Chapter One

Adeline

Late August

The alarm sounds long before I want it to.

I reach over and turn off the machine on the nightstand, silencing the harsh, mechanical beeping sound. I can only lay there a few moments, staring at the speckled blobs on the popcorn ceiling above my head, delaying the process of getting out of bed as long as I can.

Sleep evaded me all night.

That's nothing new. Sleep has evaded me every night for what feels like my entire life, even though it only adds up to about the past year; I can count the average number of decent hours of sleep I've gotten on one hand these days. But somehow, this night was different than other nights.

Oh yeah – because I've got the biggest interview of my career and possibly my entire life today.

My stomach is a jumbled ball of nerves. I swear if I lay still enough – and I can do that, in a failing attempt to lull myself off to sleep via boredom – that I can feel the butterflies in my butterflies' stomachs. My mind is tangled up in knots thinking of this interview. I need this job, now more than ever.

I'm divorced now. A divorced single mother. A divorced single mother living in New Jersey, taking care of my aging grandmother. I'm down to my last $200 in the bank, running on a nearly-empty tank of gas (in my car, although given my sleep deficit you could say the same for my body), with a mortgage payment that's due in two weeks looming over my head.

By this time tomorrow, I need to be employed by Mackenzie Montgomery. My life depends on it.

When I can no longer put it off, I throw the heavy covers off and sit up, letting my legs hang over the edge of the bed. I stretch and twist to work out the aches and kinks; another thing to add to the growing list is to replace my mattress. When the ache in my back subsides, I stand up and let my feet carry me off to start my day.

It doesn't take me long to figure out where everybody else in the house is – I can hear my five-year-old already, starting out her day as per usual...with an argument.

“I want pancakes.”

“You had pancakes Saturday, April Jo.”

“But Nana, it's Monday now.”

I see them as I walk down the stairs. She's scooted a kitchen chair all the way up to the counter, sitting on her knees, facing the wrong way. My grandmother, Elizabeth, is at the stove, scrambling eggs.

“April Joelle! Sit the right way in that chair, and not so close to the stove.”

My voice startles her, and she jumps right down from her chair, dragging it back over to the kitchen table.

“Good morning to you, too.”

I notice my grandmother eyeing me as I step up to pour a cup of coffee.

“You look like something the cat dragged in, sweetheart.”

“Gee, thanks, Nana,” I say sarcastically. “My heart's swelling. That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”

“Just telling the truth,” she says. “I heard you tossing and turning all night. I think the whole neighborhood could hear you.”

“I'll admit, I didn't have the best night's sleep.” I lean against the counter as I take my first sip of coffee. I moan with pleasure because it's so good, it's almost indecent. “Coffee is such a glorious thing. I'd marry it if I could.”

“Your big interview is today, isn't it?” she asks, scooping eggs onto a small plate alongside two slices of bacon.

“You don't need to remind me, what do you think kept me up half the night?”

“Why don't you get a more local job?” she asks. “Your body can't take this stress, honey. Look what it's doing to you already.”

I sigh. It's no secret that my grandmother is not happy with my potential new job. If I get it, it means commuting to New York City every day. It's not a long commute, but she would prefer that I get something closer to home – and by closer to home, I mean that she would be just as happy if I decided to work at the gas station down the street.

“It's not the stress of the job, Nana. It's the stress of not having a job,” I respond. “And that won't be an issue after today – because I'm going to get this job.”

“Why would you want to work in the city?” she asks as she places the plate of food in front of my daughter, who is now sitting at the table – facing the right way. “It's too long of a commute. You'll have to make it every day. You could get a decent job here in town, much closer to home.”

My eyes roll, even though she can't see. Can you tell we've had this discussion before?

“Last time I checked, Nana, there aren't any celebrities living in Hoboken, New Jersey. That might present an issue getting a job closer to town, seeing as I am a personal assistant to celebrities.”

“That doesn't mean you can't work anywhere else,” she says. “I'm sure your skills would be just as useful in a more normal job.”

