Sky Rockets in Flight

This one is a little less emotional and a bit more far-fetched than most of my stories. It also has a minimal amount of sex, but it was fun to write and I felt like exploring something a little different this time. This could have gone in Loving Wives or Romance but since the next story is going in Romance, here it is.

As always, I apologize for my typos/mistakes in advance, and all feedback—good, bad, or ugly—is welcome, either in comments or via the Feedback option.

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The doorbell clanged. Nadine's voice drifted out of the recesses of the mansion, from somewhere beyond the living room. "Erica, someone's at the door!"

"Yes, ma'am," she called. Erica frowned as she walked to the entry. Under her breath, she muttered, "Do you think I'm deaf? Don't I answer the door every day?"

She smoothed her hands over her apron and straightened the lines of her long-sleeved button-down white blouse. Loose black slacks and comfortable flats completed her work ensemble. It wasn't what she wore to clean her own apartment; that was sweats and a grungy tee shirt, with her hair tied back under a bandana, instead of the intricate and neat French braid she wore at work. Still, as a maid's uniform, it was suitable. She was glad she'd never been told to wear the legendary lacy black-and-white mini-skirt and cleavage-bearing top—which turned out to be a great disappointment to her son's Brady's roommate Thomas when the two young men visited from college.

She smiled as she remembered the downcast look on the young man's face on seeing her in her work uniform. As she went in the kitchen, she'd heard Thomas say, "I thought she'd be wearing, you know, the sexy kind."

"Yeah, I don't want to see that," Brady had said.

"That's okay, she's still hot."

"Shut up, asshole! That's my mom!"

Worries about that very thing had been on her mind when Erica first applied for the job. She'd heard horror stories about domestic servants dealing with the moneyed-class and things that had happened. She figured that type of get-up was a precursor to the man of the house making a move on her.

But that hadn't happened. Edward Blanton had always treated her with respect and dignity. Sure, she knew she was his housekeeper and he was her boss, but his communications had always been work-related. He thanked Erica for her efforts and her bonuses had been nice. Edward had never said a suggestive word to her.

Probably, she thought, because his head's glued to Nadine's rear end.

As much as Erica liked and respected Edward as an employer, she disliked his wife Nadine. Erica's father—a salty soul if there ever was one—would have described Nadine as the kind of person who was "born with a silver spoon up her ass." At least twenty years younger than her sixty-ish husband, Nadine was vain, arrogant, condescending, and cheap ... and Erica considered those her good qualities. She'd seen Nadine's wrathful, vindictive nature, which—thus far—had never been focused on Erica. Since she needed the job and it paid well, Erica bit her lip often, said, "Yes, ma'am," a lot, then went home and punched the heavy bag in Brady's bedroom.

Erica sighed as she reached the front door. Edward was blind to the truth of his wife's personality. When he could tear himself away from his corporate boardroom, he doted on her and pretty much gave her a blank check to do as she willed. He was a decent man but he was far from the first decent person who was married to a narcissist—and like most narcissists, Nadine had honed the skill of showing her husband what she wanted him to see.

She opened the door, revealing another Beverly Hills socialite, about Nadine's age. Perfectly manicured and coifed, Julie Hastings wore fashionable clothes, sunglasses that might have cost four figures, and a diamond pendant probably worth more than Erica made in a year. Botox lips and peroxide blonde hair completed the stereotype, and it was all Erica could do not to laugh. She inclined her head to the visitor. "Good afternoon, Ms. Hastings."

"Good afternoon, dear." She stepped inside as if expected, which she was. "I'm not late, am I?"

"No, ma'am. You're the first to arrive." Erica elided past the woman's condescending use of "dear" for someone a decade older. There was no point in bringing it up. "Ms. Blanton will be hosting in the solarium today. Would you like me to announce you?"

"No, thank you. I know the way." She walked deeper into the house. She was almost to the living room when Nadine emerged from beyond. The two women greeted each other fake warmth, with formal hugs and cringe-worthy air-kisses to the cheeks. Each woman immediately started telling the other how good they looked in their cute outfits. Erica loathed the insincerity but worrying about the drama of middle-aged trophy wives wasn't her job.

