Secrets Kept Page 2

  Earlier tonight I told him I never loved him, but the truth is I did. I actually did. Or at least I thought I did.

  Chapter Two

  "Kate." Megan's voice is muffled through my pillow, which is covering my head. There's knocking, followed by, "Kate, can I come in?"

  When I don't answer, I hear the door open.

  "You're still in bed?"

  I toss my pillow aside and squint at the hazy form now standing beside me. "What time is it?"

  "Four."

  "In the afternoon?"

  "Yeah, I just got off work." Megan works part-time at the local library. Hardly anyone goes there so she sits and reads books all day, a dream job for a bookworm like her. "Have you been in bed since last night?"

  "Yes," I mumble, using my forearm to shield the light from my eyes.

  "Don't you have to be at work soon?"

  I groan. "At five."

  "Where's it at?"

  "Greenwich." I sit up. "It's already four?"

  "Yeah. You're gonna be late. It could take you an hour to get there with traffic."

  "Shit!" I kick the sheet back and stumble out of bed to the bathroom.

  My boss doesn't tolerate lateness. I work for a catering company that does fancy parties for the rich. Correction. The MEGA rich. As in multimillionaires. Even a few billionaires.

  The southern coastline of Connecticut is full of these people. Owners of multinational corporations. Investment bankers. Hedge fund managers. Old money, blue-bloods. How they got their money varies, but they all share one thing in common: They're all filthy rich. And they like to have parties. All the freaking time. Which is good for me because it ensures I always have work.

  The job pays well and I get to hang out at fancy mansions so I really can't complain but it isn't what I want to be doing with my life. What I really want to do is own my own restaurant like my mom did. She owned a diner in East Hartford when I was growing up. I used to work there after school. The diner didn't make a lot of money but it made enough for us to afford a two-bedroom house in a decent neighborhood.

  After I graduated from high school, my mom sold the business and our house and we moved down here near the shoreline, where she took a job at the catering company I now work for. My mom insisted I go to college so I took some classes at a community college for a semester but quickly decided college wasn't for me. So I joined my mom at the catering company. A few months later she met Allen, her boyfriend, and they decided to move to Florida. She manages a restaurant in Naples and Allen manages a golf course. They're happy as clams, living in a condo on the beach, enjoying life in sunny Florida.

  My mom keeps trying to convince me to move there, but for now I've decided to stay in Connecticut. I tell my mom it's because I'd miss Megan too much if I left, which is somewhat true, but the real reason is because of my dad. He lives just an hour away, and although I haven't seen him in years, part of me wants a relationship with him again.

  He left when I was four. At the time, he was a police officer, assigned to some of the most crime-ridden areas of Hartford. He saw some bad stuff, so bad that he drank to keep his mind off it. But then he couldn't stop and eventually lost his job, a few months after leaving my mom and me.

  He showed up in my life again when I was six. He'd sobered up and bought a house and was working nights as a security guard. Once my mom was sure he wasn't drinking anymore, she let me stay with him every other weekend. I loved staying with him. Despite the fact that he left, he's not a bad father. In fact, he can be a really good father when he's sober. Unfortunately, his sobriety didn't last.

  When I was 12 he started drinking again. I remember the day I found out. It was summer and he was going to take me to Cape Cod for the week to swim and hang out on the beach. I'd been looking forward to it for months. It was going to be the first father-daughter trip we'd ever taken. But when I got to his house, I found him passed out on the sofa. I was devastated.

  My mom came and picked me up and didn't let me see him again until he sobered up, which took six months. I don't know what made him fall off the wagon but he did it again when I was 14. He was supposed to come to my birthday party but he didn't show up. Later my mom found out he was at a bar getting drunk. That time it only took three months for him to stop drinking but I was mad at him and didn't talk to him for another three months.

