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Margaret steps back so she can get a good look at Layla’s face. Here in the bright daylight, the bruises are far more visible. “Are you all right, dear?”
Layla puts on a brave face. “Yes, I’m doing well.” Then she turns to me. “Margaret, this is Jason, my new bodyguard.”
The woman scans me from head to toe, her sharp gaze assessing me critically. I get the feeling I’d better be on her good side.
“Margaret runs this house,” Layla explains.
The housekeeper extends her hand to me, and we shake. Her grip is strong.
Yeah, she’s definitely in charge here.
“Welcome, Jason,” Margaret says. “We’re happy to have you join the household. If there’s anything you need, just let me know.” She glances down at my old duffle bag. “Do you have luggage that needs to be brought in?”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t bring much with me.”
“Very well.” She looks to Layla. “Are you hungry, dear? Dinner won’t be served for another couple of hours. You’ve had lunch, I presume.”
Layla frowns. “If you can call it that.”
I choke back a laugh. “Layla wasn’t too fond of the hospital food.”
Margaret nods. “I’m not surprised. Not when she’s used to André’s excellent cooking.” The woman nods toward the man standing at the stove. “Layla’s parents recruited André all the way from Paris. Needless to say, he’s a phenomenal chef. You’ll be spoiled in no time, like the rest of us.”
André smiles warmly at Layla. “Welcome home, miss,” he says in faintly accented English. Then he tips his head to me. “And welcome to you, sir. We’re glad to have you.” He nods toward the young blonde woman chopping vegetables. “This is my assistant, Claire.”
I’d put the man in his late fifties. He has a kind face, short light-brown hair and beard, both liberally threaded with silver, and blue eyes.
Margaret claps her hands once. “All right, then. Layla, why don’t you show Jason to his room so he can settle in? If you need a snack before dinner, come back to the kitchen.” Then she looks at me. “Dinner is served at six in the informal dining room. I’ll have someone deliver your things to your rooms.”
“Thanks, but that’s okay,” I say as I reach for the handle of Layla’s suitcase and my bag. “I’ve got it.”
“This way,” Layla says as she heads toward a door that leads out of the kitchen into a long hallway.
Sure enough, the inside of the building is just as impressive as the outside. It’s like something you’d see in an issue ofArchitectural Digest. Underneath our feet is a long burgundy floral runner, thick and plush, which lays over top dark, polished wood floors. Above our heads, hanging from a high ceiling, are crystal chandeliers lighting the way. The walls are decorated with ornately-framed paintings and mirrors, and there’s the occasional marble statue sitting on a pedestal.
I follow Layla to the foyer, which is dominated by an impressive curved staircase leading up to the second floor. The stairwell showcases family photographs depicting the parents with their children at various ages. I stop at a photograph of Layla as a toddler, wearing a pale pink party dress and a child-size tiara. It must have been her birthday because she’s holding the string of a helium balloon featuring a cupcake with a candle on it. Her dark eyes dominate her sweet face, and her mouth is a perfect little pink bow. She’s adorable.
Once we reach the second floor, Layla turns to the right. We walk a few dozen yards before she stops in front of a white six-paneled door that is distinguished by the presence of a purple and white unicorn sticker. Beneath the sticker is a child’s homemade nameplate featuring cut-out letters colored with bright markers: L A Y L A. I can’t help smiling when I see it.
She gestures sheepishly to the child’s artwork. “Obviously, this is my room.”
“At least I won’t have trouble finding you.”
She laughs. “That’s exactly why I made the sign when I was five—so I could find my own room. I guess I should have taken it down long ago, but I’m kinda sentimental.” She points across the hall. “That was Ian’s room when he lived at home. He now has his own house not too far away in the Gold Coast.” Then she points to the door next to hers. “That’s your room.”
I glance down the long hallway, in both directions, seeing door after door. Good god, how many bedrooms are in this place? “Where do your parents sleep?”
Layla points to a room we passed earlier—one closer to the staircase. “I think they chose that room so they could monitor Ian at night. He had a habit of sneaking out of the house when the rest of us were in bed. He was a bit of a rebel.”
Her parents seem like caring people, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe they’re a little too protective of their daughter. I guess I can’t blame them. Layla has a lot going against her.
She opens her bedroom door and walks into the room, flipping on a light switch. An ornate chandelier fills the room with light, rainbows of color streaming out of a multitude of small crystal pendants. The room, huge by any standard, is dominated by a white four-poster canopy bed along the back wall, flanked on both sides by massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The bedding is lavender, and the mountain of pillows are a mix of white, lavender, and pale green. It’s a feminine room, a typical teenage girl’s bedroom. I’m surprised there aren’t posters of movie stars on the walls.
The rest of the bedroom furniture—a dresser, chest, and nightstands—is white with gold knobs. There’s a freestanding mirror in one corner of the room, a computer desk, and numerous bookcases. A burgundy University of Chicago banner hangs above the computer workstation.
There’s a massive TV hanging above the stone hearth. A sofa sits at the foot of the bed, facing the TV. There’s even a mini fridge in here, and a microwave. One door opens to a walk-in closet, and another door leads to her private bathroom.
Layla surveys her room critically. “I guess it hasn’t changed much since I was in high school.”
