An unexpected beginning
Jack Baron had been walking for days. His shoes were worn, his clothes dirty and shredded, his hair tied in a ponytail, and his beard ratty. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the last of his money. He stared at the $10 bill in disbelief, wondering how it came to this.
He stopped on the side of road and sat, to rest.
The wind carried the scent of salt and sun-warmed earth as he sat on the guardrail anlong the Pacific Coast Highway, exhaustion settling deep into his bones. The Pacific stretched endlessly before him, waves folding into each other like whispered promises beneath the fiery hues of the setting sun.
He exhaled, staring out at the horizon, letting the moment breathe around him.
What would Onassis have done?
The answer arrived without hesitation.
He would strategize. Invest in perception. He’d scrape together money by any means necessary, from whatever sources he could, buy an expensive suit, step into the bar of the most expensive hotel in town—then wait.
Because the right opportunity wasn’t found. It was created
Aristotle Onassis knew that all one needed to succeed in this world was to spot an opportunity and have the creative insight to capitalize on it. Maybe he was right, maybe not, but he did build one of the largest shipping companies in the world. With it, he amassed a personal fortune of $500 million to become one of the world’s richest men back in his day. So perhaps he knew what he was talking about.
With perhaps an hour of light left in the day, he once again was on his feet moving, albeit slow and steady. He came to a street on his left leading away from the two-lane Pacific Coast highway he’d been following.
He recalled seeing a sign a mile back saying ‘Entering San Luis Obispo’. He was roughly halfway between San Francisco, to the north, and Los Angeles to the south. It had taken him 8 days to trek the 248 miles.
Jack had never before heard of the place, but he needed to get off the highway and try to find a coffee shop to rest, and have a cheap meal. He crossed the highway and started up the slight incline as he passed by some lovely homes — set atop a hill, with views of the ocean.
Each step up the hill felt heavier than the last, exhaustion dragging at his limbs, sweat slick against his skin.
But finally, at the crest, he paused.
Below, the town stretched out before him—small, quiet, unassuming, nestled against the backdrop of rolling hills and scattered rooftops.
He let out a slow breath, then continued, letting the downward slope ease the weight of his weary body. Gravity worked in his favor now.
At Morro Street, he turned left.
The road was lined with shops, cafés, and a designated bicycle lane, giving the street a subtle energy despite its tranquility.
That was when he saw the car.
Sleek. Maroon. A Jaguar—recent model, undoubtedly expensive.
A gentleman stood beside it, adjusting his coat, preparing to climb in.
Jack’s gaze lingered.
Not so long ago, he could have bought a fleet of cars like that. On a whim.
The thought was both distant and immediate, a quiet echo of another life—a life that felt just out of reach.
And yet, here he was, walking, watching, remembering.
He approached the man: “Good afternoon sir, could you steer me in the direction of a nearby coffee shop?”
The man stood there in his beige chinos and green oxford shirt eyeing Jack up and down as if deciding whether to help. Jack looked like a vagrant. But after being silent for a moment, the man said “Do you have money for a coffee shop?”
“Yes, I do. I’m not a bum. It’s just that I had gotten rolled, and then left for dead on the PCH and been walking south from near San Francisco for days. But I’m not a bum, not a vagrant nor beggar, and I’m not a danger to anyone. I’m just tired and hungry.”
After a slight hesitation, the man continued: “Well if you walk to the corner and go right, walk one more block to Garden and take a left you will find Linnaea’s Cafe. Nice place. Casual, like a country inn, with quiet garden seating. You’re a bit ragged around the edges, so if they give you any trouble you tell them George P. sent you.”
“Thank you, that is very kind of you” and set out following the directions.
Upon entering it felt as though every set of eyes in the place were all at once observing — and judging — him. When the hostess asked, “Are you lost, sir?” Jack quickly responded, “No, I know I’m a bit worse for the wear but George P. recommended this place.”
“Oh, I see, well, if you know George, OK, right this way.” She led Jack to a table at the outdoor patio in the corner, away from most of the other tables. He was sure he must smell terrible.
Jack ordered two eggs, scrambled, toast and coffee. The coffee was hot, and he welcomed it down his throat. He noticed a bulletin board, and after finishing his meal slowly approached to peruse it.
There were announcements, and flyers — there was a community theater production of “Hello Dolly.” There were job postings, and job requests as well.