  Now he's on-and-off sober, but sober last I heard. I can't say for sure because I haven't talked to him for two years. I thought he'd try to call me but he hasn't. Maybe he's busy with work. For the past five years, he's been running his own private investigation firm. He's the only employee so it's not much of a firm but he seems to always have business, mostly from people who think their significant other is cheating.

  "I'm going to be so late," I mutter to myself as I button up my white shirt. I quickly tuck it into my black skirt, then find my shoes.

  Grabbing my phone and wallet, I race to the door. "Bye, Megan!" I call out.

  I hear a faint "bye" from her room as I shut the door. When I get to my car, I almost cry when I see the flat tire.

  "Why today?" I sigh, then take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. It's just a flat tire. It could be worse. But it's horrible timing. After being cheated on, this is the last thing I need.

  When I return to the apartment, Megan comes out of her room. "What are you doing back?"

  "Flat tire." I get out my phone. "I'm calling Carol. I'll have to miss work tonight. She's gonna be so mad."

  "I'll take you." Megan hurries to her room and returns with her phone and keys in hand.

  "Megan, I'm not making you drive all the way there and back. It takes too long and you're on deadline."

  She shakes her head as she walks to the door. "I just turned it in. Now I have to wait for comments from my editor. C'mon, let's go." She holds the door open.

  "You sure about this? I won't be done until 10 or 11."

  She shrugs. "That's fine. You know I don't go to bed early."

  "You're a lifesaver." I give her a quick hug on my way out the door.

  We make it there in 45 minutes, much faster than if I were driving. Megan drives really fast and weaves in and out of lanes, cutting people off. I'm not sure where she learned to drive like that. We both had the same driver's ed teacher.

  "So which one is it?" she asks as we go down a street lined with gated mansions.

  I check the address. "It's the next block over. Go down to the end of the street and make a right."

  She shakes her head. "Seriously, why does anyone need a house as big as these?"

  Megan doesn't like rich people. It's not really the money that bothers her as much as the opportunities given to the rich. She's still angry that the internship she wanted at a DC newspaper was given to the son of some rich businessman who she claims wasn't qualified for the job.

  "Can you imagine growing up in that?" She points to a mansion that's set far off the road and looks more like a hotel than a house.

  "Remember that one we worked at that was so big we got lost?"

  She laughs. "Yeah. I was sure we'd have to spend the night, which wouldn't have been that bad. A night in a mansion? I could do that."

  Last June, Megan worked at the catering company with me to make some extra cash. She only did one or two jobs a week but didn't like it so she quit. She said it hurt her feet. It does get tiring, and not just for your feet. There's lots of lifting and carrying and walking. You have to be in good shape.

  "It's that one," I say, pointing to an all white mansion surrounded by a black iron gate. "Just pull up to the speaker and give them my name."

  Once we're through the gate, we wind along a flower-lined entrance to the house.

  "Just think how much all those flowers cost," Megan says. "And then they have to hire a team of gardeners to take care of them. Total waste of money."

  I open my door. "I gotta go."

  "You gonna be okay?"

  "Yeah, it's good I'm working. It'll keep my mind off you-know-wh
o."

  "Call when you're ready to go home."

  "I will." I get out of the car. "See ya." I give her a wave, then head for the side entrance of the house. These mansions always have a side entrance for the help. This one's on the left, right before you get to the gate that leads to the pool.

  Carol, my boss, is standing by the door when I walk in, her phone by her ear.

  "You're late," she mouths to me as she listens to whoever's talking on the phone.

  "Sorry," I mouth back. "Flat tire."

  "We can't do the fifth," she says into the phone as she walks away. "It'll have to be the sixth, unless they're willing to pay extra for overtime."

  Carol's a tough boss. She expects perfection, like her clients do. But she's a friend of my mom's so she goes easy on me, which isn't really saying much. Her version of "easy" means I get more than one chance to mess up before being fired, as long as nobody but her saw whatever I did wrong. Everyone else is fired on the spot.

