Constance (Constance #1)(36)

“What about his kids?” She remembered reading that Vernon Gaddis and his wife had three children.

The faint outline of an expression crossed Peter’s face, but it was gone too quickly for Con to name it. At the kitchen counter, the chef stopped working, knife poised above an onion.

“The children don’t live here at the house,” Peter explained. There was clearly much more to the story, but his tone made it plain that the subject was not open for discussion.

“So is your boss around? When do I get to meet him?” Con asked.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Gaddis had to go into DC this morning.”

“I thought you said he never left the island,” she said, frustrated by the delay. She needed to get down to Virginia and didn’t have time for any games.

“I said rarely. It was an emergency, but he expects to be home in time for dinner. He hopes you’ll join him.”

He hopes? She didn’t know why people with power had to play it like it was up to you when they had you up against a wall and you both knew it. Maybe it helped them sleep at night.

The chef brought over her breakfast, and she ate in peace while Peter finished his work. She couldn’t tell what his job was exactly, only that he seemed good at it. He radiated competence, and she found his presence reassuring. After she had used her toast to clean her plate, he offered to show her around the house.

“Actually, do you have scissors I could borrow?” Con said, gesturing to her hair. “I need to do something about this situation.”

Peter laughed unguardedly for the first time since she’d met him. “I can do you one better. Follow me.”

He walked briskly, with the purpose of a man who could navigate the house blindfolded if necessary. Con hurried to keep up. They entered a small room that was essentially a one-chair barbershop. It was as well equipped as any salon she had ever been in.

“What’s all this?” she asked.

“Mr. Gaddis likes his hair done once a week. We were making a mess of his bathroom floor, so he built this instead.”

“You do hair too?”

“I do.” Peter spun the barber’s chair around for her and gestured for her to sit down.

“Seriously, what exactly is your job title?”

Peter laughed again, and she found she liked when he did. “I think he and I settled on majordomo.”

“Which is a what exactly?” It was one of those words that Con knew but had never actually heard said out loud. “Is that like a butler?”

“A majordomo was the head steward in an Italian or Spanish palace. I oversee Mr. Gaddis’s affairs, manage the household, keep his life running smoothly.”

“And that includes cutting hair?”

“I’m a man of many talents. But fair warning, I haven’t cut a woman’s hair in a long, long time. As long as you’re not looking for high fashion, I think I can manage.”

There weren’t a lot of people she trusted with her hair, but something about Peter made her take a seat. He let her hair out of its ponytail and cleared his throat apologetically.

“We may have to go a little high and tight.”

“How high, how tight?” she asked, although she knew exactly how dire the situation was up there. “You know what, just do what has to be done.”

“I usually do.”

Over the next thirty minutes, Peter hacked away at everything that wasn’t healthy hair and then set to work styling what little was left. He’d been modest—the man was a wizard with a pair of scissors. They talked while he worked, and for a short time, Con let herself believe that life was normal again. She was just out getting her hair done like a million other women. It helped that Peter didn’t look at her funny or ask questions about being a clone. She guessed that working for Vernon Gaddis, it just wasn’t that interesting a subject anymore. It felt good to talk about ordinary things. She asked how long he’d worked for Gaddis, and he said that he’d started a year after the plane crash. That had been in ’35, so that meant nearly four years.

“Where’d you learn to cut hair? That part of the standard majordomo package?” she asked.

“My dad owned a barbershop. Worked there from the time I was seven years old.”

“Where was home?”

“Madison Parish. Little town called Tallulah,” Peter said.

“You’re from Louisiana?” She’d gotten hints of a Southern accent, but she’d never have guessed Louisiana.

Her surprise must have shown because he grinned at her and let his true accent emerge for a moment. “Not a lot of demand in these parts for a Cajun majordomo, cher. I was trained to adapt.”

“Whoever it was trained you well.”

“Hooah,” Peter grunted.

“You were army?” The clothes had thrown her off, but now that she knew, it explained everything about his bearing and manners.

“Seventeen years.”

“My dad was army,” she said to her own surprise. She never talked about her father. “He was killed in action.”

“Mr. Gaddis told me he was a Ranger. I’m sorry for your loss,” he said as seriously as if it had happened only yesterday.

“It’s okay. I was just a kid,” Con said with practiced deflection.

“It’s never okay, especially when you’re a kid.”