Page 17 of The Perfect Hosts

Mellie

I stare up at the ceiling. Despite the medication, the pain in my leg feels like a million wasps buzzing and stinging the nerves beneath my skin. The doctor told me I was lucky, that things could have been much worse. Funny, I don’t feel lucky.

The shades are closed, and I have no concept of time. It could be midnight or noon for all I know.

There’s a tap on the open door. “Come in,” I say, my throat still scratchy from the smoke. I run a hand self-consciously through my hair, knowing that it’s in need of a good wash, as a woman steps into the room. “Mrs. Drake,” I say in surprise.

“No, call me Madeline, please,” she says, as she limps to my bedside. She looks as bad as I feel. She’s wearing hospital scrubs, her face is puffy, and the skin beneath her eyes is purple with exhaustion. She smells like a campfire. “I wanted to see how you are doing,” she says, looking around the room nervously.

“I’m okay,” I say, because what else am I supposed to say? I’m in the most fucking pain I’ve ever been in my life. The doctor says the burn on my leg is only surface-level, but it hurts like a son of a bitch. “How are you?” I ask because it seems like the polite thing to say. “Is the baby okay?”

“I’m fine. She’s fine,” Madeline says, with a relieved smile.

“A girl?” I ask, a knot forming in my stomach. “You found out what you’re going to have?”

“Yeah,” Madeline says with a smile. “A little girl.” Then the smile drops. “How are you? How is your baby?”

The baby. One little lie has become so big. When I told Madeline and Johanna about the baby, it was a means to an end, a way to get my foot in the door. I did my homework. I scoured social media for insights and clues. Their personal accounts were locked down pretty tightly, but I saw an opening when I found Johanna’s midwife page.

“She’s fine too,” I say, laying my hands across my midsection.

“We’re both having girls!” Madeline says, and the happiness and warmth in her voice makes me like Madeline Drake even more, makes me more conflicted about what I’ve done, what I’m going to do.

Tears fill my eyes. Real tears.

“Mellie,” Madeline says, sitting down next to me on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong? Do you want me to get a nurse?”

I sniff, wipe my eyes with the corner of my bedsheet. “No, I’m fine. The doctor says I can go home soon.”

“That’s a good thing,” Madeline says, eyeing my wrapped leg with concern. “Do you have someone to help take care of you? Family?”

“No,” I say in a small voice. “My family isn’t from around here. But really, I’ll be okay,” I insist. “They wouldn’t send me home if they didn’t think it was safe.”

“But who will get your groceries and fix you meals?” Madeline persists. “Don’t you need someone to stay with you for a while?”

Why is this woman being so nice to me? In my experience, rich women have little time for underlings like me. Sure, they are polite, and if I do my job well and am attentive—but not too attentive—if I’m pretty—but not too pretty—I might get a good tip. But no one has ever been this interested in how I’m doing.

“No, it’s okay,” I sniffle. “I’ll figure it out. And I’m really sorry to hear about your friend. Did they find out what happened yet?”

Madeline’s own eyes rim with tears. “Thank you. No, they don’t know or aren’t telling us much. I can’t believe she’s gone.”

She looks so lost, so sad. I lean forward in my bed and wrap my arms around her, and suddenly I’m the one doing the comforting. I thought she would be like all the others: snobby, fake, condescending. I had taken this particular job with the catering company for one reason: to show Wes Drake that I will not be fucked with. To let him know that though he may think he’s done with me, I’m not going away. At least not quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Madeline says, pulling away with an embarrassed laugh. “You’ve got enough going on without me crying on your shoulder. Now, listen,” she insists. “I want you to get a hold of me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“Oh, no,” I say. “That’s okay, really...”

“I insist,” Madeline says. “Do you have your phone?”

Confused, I nod to the bedside table. Somehow, during the entire fiasco at the ranch, I hadn’t lost my phone. Madeline picks it up, hands it to me, then rattles off a phone number. “I don’t know what happened to my cell,” she says. “But you can reach me on our home phone.” She must see the skepticism on my face as I key in the numbers. “I mean it, Mellie,” she says forcefully. “I want to help. I don’t have any of my own family around here either, except for Wes, and I know how hard it can be so far from home. How lonely. You can reach out to me, day or night. Understand?”

“Okay,” I say, sinking back into my pillows, still suspicious of this unexpected kindness. Madeline leans in and gives me one more hug, gets to her feet, and moves as if in pain to the door.

Before she leaves, she turns, gives me a mock-stern look and shakes a finger at me. “I mean it, Mellie. Call me. Promise?”

“I promise,” I say.

I fell in love with Wes Drake the first time I saw him. It was a year ago, and I was working some Horsemen Association luncheon. I served Wes an old-fashioned on the rocks, and he said something about how it was too bad that a nice young woman like me was stuck waiting on such a lecherous group of old men. I responded by saying they weren’tallbad, just the ones that ordered whiskey with their lunch. He laughed, and I went about my business of pouring drinks. I’m used to men hitting on me, but there was something about Wes—he was different.