Free The Gates of Evangeline by Hester Young

grounds?”
    I’ve invested too much to just walk away now. I bite my lip and nod, but the expression on my face plainly says,
Prick.
    For the first time since I’ve met him, Jules smiles. The smirk is short-lived, though. He smoothes a lock of hair back in place and his face becomes expressionless, plastic, yet still so infuriatingly handsome I want to punch him.

7.
    C harlie?” Rae picks up on the second ring. “I’m so glad you called!”
    She really does sound glad, and I miss her suddenly, her gossip and her sass. It’s half past five, and I’m sitting cross-legged on a pastel bedspread, hoping someone can convince me this book thing was not a mistake. “Hey, you,” I greet Rae with more pep than I feel. The sun is gone, and the radiator hasn’t quite kicked in yet. “Is now a good time?”
    â€œI’m on my commute. Now’s perfect. So . . . wow, are you in Louisiana?”
    â€œI’m here,” I confirm.
    â€œHow was your drive down? No, wait—” Rae interrupts herself before I can reply. “I want to hear about the house first. Is it insane?”
    I climb under the quilted bedspread to get warm. The mattress squishes beneath me, promising a long and uncomfortable night. “Evangeline is—what you’d imagine. Very elegant.” That much is true. Every room that Jules showed me was exquisite, and with the exception of the well-equipped contemporary kitchen, each retained its Old South charm.
    â€œHow many rooms?”
    I grilled Jules for this kind of information on our brief tour, taking notes as he dispensed factoids about the estate. “Sixteen rooms total,” I recite. “The place was built in the 1840s, but the family has made a number of additions and updates.”
    â€œDang. Do they have a cook and a butler and all that?”
    â€œNo butler,” I report, “but an estate manager. And definitely a cook. I met her today.” Her name is Leeann and she looks impossibly young to know her way around all those gorgeous stainless steel appliances. A plump, pink-faced girl, Leeann strikes me as someone who probably still rises with breathless delight at five a.m. on Christmas morning. “I think she cooks more for the staff than the family,” I explain to Rae. “She said they have a chef come on weekends and for guests or parties.”
    â€œYou don’t count as a guest?”
    From my crater in the squishy mattress, I eye my ugly pastel room. “Uh, no. I think I’m on par with the hired help.” I don’t tell her that Jules explicitly urged me to eat meals with the staff. In some weird way, I find it embarrassing.
    â€œHow many people does it take to run a place that big, anyway?” Rae asks.
    I try to remember everyone that Jules mentioned. A housekeeper, groundskeeper, part-time landscaping crew. Security. Nurses for Hettie. The cook, a chef, and of course, Jules himself. “I’m guessing they have about fifteen people who work here full- or part-time,” I say. “And the mom, Hettie, is the only one who lives here. Her kids and granddaughter just stop by for visits.”
    Rae sighs, out of envy or disapproval or maybe both. “Is it crazy gorgeous?”
    â€œI only got to see the downstairs, but yes.”
    â€œWait, your room is downstairs?”
    I laugh dryly. “More like in the backyard.”
    â€œSay what?” I figured Rae wouldn’t be thrilled by this development, and in point of fact, neither am I. Before I left, Rae spent hours selecting a wardrobe for me that she deemed appropriate mansion-wear, and now I’m not even living in Evangeline. In fact, the house gets alarmed at eight p.m. each night to keep me and all the other employees out.
    â€œIt isn’t
that
bad,” I say, picking at a square on the quilt. “They put me in a guest cottage. I have a mini kitchen and a bathroom.” I omit the