Perhaps he could find temporary work. He needed money for food. With his ragged look, he looked for some outside work — maybe for a landscaper, a pool company, or even doing construction. Any labor job would suffice, just long enough for him to save up for a hotel room where he could shower and sleep, and then have travel and food money to get to Los Angeles. At least there he had connections, old favors he could call in, and start over and try to rebuild his business and his life.
He perused the board and took a card for the only job listed. He had asked directions that had led him to a large house nack up the hill, with a sprawling lawn out front; a circular drive separated the drive from the front door with two large trees in the front yard.
He stood there a minute, perplexed and nervous. He was also desperate, so here he stood. A minute had passed after ringing the bell. He waited. Two minutes passed, then three. It was on estimate almost five minutes later — after his third ring — that he heard the doorknob turn.
A large man stood in the door archway. He was imposing, with an authoritative swagger about him. He was about 230 lbs on a 6’ 3” frame. He had piercingly stern eyes, and his speech was clear, polite, yet to the point. “Good afternoon, how can I help you?”
“Hello sir, my name is Jack and I am here in regard to the job you had posted at the coffee shop … Linnaea’s Cafe?”
Time seemed to stand still while the large man gazed at him. He seemed a bit confused. Finally, he spoke. “Did you fully read the posting? It was for domestic help.”
“Yes sir. I did, I’ve been an executive during my career, but cooking was a hobby: I’m a really good cook.”
“Well, I was looking for a “female” maid. I didn’t think I needed to specify “female” in the posting, but clearly I did. I’m sorry if you wasted your time.”
As the large man began to turn, Jack spoke. Perhaps the man heard the desperation in his voice. He returned to face him and heard him out without interrupting.
“Sir, I know I’m not what you were looking for, but in addition to cooking, I assure you I can clean and wash as well.
“I appreciate that young man, I do, and admire your tenacity. But …” Jack cut him off, “How about if I prove myself?”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me work the week, and then at the end of the week if you don’t think I can do the job you don’t have to pay me anything”. Jack’s thought with the offer was that the worst that will happen is he’d eat good and get a roof over his head for the week. “If someone more appropriate comes to apply for the job, then I’ll leave, no muss, no fuss. I’m just asking for a chance”
“Great cook you say, hmmm.”
“Absolutely!”
“I tell you what, come on in and let’s talk about it.”
With that he turned on his heel and opened the door; Jack followed him inside.
The house was grand. A large marble-floored foyer at the entrance, with a staircase on the left that hugged the curved semi-circle wall that made its way to the second floor. The wallpaper appeared to be silk; a muted ivory on beige design.
The second-floor hallway stretched left and right, forming a bridge between the two wings of the upper floors. From either side, the open views overlooked the space below, offering a sense of grandeur and connection between levels.
Beneath it, the foyer extended, guiding visitors under the bridge and into an expansive living area. The far end was a statement in design—a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, flooding the room with natural light and framing the view beyond.
Beyond the glass, sliding doors beckoned, leading to a large patio terrace—a place where the outdoors seamlessly merged with the comforts of home, inviting conversation, relaxation, and quiet contemplation.
The architecture felt intentional, a perfect balance between openness and intimacy, each space flowing effortlessly into the next.
To the left of the spacious living room, an arched doorway led into a formal dining room, its long table set beneath a grand chandelier, flickering softly against polished wood and fine china. Beyond that, the kitchen—a modern space with stainless steel fixtures and an island at its center, inviting both culinary precision and casual conversation.
Jack followed his host through another archway, this time to the right, stepping into a den and library.
The atmosphere shifted immediately—warm, intimate, a quiet sanctuary lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, their contents a mix of worn classics and pristine hardcovers. A leather armchair sat near the fireplace, a place that seemed well-used, inviting. The scent of old paper and polished oak filled the air, grounding the space in time, in history, in thought.
Jack exhaled, taking it all in. A place built for reflection. For knowledge. For secrets.
He offered Jack a seat on the burgundy leather sofa and walked a few strides to a small bar. “What do you like, Jack? I’m having a Scotch myself.”
“That is most kind, thank you. I’ll have the same, neat.”
Jack sat across from the host in a deep club chair, watching as the man lit a cigar—Cohiba, the label read. Jack wasn’t well-versed in cigars, but he recognized wealth when he saw it.
The host took a slow draw, savoring the taste, his Scotch glass resting lightly in his hand. He studied Jack for a long moment, saying nothing, letting the silence stretch. Then, finally:
“Neat, huh?”
