader in high school.
When I saw her, she usually sported a smile and kept up a rash of convivial chatter. And she never seemed to stop moving, although that might have had more to do with avoiding her husband’s tirades than anything else.
Her clothes tended to be rumpled, but she was never without at least one piece of expensive jewelry—supposedly borrowed from D.J.D. to be worn for advertising purposes. I wasn’t sure how many of those ‘borrowed’ pieces actually found their way back to the store to be sold, though.
She rushed forward when she saw me. “Hi, Sydney, what’s up? What a day! Mr. Horowitz is on the war path. You brought my checks? Good. Thanks. Here’s your stuff. Was there anything else…no, I don’t think so. I’ll talk to you in the morning.” She handed me my bag of paperwork for the week and hurried back inside in usual frenzied Cindy fashion.
As I was getting back into my station wagon, a black Hummer pulled up next to me. I smiled and waved briefly at Mickey, Cindy’s seventeen year old son. The teenager waved back instead of giving me his usual sulky nod, then leapt down from his vehicle and began heading toward my driver side window.
As opposed to the tattered black wardrobe I expected to see hanging from his lean frame, he looked neat in crisp blue-jeans and a red polo-style shirt. His hair was trimmed so that his blue-grey eyes were visible, and although it was still dyed black, it shone soft and clean, instead of lank and greasy. He had even removed his facial piercings, leaving only a single stud in his right ear.
He hovered about a foot away grinning at me and I had no choice but to roll down my window.
“Hey, Mickey, you look a little different than the last time I saw you,” I said with a chuckle of disbelief.
“Hey, Sydney, what’s up?” he
