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Chapter 1
Delia
“This is a joke, right?”
I squint at the invitation in my hand, stifling a yawn as I scratch my neck beneath the itchy knock-off Burberry wool scarf I wear almost every day from the beginning of October to the end of March.
It’s kicking up on eight in the morning, and besides the fact I have yet to have one drop of coffee, I didn’t get off my shift at the roulette table until three.
To say I’m not at peak performance is an understatement.
“I do not joke, Madame. You are Agnes Cordelia Anderson, correct?” His tight, somewhat condescending voice matches his uptight suit, but he doesn’t seem unfriendly. “Your great-grandmother was Mrs. Cordelia Anderson, head cook to Mr. Parker Worthington the First.”
Mr. Parker Worthington the First.
“Yes, I am,” I reply, thinking through that history. My great-grandmother. I know barely anything about her except who she worked for. “But everyone calls me Delia.”
He says it like he’s announcing the man for dinner, not referring to someone who lived before cars were invented.
I look the man standing in front of me up and down, thinking he could be a butler in Downton Abbey. A relic, my mother would have called him. From another time. Part of me wonders if he actually is a time traveler, but with Halloween only five days away, I figure he’s got his costume perfected a little early.
I wrinkle my nose and re-read the invitation. The thick paper is so white it nearly glows, the black ink lettering more calligraphy than cursive.
As a descendant of an esteemed staff member, you are cordially invited to attend the Calmore Estate for a one off opportunity to…
“I don’t understand. So, you’re Mr. Worthington’s attorney? Delivering invitations to a contest?”
“The present Mr. Worthington, yes.” His upper lip doesn’t move when he speaks. It’s weird. “What is it you don’t understand?”
I shake my head and wave the invitation, letter, thing up in the air between us, but he doesn’t even blink. “Any of it,” I state, exasperated.
“It’s quite clear, Madam. Mr. Worthington’s great-grandfather had very clear stipulation in his will regarding the disposition of the Calmore Estate. Mr. Worthington is honoring the legalities thereby set forth.”
“So, his great-grandfather’s will said he should gift the estate to a descendant of his staff? My great-grandmother was his cook, so I get invited to a contest to stay at the house? If I make it through the night, or whatever, he’s going to give me the house? His grandfather’s will said he should have a contest to give the house away? Am I the only one invited?” I shake my head harder this time squeezing my eyes shut and pushing my fingers into the sockets. “Like I said, I don’t understand. What’s the catch?”
“The catch is, you must win. Otherwise, you get nothing. More will be explained when you arrive. A car will be sent to pick you up as indicated, at seven PM Friday. A suggested attire list is included in the ooon-velope. We will see you then. Good day, Miss Anderson.”
“Win? Like, battle to the death? Or, who can jump rope the longest? How do you win?”
He nods, spinning on his heel, his back impossibly straight as he walks down the walkway to the waiting limo I’m left standing on the little front stoop of the duplex I share with three roommates on the south side of the middle of nowhere, Michigan.
“Who the hell was that?”
Michael, one of my roommates, is standing behind me in the doorway when I turn around, holding in a puff of smoke as he chokes out the words between tightened lips.
I give him a stiff glare. “No smoking in the house, man. What part of that do you not understand?”
He steps one bare foot out the front door next to where I’m standing, apparently unaware of the temperature in his boxers and t-shirt, and exhales his morning medicinal joint as I flap my hand between us, trying to dissipate the smoke.
“House rules.” I point to the two sheets of white paper I posted yet again yesterday on the cork board just inside the front entry. “Rule one, no smoking inside.”
I really don’t mind he smokes. Cigarettes or otherwise. What I do mind, is that I have an allergy to cigarette smoke, as well as asthma, and the No Smoking rule was agreed when I decided to rent this place with my friend Harlow from work and her boyfriend, Logan.
Two months later, Michael came along as their third and he agreed to the exact same rules as the others. Truth, I welcomed the possibility of cutting my expenses by adding another roommate. Especially since they would all be sharing the same bedroom and I’m not here that much anyway. Working at the local casino pays the bills, but barely.
But it’s still hard enough living with three other people in a two-bedroom townhouse, let alone the fact that the other three of them are in a poly sort of triad relationship and I’m the odd man out.