She returned to the kitchen, where she had started preparing platters of snacks and light deserts for the gathering. Most of the work had already been done by Francesca, the Blanton's portly Hispanic cook, but she was away for her granddaughter's baptismal that day. Erica remembered Nadine's irritation when Frannie asked for the day off, stating that was the day of the planning meeting for the Shrub Foundation, and they needed food service that day. Edward had answered that family was important and given Frannie the day off. With her husband cutting her legs out from under her, Nadine had relented, though Erica thought her eyes suggested Nadine would remember the slight. Frannie had prepared most everything for Erica in advance and left instructions for the few remaining tasks. Erica had given Frannie a small gift for the child, hugged her, and wished her friend well.

More people arrived, mostly other high-society dwellers with too much time and money to waste. Erica sighed as she listened to the chatter and light laughter in the solarium. She believed in charity and helping other people but the charities that Nadine and her ilk engaged in seemed more interested in socializing and showing everyone they cared than actually doing anything. The Shrub Foundation's purpose, for example, was to plant more greenery in public spaces, for beautification and to prevent soil erosion. In the six months they'd been meeting, Erica didn't think they'd put a single plant in the ground.

She glanced at the clock. Ten-forty-nine. Nadine had directed that food service begin at eleven sharp. Erica checked but everything seemed to be in order. The last tray of crab cakes was under the broiler and she had to slice the two loaves of sourdough bread. She had just reached for the bread knife when the doorbell rang again. Erica strode into the hallway to answer it.

The door opened, revealing a six-foot-tall blond man with blue eyes and a handsome, rugged appearance, and dressed in a finely-cut suit. Despite his attractiveness, the man carried a look of smugness that immediately put Erica on guard whenever she saw him. Nevertheless, she nodded to him. "Good morning, Mr. Dekker. Please come in."

"Thank you, Erica."

She repressed the urge to shiver. His tone and the way his eyes lingered all but made her feel greasy, as if somehow his gaze left a trail of slime wherever it landed. Still, the man worked for Edward, so she couldn't very well accuse him unless Dekker outright propositioned or groped her. He never had but had only ... watched her.

But if he's here, that means—

Erica smiled again, without forcing it this time. "They're in the solarium, sir, and about ready to start. Would you like me to walk you there?"

"Please."

She led John Dekker to the depths of the house. She could feel his eyes staring at her ass but she managed to ignore it. Erica stopped by the door and gestured with her hand. Dekker gave her a cold smile and strolled inside. Erica made her way back to the front of the house, ignoring the delighted squeals from the women within—the hens clucking over their strutting rooster. She stopped at the entryway and peeked out the side window.

Sure enough, he stood there by the tinted windows of Dekker's limo, clad in his black suit. He raised a cigarette to his face, took a drag, and exhaled. Even from the distance, his boredom was apparent.

Erica hurried back to the kitchen and finished her prep work, with one eye on the clock. Right at eleven, she toted the trays to the solarium and placed them on the decorative carved sideboard. Nadine's guests drifted over to load their plates. Erica heard numerous compliments tossed by the attendees to Nadine, who beamed with pride, as if she had been the one in the kitchen, kneading the bread and shelling the nuts.

A few moments and few trips later, she had carried all the food in. She made a quick check of the drink bar, which had been set before the guests arrived, and everything looked adequate. Erica glanced at Nadine, who ignored her, and then withdrew. She knew, from painful experience, not to speak to the mistress of the house in public without being spoken to first. If Nadine had wanted something at that moment, she would have been staring at Erica, waiting for acknowledgment.

But with the immediate tasks done ...

She opened the front door. As soon as she did, the man's head swiveled in her direction. Erica glanced behind and since the hallway was clear, she gestured for him to come in.

He grinned at her, ground out his cigarette under his heel, and came to the door.

Erica watched him approach. When he reached the porch, she said, "Hi, Peter. How are you doing?"

He shrugged. "Same old, same old."

"Come in the kitchen. I think I have enough left to plate you up a meal." In truth, Erica had kept a little food back just in case Peter had driven Dekker. "What are you drinking today?"

"Driving, so just water. Thank you, though."

They entered the kitchen. Peter doffed his cap and placed it on the counter. Erica pulled the plastic-wrapped containers from the refrigerator and assembled the food on a plate for him. She watched him from the corner of her eye.

