"Bea! I swear, if you're not down here in one minute, we're leaving without you!"

It's 8:30 in the morning, and I still have to take the girls to camp before I go to work.

I'm freaking out because the women I spoke to over the phone never gave me a dress code, and I'm not sure what I should wear. I walk into our warm little kitchen wearing black spandex pants and a Columbia University t-shirt. 

Annie sits at our wide farmhouse table in one of the six mismatched chairs. Not mismatched because they're a different style, but mismatched because each one is  hand painted differently. Her long brown hair is braided down her back and she's dressed and ready in a tie-dyed, summer camp shirt.

"Do you think this is ok?" I ask her with my arms out.

A spoonful of cereal pauses halfway to her mouth and she shrugs her slender shoulders. "Looks fine to me. You should probably wear tennis shoes instead of sandals though."

She's right. I kiss her on the head and go to find another pair of shoes in closet by the front door. I can't wear the ones from the bar; they reek like restaurant.

"Bea!"

"I'm right here. Geez."

I jump, tangling my ponytail in a hanger. "You gotta be kidding me!" I try unwrapping it, but it only seems to get worse.

Bea doubles over in laughter and I swear, it's the first time I've seen her smile in weeks. 

"Seriously Bea, help a sister out."

"Sure... after I get a photo." She grabs my phone off the bench and takes a burst of photos. I'm so happy that she's out of her funk, even for just a few minutes, that I start laughing too.

Annie walks out of the kitchen, "what's going -?" She sees us, turns around and goes right back in.

I finally tug myself free, only losing a small handful of hair, and grab Bea pulling her into me for a huge hug. "I love you kid." I really do. Her and Annie may be identical in looks, but the complete opposite in spirit. Whenever things get hard, Annie throws herself into the role of caretaker, while Bea pushes people away to hide her pain.

"Yeah, yeah." She doesn't return the hug, but she doesn't pull away either. Progress.

"You better grab something to eat before we go, you don't eat lunch for three hours and you don't want your blood sugar to drop."

Thankfully, Annie comes out of the kitchen at that moment carrying two towels, two lunch bags and a bottle of sunscreen. She shoves a granola bar in Bea's hand and walks out the door.

...

Most of the homes on Michigan Ave are large, but this one is enormous.

The women I spoke to on the phone last week told me the house had been in their family for generations, and was designed by a distant relative from Georgia who had aptly named the home "Southern Comfort."

I've seen this house a thousand times in my life, but never truly looked at it.

Before the girls were born, Mom and Dad took me on a vacation to New Orleans. Mom was an artist and was fascinated by the street vendors around the park, but my favorite part was a bike ride around the garden district looking at the stately homes with their covered porches.

I can picture this home there, surrounded by live oaks and dripping Spanish moss that hovers in the warm breeze. Here, it's surrounded by maples, and centered in the front yard is a single magnolia tree dropping soft white petals that float to the ground like snow.

I step out of my old, beat up truck... actually Jake's old, beat up truck. My Corolla died three weeks after mom's death. The next day the truck, with all its memories and familiar smells was sitting in the driveway. He's such a good guy.

I walk up the circular drive with swirling patterns designed in cobblestone. The artist I was raised to be can't help but notice where each swirl blends into the next and how they all connect at the wide front step.

I lift my hand to knock, but hesitate. The woman on the phone, Mary, told me to come and go as if I lived here, especially since Mr. Harrington would be the only resident for the next two weeks, but I can't imagine anyone would want someone they don't know barging into their house for the first time.

I knock. And knock. Apparently I'm giving myself a tour of the house today.

I check to see if the house is unlocked and, unsurprisingly, the door glides open.

The foyer is a polished white marble, and beyond that the floors are a light, honey colored wood. Almost the entire first floor is open, except for the wide scrolling staircase, giving you an uninterrupted view of Lake Michigan through the tall windows lining the back wall.