  Working for the super rich, there's no room for errors. If someone screws up, especially in front of the client, the client expects the person to be fired, so Carol really doesn't have a choice in the matter. It's not like she's trying to be mean. Overall, she's a good person. She just has a very stressful and demanding job. In fact I've never seen her relaxed. She's always tense and racing around, doing a million things at once.

  "When the guests arrive, you'll be running appetizers," Carol says, finding me in the kitchen. "After that you'll be serving in the dining room. There are four courses tonight."

  "I thought it was just a party."

  "It's a dinner party. Drinks and appetizers in the main living area, followed by dinner in the dining room."

  "So it'll be a long night," I say with a sigh.

  "Something wrong?" Her brows draw together. "You're not sick are you?"

  "No. I'm fine."

  Carol isn't someone you tell your problems to. She has no time for that. Show up and do your work and don't complain. That's what she expects, so there's no way I'd tell her about Kurt and what happened yesterday.

  "Good." She gives me a brief smile. "Then get to work."

  "Any idea when we'll be done? Megan's picking me up."

  "I'm hoping it'll wrap up around midnight but we'll see how things go." She hurries off.

  Midnight. Damn. I hate to make Megan drive here that late but what choice do I have? A cab ride would cost me more than I'll be making tonight.

  Lined up next to my six co-workers at the long granite island, I get to work making the bite-sized appetizers that most people will take but not eat. It's such a waste. So much food gets thrown out at the end of the night. But that's how it is at every function. I've learned to accept that and try not to let it bother me.

  Two hours later, the guests arrive and I spend an hour walking around with a tray of tiny pastries filled with chopped, roasted duck and drizzled with some kind of cream sauce. A few of the men are eating them but the women just take a tiny bite, then set it back on their plates, along with all their other partially-eaten appetizers.

  "God, I'm so bored," Tracy says as we refill our platters back in the kitchen.

  "You better not say that too loud." I glance around to check that Carol isn't there. Complaining can get you fired.

  "Doesn't matter," Tracy says. "I'm quitting next week. My friend got me a waitressing job at one of the hotels in Manhattan. She said the tips are insane. Like last night, she made over a thousand dollars just in tips."

  "Are you serious?" I keep my voice low.

  "I know, right? She said these Wall Street guys go in there, get drunk, and drop a few hundreds for the tip. If I can make that kind of money, what am I doing working here?" She nudges me. "If you're interested, I can let you know if another job opens up."

  "That's okay. I don't mind this job."

  "But you'd make so much more in the city."

  "I can't afford to live there."

  She shrugs. "Suit yourself." She walks off with her tray.

  A thousand bucks a night? It's tempting. But my life is here. I have Megan, and my dad, who I swear I'm going to go visit one of these days. I just haven't had the courage to do it yet. After not seeing him for two years I'm not sure what to do. Do I call first? Just stop by? Should I go to his office or his house?

  "Kate, hurry up," Carol says, rushing past me. "People are waiting."

  Nobody's waiting. When I return to the party, I can't even get anyone to take the jumbo shrimp I'm offering.

  I bring the tray back to the kitchen. "I think they're done with the appetizers," I tell Carol as I set my tray down.

  "Then go back out there and collect plates," she orders.

  My feet are killing me and I have at least four more hours to go. These houses are so big, I probably walk five miles in a night.

  As I'm heading back to the party area, I spot four men heading down a hall. Two of them are holding plates. The food isn't supposed to leave this room. It's a rule put in place by the homeowner, specifically the wife, who Carol said is a neat freak. I can tell just by looking around. There isn't a speck of dust anywhere.

  "Excuse me." I follow behind the men, who are all wearing dark suits. "Could I take those, please?"

  They're talking and don't notice me.

  "If you want the votes, you won't question it," I hear an older man up front say to the man walking beside him.

  The man stops suddenly, causing the two men behind him to stop. And me. "I'm getting tired of your threats!" he says to the old man, his voice raised.

  "If you'd stop causing trouble, threats wouldn't be necessary."