Medium-height and lanky, Peter Chang cut a fine figure in his chauffeur's black jacket, pants, white shirt, and thin tie. To Erica's eyes, his mixed Caucasian-Chinese heritage had given him the best features of both. His handsome face held a timeless quality. Even though she knew Peter was in his early fifties, he could easily pass for someone in their thirties. At the thought, Erica touched her braid. It was still dark but the first of the gray threads were just starting to peak through.

While it wasn't precisely with permission that she had invited him into the house—a house that wasn't hers—Erica figured it was a small risk. The Blantons had always told her to extend hospitality to their guests. If Peter was discovered in the kitchen, she'd pass it off as him needing to use the restroom. She handed him the plate. "Eat up. A growing boy like you needs his nutrition."

Peter snorted. "Sure. The only way I'm growing now is around the waist." He took the plate.

Erica's gaze drifted lower. "You're, what? Thirty inches in the waist? Thirty-two? I think you could stand a few pounds."

He took a bite of a garden chicken wrap. "You're just the kindest soul. First you feed me and then you stroke my ego."

"A girl tries."

They chatted a little as Peter ate. Every fifteen minutes on the dot, she returned to the solarium to see if she was needed or anything needed replenishing. She collected a few plates but otherwise, things looked fine. Nadine and her coven had begun talking about buying trees and hedges to be planted. Erica noted there were about thirty seconds of business for every five minutes of banter. On each trip, she caught Dekker's eyes on her.

When she came back in the kitchen after the second trip, Peter had reclined against the counter and was rubbing his belly. Erica grinned at that. Ever since an offhand comment about how he never had a break time for meals when he was on the clock, she'd always tried to get him something whenever Dekker dropped in, which was often. Frannie had helped her by sometimes having a small meal ready for Peter and even teased Erica about "her boyfriend." Erica had always blushed and brushed it off but she admitted to herself that her day was a little brighter when Peter visited.

He finished eating. "Thank you, Erica. Very good."

"I'll pass your compliments to Frannie. She did most of the prep work. I just heated things up."

"Still good." He lifted his plate. "What can I do with this?"

"Oh, I'll take it." She hurried forward, took his plate, and shoved it in the dishwasher. "All done."

"Thanks. How's your son doing?"

"Good. He made Dean's List for the second semester in a row. He's doing really well. Two more years and I'll have a college graduate for a son." She placed the back of her hand on her forehead, closed her eyes, and put a melodramatic note in her voice. "Oh, the perils of getting older."

Peter shrugged. "You're not so old."

"Days like this, I feel all forty-nine years."

"You don't look like forty-nine."

Her ears perked up. "Really?"

Peter's face was perfectly straight. "Nah. Forty-seven, tops."

She laughed and threw a dishrag at him, though without any force. "No wonder you've never been married. No woman would want to put up with that mouth."

"I know, I know. Speaking of married, how long do you think the Save the World committee is going to meet today?"

"Uh, I'm not sure. I know Mrs. Blanton doesn't have anything on her schedule for the rest of the day. Why?"

He took a deep breath. "Because I need to take Mrs. Dekker-Wallace to her physical therapy this afternoon, and Mr. Dekker gets mad at me when he has to take a taxi or a ride-share."

"The poor girl," Erica murmured.

Amanda Dekker-Wallace was a pretty, petite blonde in her early thirties. Erica had only met the woman once but found her personable enough. Sadly, Amanda had developed a crippling peroneal nerve palsy in both legs. Lesser cases were common in people who spent a lot of time in a squatting position. Her cause, however, was indeterminate and had left her unable to walk without aid. The Wallaces were old money and had the best doctors working on her. Her outlook was good but thus far, progress had been limited and slow.

She'd heard the Blantons discussing it and gotten some extra details from Peter, who drove Amanda to physical therapy three times a week. Peter was technically employed by the Wallace family and not by John Dekker. He was on safe ground if he left the husband to drive the wife but that wouldn't make his life working around Dekker any easier. Erica understood his desire to avoid problems if he could.