"Hello?" I hesitantly walk through the living room. Everything in the house is white. The walls, the chairs, the couches and the cabinets, yet the room is so colorful... They have art work everywhere.

Paintings line the walls. Pottery, sculptures and painted tiles are displayed on every surface you can find, and stitched Charlevoix pillows fill the furniture. I recognize almost all of the work; local artist made them.

I turn around and gasp. Above a wide, white fireplace is one of my mom's paintings. The water is so detailed that it almost appears to be moving as a little girl runs through the waves. It was one of her first paintings to sell for decent money, and I remember her getting down on her knees and asking me if I minded parting with it. She asked because the little girl in the painting is me.

I look around to make sure I'm truly alone, kiss my fingers and touch her signature in the corner before exploring more of the house.

***

There are actually a lot of my mom's paintings in here. I count them as I make my way to the kitchen. A kitchen built for a five star restaurant, with two massive stainless steel refrigerators and the most beautiful stove I've ever seen. Before today, I didn't even know a stove could be beautiful. The white theme continues in here, and I'm not positive, but I think the countertops are made out of quartz. They shimmer every time the light hits them just right. I'm pretty sure Annie would have a heart attack if she saw this kitchen. If it's going to be mostly empty the next couple weeks, maybe I'll sneak her in so she can see it.

I walk up the staircase. Most of the doors are open and I peek into one beautifully decorated room after another. Even without any lights on in the house, the sun makes everything amazingly bright. I pull the thick curtains wider and count beds as I go trying to get an idea for how much time I'll need to clean when the entire family is here.

I walk into another room and immediately go to the windows, pulling the drapes wide.

"Jesus that's bright!"

I scream and spin around still gripping the drapes. The metal groans and the whole thing comes toppling down on top of me, sending me to the floor, covered in what feels like fifty pounds of velvet.

I frantically drag myself out from under them to the sound of laughter, and jump up to find two people on the king size mattress. One with a horrified expression similar to my own, and the other wearing a self-satisfied grin... and an impossibly well defined, bare chest.

"Normally I would say I'm against stalking, but there's plenty of room if you want to join us."

My mouth drops open. I know that voice, and that face.

"You." I put as much loathing in my voice as humanly possible.

"Me? Have we done this already, I think I'd remember you if we had."

"You're the guy from the bar who took off before I could make it back with your drinks!"

I see recognition light his eyes.

"Gorgeous! So you are stalking me then."

The nerve of this guy. "What?!"

The girl who's been curled up next to him, clearly and uncomfortably searching for her clothes gives up and begins sliding off the bed.

"I think I should probably go?" She looks at Wes, but he doesn't so much as a glance at her.

"It was fun Beth."

She cringes. "Brooke, my name's Brooke."

"Well, It was fun Brooke."

Tears spring to her eyes as she slips out the door and I can't help but think, boo-hoo, don't sleep with a man whore then.

After the door clicks shut I turn back to him and cross my arms. "I am not stalking you asshole. I'm working."

"Working? I wasn't aware they had call girls in such a quaint little town like Charlevoix."

His smile gets bigger and I know he's just egging me on. But fuck if it isn't working.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? I'm the housekeeper, who the hell are you? The only person who's supposed to be here is Mr. Harrington."

"Hmm." He runs that stupid, amazing hand across his five o clock shadow like he did at the bar then holds that damn hand out to me.

I look at the offered hand as if it's toxic. "What are you doing?"

"Introducing myself obviously."

I take a step back and he drops his hand.

"Fine. Suit yourself."

He puts both hands behind his head and leans back against the headboard exposing more of his disgustingly perfect abs and a fine trail of hair going... gah! Never mind.

"My name's Wes, Wes Harrington." He watches my jaw drop open with smug satisfaction. "Or Mr. Harrington as Potts would call me."

***If you enjoyed reading about Emmerson and Wes please feel free to click on that little VOTE button! (Thank you!) If you want to see what happens next, give me a follow and add 'Without Me' to your reading list. And of course, any feedback is really appreciated! ***