“Sure. I'll walk down to McDonald's and inquire if they have any CEO positions available.”

The spatula falls to the stove, and she turns to give me that look – the warning that she's about to slap the wit right off me.

“We've discussed this before,” I tell her. “You know I would never make enough to support the three of us working a 'regular' job. My pool of opportunities was bigger out in Los Angeles, but out here, pickings are slim; the only way I'm going to find something is traveling into the city. This job should put us in a really good place.”

“You'd be in an even better place if you'd never have married that man,” she says.

I shake my head. “Not the morning to go through this again, Nana.”

The last thing I need to think about this morning is him – my ex-husband. The reason I moved from a flourishing life in Los Angeles to a crumbling existence back in my hometown of New Jersey.

“I have to get ready.”

She watches me set my coffee cup in the sink and push myself off the counter.

“Aren't you going to eat any breakfast?” she asks.

She knows that the answer to that is going to be a resounding 'no'.

“No time, gotta get going.”

I can practically feel the swell from the eye roll as she watches me run up the stairs to get ready.

---

Cooper's Cafe. The sign outside the little coffee shop indicates that this is the place, but this doesn't exactly scream “celebrity hangout” to me.

This little rickety establishment doesn't quite look like the sort of place that a world-famous actress like Mackenzie Montgomery would stop in for a quick cup of coffee. Sure, it's quaint – it's actually kind of cute, with its hand-painted wooden sign above the door introducing itself, rather than a bright neon-lighted sign. It's not hippy like a Starbucks. It's quieter than a chain would be at this time of day, but people are still bustling in and out.

I can only imagine that when I step through those doors and make an attempt to introduce myself, I'm going to get stopped and frisked by two exotic, burly men who make a living crushing people my size on behalf of Mrs. Montgomery. After a few moments, I steel myself to make my high-heeled feet move towards the front door by just a few steps, shoving the scrap of paper with the address into my purse and slipping in behind a man with gauged ears and a girl with washed-out turquoise hair and tattoos. To my eye neither of them look like they would hurt a fly, but if I'm lucky, the bodyguards won't agree.

A barista is there in the blink of an eye when I step up to the counter.

“Can I help you?”

“Actually, I'm supposed to meet someone...”

“Adeline?”

A voice takes me by surprise before I can even get a sentence finished, and I turn to my side to see Mackenzie standing next to me.

Mackenzie Montgomery. A freaking widely famous actress. And she's standing next to me.

“Aren't you Adeline James?” she asks.

Then I realize I've been staring at her – probably wide-eyed with my mouth hanging wide open. I can already feel my cheeks filling with heat.

“I'm sorry, you took me by surprise. Yes I am,” I tell her, holding out my hand to shake hers. Perhaps I can gain back a modicum of professionalism.

“I'm Mackenzie Montgomery,” she says with a smile as she shakes my hand. “I saw you walk through the door. I wasn't sure you would recognize me, so I thought I'd come over and show you to the table I grabbed for us.”

For a moment, I want to scratch my head – an Academy Award-winning celebrity wasn't sure I would recognize her, but yet she recognizes me by sight?

“I only got here about five minutes ago so I went ahead and ordered coffees for us both,” she says as she only grabs my hand tighter, starting to pull me over to a table in the corner. “I hope a non-fat decaf latte is fine?”

I resist the urge to tell her that I prefer my lattes to be full-caffeine and full-fat, otherwise what's the point of drinking coffee at all – but I resist. I will drink anything short of poisoned tea right now to get this job, if that's what it takes.

Once we arrive at the table and I sit down, I first notice the lack of said bodyguards. But even stranger, every single person around the cafe moves about as if they don't even notice a celebrity in their midst.

“It's funny,” I tell her. “I expected a bit more...uh...fanfare?”

“Huh?” She looks up from the papers she has in front of her at the table, and looks around a moment. Finally, it seems to click with her, with the patrons moving around her paying her no mind. “Oh, you mean you expected people to be piled up in front of me, standing in line waiting for an autograph or something?”