Peter stretched. "Yeah. Her appointment is at two, so to have enough time go get Mr. Dekker to the office and head back to her house, he'll have to leave by twelve-thirty at the latest to get her there on time." He sighed. "So, another hour."

Erica pursed her lips. The social gathering in the other room could easily go on that long.

Peter suddenly smiled again. "Are you still painting?"

"Yes! I sure am." Erica's excitement swelled. She had been trying her hand at oil painting, by following old Bob Ross shows, with modest success. Brady had been patient and talked to her about it, though she could tell her son was just being polite and didn't really care that much. She understood; her own mother used to talk to Erica about cross-stitch, to the point where Erica was ready to stab out her own eye with a knitting needle. She didn't hold it against her son. He was a good kid, who supported her in a lot of ways, and their relationship was firm. He just had no interest in crafts.

On the other hand, Peter seemed genuinely interested and always asked about her latest projects. When she pulled up pictures she'd taken of her paintings, he'd offered critique and support. She never got the feeling he was offering blanket support, since in the one or two times he hadn't liked something, he'd said so, and Erica appreciated the honesty. She wondered whether Peter was only being so nice because he wanted to get in her pants—and then suppressed that thought by considering that she might just let him.

They talked for a few more moments before Erica heard voices approaching. She pointed at the small bathroom just off the kitchen. Peter nodded, stepped inside, and shut the door. Erica wiped her hands and walked into the hall.

Nadine and one of the other women walked to the front. Since it was a nice sunny day, none of the guests had brought an umbrella or coat for Erica to hang in the closet, and since the lady of the house was escorting their guest to the exit, she did not have to emerge and say anything.

The pair stopped at the door and did another round of stiff, false embraces. The other woman left. Nadine glanced around and spied Erica. "We need another bottle of champagne." Without another word, she paced back towards the solarium.

Erica fetched it from the wine closet. She'd heard Edward Blanton tell his wife to lay off the champagne and quit wasting it with her friends but Erica wasn't going to go against the wife's direct order. Nadine would have to hash out the fallout with her husband. She rooted around in the drawer until she found a levered corkscrew.

"You know," Peter said from the washroom entrance, "I bet I could do like the movies and lop the head off that with a long knife."

She smirked at him. "Probably take off your fingers instead. You just sit there until I get back."

His soft laughs pursued her out of the kitchen. She delivered the champagne to the ice bucket, removed the empty bottle, glanced at Nadine to see if anything else was needed, and returned to the kitchen. "Now, where were we?"

"You were imagining offering sympathy for my future missing hand."

"How was I doing that?"

"Use your imagination."

Erica giggled and blushed. A small part of her mind chastised her for acting like a giddy school girl. The rest of her was enjoying herself too much to care.

They chatted for another thirty minutes, pausing only when Erica made her trips to check the solarium or when a guest left, accompanied by Nadine. Other than the first trip, Nadine hadn't spoken to Erica, which suited her just fine. She was glad it was almost over. The mess in the kitchen would take a while to clean up but she still thought she could be done with her duties by five.

Nadine walked one last woman to the door and said her goodbyes. She glanced in the kitchen. "Mr. Dekker and I need a few moments, Erica. We're done eating so you don't need to check on us anymore."

"Yes, ma'am."

Peter emerged again, his brows furrowed. "He's going to make us late, I know it."

"Maybe he won't."

They bantered a bit longer. Peter talked about his new drone that he'd bought and test-flown the day before. Erica smiled at that. "So boys never give up their toys, is that it? They just get more expensive?"

He grinned. "Kind of like little girls who play with dollhouses and keep hoping for the suburban house with the white picket fence, right? Same idea, bigger toys?"

She laughed. "Touche."

They talked for a few more minutes. Peter glanced at his watch. "Twelve twenty-five. I hope he's going to be ready."

"I can—" Erica stopped herself. She had started to offer to walk back, to tell Dekker that Peter was waiting so they could get his wife. It was probably the morally-correct thing to do. It would also be overstepping her bounds and probably result in her being fired and she couldn't afford that—certainly not with a son in college when it was taking every penny she had to keep him there.

Fortunately, Peter recognized her intent. He shook his head. "No, I don't want you to get in trouble for being too 'presumptuous,' or whatever these people would say. If he's not out soon, I'll just have to go."