  The other man turns to the side so I'm able to see his face. It's Niles Bishop. The homeowner, and former governor. Now he's running for the Senate. Carol told us this during our brief staff meeting. She always gives us a quick rundown of the client and their background.

  "When necessary, one must take matters into his own hands," Niles says in a biting tone.

  The other man, who is taller than Niles, and much older, with gray hair, narrows his eyes at Niles. "The only thing you will be taking is orders. If you choose not to take those orders and act upon them in the manner in which we agreed, our arrangement will end. Do I make myself clear?"

  Niles straightens his shoulders, but his head lowers as he mutters, "Yes. Fine. Now can we continue?"

  The older man smiles and motions in front of him. "As you were."

  They start to walk off.

  "Excuse me?" I call after them.

  All four men turn and my heart thumps as they stare at me. They're very intimidating, wearing their dark suits and serious expressions.

  "Could I take your plates?" I hold out my hand to the guy closest to me.

  "How long have you been standing there?" the older man in front barks at me.

  "Um, not long." I point to the guy next to me. "I saw him leaving with a plate. I was told the plates can't leave the party."

  "You know how meticulous Celeste is about the house," Niles says to the older man. "Even the tiniest crumb left in one of the rooms will upset her."

  "Bancroft," the older man says to the guy beside me. "Give her your plate."

  "Yes, of course." He puts it on my tray. The guy beside him does as well.

  "Thank you," I say, then I turn and hurry off, making my way through the other guests and straight to the kitchen. I'm out of breath, and not just from my sprint to the kitchen but because my nerves are on edge being around those men.

  These rich people always creep me out a little but some more than others, and those men just now? Very creepy. I'm not even sure why. It was just a feeling.

  I remain in the kitchen and get to work prepping the plates for dinner. As I arrange the salads, my mind wanders to Kurt. I wonder what he's doing tonight. He has the night off so I'm sure he's out drinking somewhere. That's another reason I never should've dated him. He drinks too much. Growing up with an alcoholic father, the last thing I need is an alcoholic boyfrie
nd. Not that Kurt's an alcoholic but he will be if he doesn't stop drinking so much.

  He's probably with a girl. Not probably. He IS with a girl. I'm sure of it. When we'd go out, girls were always flirting with him, and given the fact that he didn't seem the least bit upset about our break-up, I'm sure he's already found a new girl to take home for the night. Soon they'll be in his bed, on the sheets that I bought. He used to have these cheap, scratchy sheets so I spent my hard-earned money on soft, expensive sheets, and now some other girl will be enjoying them.

  Wiping that image from my head, I load the salad plates on my tray and follow Tracy and Rob, my fellow waitstaff, to the formal dining room. When I look around, I see that it's only men. All the women are gone, leaving a table full of men in dark suits. The four men I encountered earlier sit at the end of the long table. Niles is seated at the head spot. He rises when he sees us with our trays.

  "Attention, gentlemen. After the first course is served, Holton would like to say a few words." He glances at Tracy, Rob, and me. "Continue."

  We quickly serve the salads, then get out of there so they can have their meeting or whatever it is they're doing. This whole party is giving me the creeps. It's like one of the parties I catered a few weeks ago. It, too, was attended by men in black suits who talked in hushed tones and disappeared throughout the night, only to appear later with even more serious looks on their faces. It was very strange. And so is tonight.

  I've been catering these types of parties since May so it's only been a few months. Before that, I got assigned to rich kid's birthday parties or corporate events. Being here is a promotion. I had to prove myself before Carol would allow me to serve these people. Only the best are allowed to work these functions. But I'm starting to think I liked the other ones better. These people make me uncomfortable.

  "We're finally done," Tracy says after we've served the last course. It's just after eleven and I want to go home.

  Megan! I forgot to call her. Carol always takes our phones when we start our shift. It's a stupid rule and I hate it but she won't budge. No phones. No distractions. But I have to call Megan.