A Hamilton Family Christmas - Donna Kauffman Page 0,1

she and Chelsea had imagined during the hours of animated discussion they’d indulged in since she’d agreed to take the job. The massive marble pillars and soaring double-door entrance alone would have sent her best friend into gossip nirvana, Emma thought as she navigated her way around to the separate garage in the rear. Not that she wasn’t goggling over the place herself. In fact, she could hardly wait to get settled in so she could call Chelsea and share every detail.

She used the garage door opener that had been messengered to her, along with a small, bound notebook containing the most anal-retentive, detailed list of instructions, notes, and maps she’d ever seen in her life—and was profoundly grateful to have, as she’d accepted the job without ever directly speaking to Mr. Hamilton. She’d gotten a handful of his assistants instead, over the phone, via e-mail, and text message, all of them borderline frantic to make certain she followed the notebook to the letter. Emma had assured the seemingly harried crew that she’d be fine, privately wondering what the hell she’d really signed on for. Then the notebook had arrived. And she’d been a little worried ever since. Maybe more than a little.

Hamilton apparently micromanaged his pets and his home the way he did his assistants. It was no wonder his employees sounded like they needed antacid chasers with every meal. She was close to that herself, and she hadn’t even officially started the job yet.

Reminding herself how great the payday was going to be, plus the potential future clients the job would nab, Emma took a deep breath and eased her Land Rover into the ten-car garage. She then spent the next several minutes jaw-dropped as she stared at the half dozen or so very shiny, very expensive cars. She pulled in next to a midnight-blue Maserati and parked, then patted the dash of her Land Rover. “Don’t let them make you feel bad. You have character.”

She turned on the overhead light, sighing in relief when it didn’t flicker back off, then consulted the first of the many detailed house maps in the addendum section of the notebook. After making sure the garage door was closed behind her and the alarm light activated, she grabbed two of her lighter bags, and made her way to the main house through an enclosed passageway. Once she made sure she could get in and move around without setting off the alarm system, she’d unpack the rest. But first she wanted to go introduce herself to her charges.

They didn’t come to meet her at the door, but her notebook had explained that they would be penned up off the kitchen in the back, awaiting her arrival. She just followed the barking. And a voice shouting, “Welcome! Right this way!”

She wound her way through the expansive foyer, around the central staircase, then down one long hallway before finally coming to the double swinging doors that led to the kitchen. If you wanted to call it that. It did, indeed, have kitchen appliances and a large workstation in the center of one part of the immense room. That was the smaller part, though there was nothing small about it. Martha Stewart would weep for such a well-appointed kitchen space. But Emma’s attention was drawn to the rest of the room, starting with the overlarge, low, round table, patterned in beautiful detailed mosaic tiles. The chairs surrounding it were cushioned with heavy brown and burgundy pillows and the whole thing was framed with an immense stone fireplace.

“Welcome! Right this way!”

Smiling, she went over to the huge wrought iron aviary and smiled at the rather imperious African Grey perched inside. “You must be Cicero.”

“Cicero!” he repeated. “Welcome!” Then he whistled a beautiful tune that Emma didn’t know the title of, but couldn’t help laughing at, as she enjoyed his little show. She then turned her attention to the series of French doors leading to the enclosed, equally impressive, sunroom off the back of the kitchen. Most of her one-bedroom apartment would fit in that space. Behind the doors waited a tail-thumping basset hound named Jack, and Martha, a Harlequin Great Dane.

“Hi, guys,” she said, accepting their enthusiastic welcome with a sincere smile and open arms. They made quick friends, then she found their leads and specially tailored doggie jackets right where the notebook said they would be. Thankfully, they were both used to wearing their Burberry plaid winter-wear and didn’t struggle too much as she slid on