Before I can answer, she laughs.

“This is New York, sweetheart,” she says. “Sometimes that happens. But most of the time, these people move at such a fast pace that they wouldn't notice if the Pope was standing on the corner begging for a turkey sandwich. They've got their own lives and their own schedules to worry about. They don't have time for much else. Does that happen a lot in Los Angeles?”

“Honestly, a little bit too much for my own liking,” I say.

“You must have worked with some friends of mine, then.”

By “friends”, I can only assume she means “big name celebrities”. I'm almost ashamed to admit the truth.

“Uh...not really. Most of my gigs have been...low-key,” I say. “Which is why I was sort of surprised to receive the call from you.”

She smiles. “You're a get-right-down-to-business, no-chit-chat sort of person, aren't you?”

“I'm just being truthful,” I tell her.

“Well, honey, you come highly recommended,” she says. “Your low-key gigs must have produced some friends in pretty high places, because when we asked around, your name kept coming up.”

“We?”

“My husband and I,” she says. “We want someone who takes their job seriously and knows how to do the job right.”

Did she say...husband?

“Sorry, husband and yourself?” I ask her. “I'm sorry, I don't think I have the time to do double duty and be an assistant to both of you.”

“Oh, no! No, it's nothing like that.”

For a moment, I breathe a sigh of relief.

“You'll only be providing services to my husband.”

Until that.

I'm used to working with difficult clientele. Honestly, most of my resume as of late is made up of child stars – and luckily I mostly work with their parents rather than the stars themselves. I've been yelled at, had things thrown at me, and in one unfortunate incident, been spit on. But usually, the initial interview is the most normal and pleasant part of the job.

I think I've met my match.

And still, I have this gut feeling that something isn't quite right about this interview; like, there's something I don't know yet.

“Can you tell me exactly what job I'm interviewing for today?” I ask her.

She pauses a moment to take a sip of coffee, and I'm trying to read her face. She knows that I've caught on to something.

“The truth is that I'm not interviewing you to be my personal assistant,” she says. “I can tell that's probably what you thought walking in, and trust me, I apologize for misleading you.”

“Then what is the job you want me to do, Mrs. Montgomery?” I ask.

“I need someone to take care of my husband while I'm away.”

I've encountered a lot of strange celebrity habits in my line of work. Some celebrities, especially performers, have rituals that they're convinced they have to follow through with before a show, and if they don't, the show is cursed to fail. Some actresses have to have their coffee at just the right temperature or consistency, or nothing goes right for them the rest of the day. I had a friend in Los Angeles who was the assistant to the lead guitarist in a small-time rock band that had to listen to “Free Bird” before every show, because he insisted that Steve Gaines' dead spirit “flowed” through him.

Again, I think I've met my match.

“I'm not sure I understand,” I say, wanting to laugh – because it's got to be the strangest request I've ever heard. “Take care of your husband?”

“I'll be going away to Seattle for at least six months,” she says. “Maybe more. I'd like to hire you to help him out while I'm away – basic household duties like helping with dinner and laundry, but also just to be there for him, make sure he's taken care of.”

“Mrs. Montgomery, I'm an assistant – not a nurse,” I say. “I don't take care of people in that way.”

“No, I know,” she says. “I mean, he's able-bodied...”

Then, why am I here?

“...but six months is a long time,” she finishes. “I'm never gone for more than a week or so at a time, and I worry that without someone there, Lance will just be...lost.”

Everybody has to know her husband, Lance Bass – after all, every girl around my age lusted after him at one point when he was in 'NSYNC, and every man now wants to be him since he married Mackenzie. He's no “boybander” anymore – he's grown into a fine older man, with emphasis on the “fine”. I can't imagine that he would need anyone to take care of him, much less me.

“Mrs Montgomery--”

“Please call me Kenz,” she says. “Mrs. Montgomery makes me feel like I'm the one being interviewed.”

“Kenz,” I continue, even though getting so personal and buddy-buddy with her makes me even more nervous. “To be honest, I'm not sure I'm the kind of person you're looking for to do this job. I'm not sure I have the right...qualifications.”