Jack nodded. “I’ve always believed if you’re going to have a drink, you should do it properly. A friend of mine used to grumble whenever I forgot the ice or soda. Eventually, I told him, ‘If you’re going to drink a man’s drink, then drink it like a man—neat.’ He never brought it up again. Switched drinks entirely after a few weeks.”
A slight grin flickered across the host’s face. “Looking at you now, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Scotch-neat man. Where are you from, Jack?”
“Originally? New York City. After college, I settled in San Francisco.”
“You’re something of a mystery. A guy like you, down on his luck, applying for this kind of job? At first glance, I might mistake you for a drifter—but you’re not, are you?”
“No, sir, I’m not.” Jack leaned forward slightly. “But yes, I’m down on my luck. Some months ago, ruthless partners stole my life’s work—years of sweat, effort, dedication. A few quick moves, and they left me for roadkill. I suppose now that my funds are gone, that’s exactly what I am.”He exhaled slowly. “But i’m well-edducated, and we’ll traveled; I’ve lived abroad—Caribbean, South America, Europe, Asia—and I’ve learned one thing: only friends can truly rob you. Strangers, enemies—those we guard against. But friends? That’s where betrayal hurts.”
The host nodded, swirling his Scotch. “That’s an unfortunate truth.”
He observed Jack for another beat before speaking again. “You’re well-spoken, direct. Were you ever in the military?”
“Yes, I was. Does that matter? I served in Special Ops.”
“Where?”
“Mostly Iraq.”
A short silence. Then the host asked, “Being down on your luck… should I be worried about you stealing from me?”
Jack’s eyes were unwavering. “Absolutely not, sir. I’m honorable to a fault. Loyal to a fault. That’s why I’m in this mess.”
The host considered his words before settling back. “Jack, clearly, the road’s been rough for you. Why don’t you head to the kitchen? Show me how great of a cook you really are. Make whatever you want—the kitchen’s stocked, and I have a taste for almost anything.”
Jack stood, nodding once. “Thank you for your hospitality, and the opportunity.” Then he disappeared through the living room toward the kitchen.
Jack’s gaze moved slowly across the space, absorbing every detail. The baskets of fruit and vegetables swayed slightly, suspended from sturdy hooks, their colors rich under the soft glow of pendant lights. The cupboards stood stocked, their quiet abundance speaking of foresight and comfort.
The island counter, smooth and polished, stretched before him, its seats arranged neatly on one side—enough for four. He traced the clean lines of the large refrigerator, its sleek design fitting effortlessly into the blonde wood decor, a seamless blend of practicality and sophistication.
He wasn’t thinking about cooking yet. Just watching. Taking it in.
Jack took in the man’s demeanor—a blend of quiet authority and old-fashioned tradition, tempered by a willingness to listen. Stern, but open. A man who had seen enough to value both discipline and adaptability.
He plated the salad first—a simple, elegant combination of arugula, mozzarella balls, and a light dusting of cracked black pepper. The raspberry vinaigrette gave it a touch of sweetness, balancing the pepper’s bite. From the wine rack, he selected a Malbec from Mendoza, Argentina—bold, rich, fitting.
The steaks came next, pan-seared with wine over a bed of caramelized garlic and onion, seasoned with black pepper and other spices he’d instinctively measured rather than formally portioned. Fresh green beans and sautéed new potatoes, glistening with olive oil and speckled with fresh parsley, rounded out the meal. He sliced the fresh bread loaf carefully, arranging the pieces in the center of the table, deliberately placed but not overly styled.
Jack wasn’t merely assembling food—he was composing a statement. Despite circumstance, despite luck turning against him, skill remained.
The host stood at the doorway anbd watched as Jack worked, silent but attentive. When the plates were set, he dsy, studied them with quiet amusement, picking up his fork and taking a bite of the salad. A brief nod.
“You know your way around a kitchen,” he said finally.
Jack simply lifted his wine glass, meeting the man’s gaze. “I know my way around a lot of things.”
The host chuckled, taking a sip of Malbec. “I can see that.”
The conversation continued between bites, a steady rhythm of careful words and measured observations. Trust wasn’t built in an evening—but it could start with a good meal.
Jack watched the colonel carefully, assessing the man as he had done with the kitchen—taking in the details that mattered. Stern, disciplined, but not closed off. Traditional in his ways, yet pragmatic enough to consider possibilities beyond first impressions.