“You have a daughter, don't you?” she asks.

“Well, yes.” I'm not sure how she knows that either.

“Then you have exactly the right qualifications for this job,” she says. “All I'm asking for is someone to make sure that dinner is on the table every night, laundry is done right, the house isn't set on fire or destroyed, and he's not out every night getting drunk in a club with his stupid friends.”

She smiles; but me, I don't get what's so amusing about the situation.

“It's like taking care of a child...but easier,” she says. “And the job is a live-in position.”

“Live-in?” I ask. “Live-in, as in...I live in your house with him?”

“Yes.”

That settles it, at least on my end.

“I'd really like to accept the offer, Mackenzie, but I'm sorry, I can't,” I say. “I have a daughter, and she's only five. I have to be there for her, I can't take a live-in position.”

“No, don't worry,” she says. “We have a room for her as well – we have it all set up with beds for when Lance's niece and nephew visit New York. And Lance's sister's room is already set up for you, waiting for you to move in.”

“I'm sorry, I just don't think I can do it,” I tell her. “I need the money that a real assistant position pays me, to help pay my grandmother's bills. I don't think I can accept the kind of money that this job would pay.”

“The job pays $5,000 a week.”

My jaw doesn't fall to the floor – but my stomach does.

“I really want you, Adeline,” she continues. “I'm prepared to throw in a $10,000 signing bonus, today, if you say yes right now.”

The weekly pay is twice as much as I've made with any other client; the signing bonus is more than I normally make in a month, and it would pay my bills for the next month and then some. It's by far the strangest job offer I've ever received, which makes me want to say no.

But something in my gut tells me to say yes. And it's not just the money.

“When do I start?”

-----

“On the plus side...you don't have to worry about that commute anymore.”

I smile, but only because I know that despite my smart mouth, my Nana will never hit me – even though she really wants to right now. Her facial expression makes that very clear.

“Adeline James, don't you get smart with me. It's time for you to get serious about this. You can't move in with someone you don't even know!”

“See this?” I pick up the checkbook I've been sitting in front of for the past fifteen minutes, and show it to her. “This is me being serious about this. I'm making out a check – several checks, actually. I'm making out checks to the electric company, the water company, the phone company...I've even made one out to the bank. For our mortgage. I'm making it out two weeks ahead of when I normally do. For the full amount. And when I'm done with all these checks, making sure we have heat and water and food for the next month, I'll still have enough in my account to take April school shopping and pay for her school fees. Do you know how big of a deal that is for me right now?”

She says nothing, but she's still not impressed. Needless to say, she was not happy hearing about the new job. The new terms of the job have changed everything – not only for me, but for her, too.

“This is a temporary job,” I tell her, looking away to finish signing the check. “It's six months, maybe a year at most. But I'll make so much that if I'm careful, I can save enough for us to live on for another six months while I'm waiting around for another job. I'll be back every weekend to clean the house and take care of things around here, and of course spend some time with you, Nana. And after this job is done, I'm moving out of there and you'll have me here full time again.”

She still doesn't say anything as I tear the check away, and reach for the envelope to stick it in.

“I know you're pissed about it, but I have to do what I have to do,” I tell her. “I have to take care of you and April, and this is my responsibility to shoulder.”

“What upsets me is seeing you lower yourself to this level – taking care of a grown man like he's five years old. I've never heard of something so ridiculous. It's degrading.”

I scoff – it apparently escapes her that just this morning, she would have rather me put my college degree and skills to work at a minimum wage job in a restaurant or retail store. Yet, having a job that is even somewhat close to my field of specialty, even if it is strange, is degrading.

“You'll regret this one day, Addy,” she says, pointing her finger at me. “You'll look back and say that this was the worst mistake you ever made in your life.”

The conversation ends when she stomps away and up the stairs, leaving me alone – to sigh, feeling entirely too disappointed in myself than I should, all things considered.

“You're probably right,” I say under my breath as I finish sealing the envelope.