He had introduced himself earlier as Colonel Max Burke, U.S. Marines, retired.
Burke ate with deliberate slowness, each bite measured, as if he were a critic evaluating the dish on opening night. He finally spoke. “This is very good, Jack. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
Jack leaned back slightly, setting down his glass. “My ex-wife was an excellent cook. I paid attention.”
The colonel nodded. “Indeed, you did. My compliments—to her, and to you.”
He cut into his steak again, pausing before taking another bite. “There’s something different in the flavor. What is it?”
Jack gave a small smile. “Beer.”
Burke lifted an eyebrow. “Beer?”
“I start with garlic and onion, sear it in wine to build the sauce—then flash it with beer at the end. That’s what gives it that layered taste.”
The colonel considered the explanation, taking another bite before offering a quiet “Hmm.”
He finished his meal, pushed back his chair, and stood. “You can clear the table while I prepare a room for you.”
Jack worked swiftly, almost energized by the simple task. A room for the night—an actual room. That alone was enough to lift his spirits, if only slightly. He stacked the plates with precision, wiped down the counter, letting the silence of the house settle around him.
By the time the last trace of dinner was cleared away, Burke had returned, standing in the doorway with the same quiet authority.
“Follow me, Jack.”
Jack dried his hands on a dish towel, nodding once, and stepped after the colonel down the hallway.
Jack paused at the threshold, taking in the unexpected grandeur before him. He had pictured a modest space—four walls, a small bed, maybe a chair in the corner. But this was something else entirely.
The suite was expansive, more akin to a high-end hotel room than a simple guest quarters. The bed, positioned against the short wall to the left, stood dignified with a cushioned bench in soft pink satin resting at its foot. Elegant, almost out of place for what he imagined Burke’s taste to be, but undeniably refined.
To the right, along the wall dominated by a sliding glass door, was a sitting area: a chaise lounge, a chair, and a coffee table arranged with quiet intention. The levelers over the glass obscured the view of the patio beyond, giving only the faintest hint of the sprawling backyard.
Past the entrance, three steps led down into a private bathroom that was nothing short of lavish. A sunken oval tub sat invitingly to the side, separate from the sleek shower stall. Twin sinks stretched across the wall, their marble vanity an elegant ivory streaked with veins of soft pink. A second mirror extended beyond the primary, accompanied by cabinets and drawers beneath—a built-in space for a vanity chair neatly tucked under.
Jack exhaled, his gaze sweeping over the space once more. This wasn’t just hospitality—it was something else. A message, perhaps? A test? He wasn’t sure.
Still, for tonight, he had a place to rest.
“I’ve started a bath for you. You could use a good soak—get cleaned up, relax.” The colonel’s tone was matter-of-fact, but there was no malice in it. “The bathroom’s well-stocked with anything you might need.”
Jack listened, watching as Burke continued.
“You can stay the night, and in the morning, we’ll discuss the job. As I mentioned, there are uniforms and robes in the wardrobe. You might find some sleepwear in the bureau drawers.” He paused slightly before adding, “The salary is $200 a week—room and board included—plus $150 for uniforms and other work-related essentials. That’s about it for now. We can sort the rest out tomorrow, assuming you decide to stay.”
Burke’s expression was firm, settled. “I’m ex-military, Jack, which means I’m a disciplinarian—fair, but stern. You can call me Sir or Colonel.”
Jack gave a small nod.
The Coone paused, and looked back. “My hesitancy, and the reason I hire women only, is that my sister stays here quite a bit when she is on the West Coast, and I don’t want to have to worry about that — even though she is a powerful woman that can take care of herself. But, I’m old-fashioned I guess. I’ll think up a workaround for that. You’d still have to wear a maid’s uniform though — to keep up appearances for guests, delivery people, etc. And, you’d have to do so without drawing too much attention to yourself. Your hair is long, so I guess you could take it out of the ponytail, and use a little makeup. My sister could help you with that. And you’re not too tall. Maybe it could work.”
“I’ll do whatever is required of me. I really want, and need the job.”
“For safety,” Burke continued, “I’ll be locking the door overnight. I’ll unlock it at 0600. I take my breakfast promptly at 0700.” He met Jack’s gaze, sharp but not unkind. “Get some rest.”
With that, the colonel stepped toward the door, pausing briefly before giving a final nod.
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
He turned on his heel and closed the door behind him, and Jack heard the lock click.
Read Chapter 2
