Ugh.
I stare at the discarded clothes on my bed.
The last interview I had was for my teaching job two years ago. What the hell do I wear to interview for a job cleaning someone’s house?
Oh, fuck it. As long as they don’t expect me to show up in a Chanel suit, I’ll probably be fine.
I pick up the black twin sweater set I got on sale and pair it with my go-to black tweed pencil skirt. Slipping into my black work pumps, I give myself a once-over in my full-length mirror.
Not bad. It’ll have to do.
I rush downstairs and quickly print out two copies of my résumé from the desktop computer I share with Reed in our study, then grab a manila envelope from the desk so I don’t wrinkle them.
Shoving the envelope into my tote bag, I glance up at the wall covered with family photos of Reed with his parents at his childhood home. All three of them are dressed impeccably, Reed and his father in tailored suits and his mother in a cream dress with her ever-present pearls looped around her neck.
I take a deep breath, already predicting what their reaction will be when they find out that their son’s girlfriend might be accepting a job as a cleaning lady.
As nice as they are to my face, I know if pressed, Reed’s parents would admit they think I’m all wrong for their son, the heir to the Shepard fortune. I know it kills them that Reed wasn’t accepted at any Ivy League college, not even Cornell, where his father and grandfather had attended. He’d fooled around too much at boarding school, and got kicked out of one and only accepted into another because his parents made a huge donation to restore the school’s library.
They won’t be pleased to be sure, knowing the woman their son is dating is a cleaning lady, but I can take it.
My mom raised me all by herself, taking odd jobs to get through nursing school, watching every penny she made. But she did it, pride be damned.
They’ll just have to deal with it because I am my mother’s daughter.
* * *
“Come on, Ingrid. You can do it, sweetie.”
In fear of wiping out from black ice, I slowly drive up a steep hill a few miles out of town before making a right onto a road lined on either side with majestic oak trees. Out of nowhere a tall stone wall appears, obscuring whatever sits on the other side of it.
I glance briefly at the directions on my phone. Sure enough, just as Emilia described, sections of the wall are separated and allow for a solid black metal gate. The gate is topped by the letter “S” welded into a curlicue font.
A small security camera sits affixed to the left side of the wall, pointing down at me. An intercom speaker is embedded into the stone. I roll down the window, looking straight into the camera.
I’m about to open my mouth to yell out to the open air, not knowing where to direct my voice, but a female voice stops me.
“Miss Moore, please drive through the gates and park to the side of the house where you see my car. I’ll meet you out front.”
I hear a whirring sound and turn my head to see the gate opening slowly. I drive Ingrid through, onto a long road extending ahead of me. Open acres of parkland expand on both sides of the driveway.
Continuing down the driveway, I suddenly gasp at the sight in front of me, pressing hard on the brakes until they screech, bringing the car to a full stop.
A mansion fronted by two tall columns stands in a cul-de-sac at the end of the pebbled road. Vines wind up and down its concrete exterior, and its surface is full of cracks. I can tell it once probably had a more majestic appearance, but now it looks as if the owners have simply given up on it.
I pull up to the house. An older woman—dressed in a white cotton button-down shirt and loose grey silk pants, her silver hair cut pixie style and a pair of glasses hanging around her neck on a jeweled chain—waves to me, then gestures to the side of the house where an older dark brown Mercedes sedan is parked. I guide Ingrid over and park.
I shut the door as firmly and as quietly as I can and head toward the woman.
I take notice of a fountain centered in front of the house, also dilapidated, dry as a bone except for the dirty rainwater that’s collected in it. In the center sits a sculpture also showing its age, covered in moss and cracks, of a young woman with long flowing hair, bent over holding a bucket in her hands as if she’s collecting water.
“Hello. I’m Emilia Mitchell, but you can call me Emilia. We’re not very formal here. Thank you for coming,” the woman says, extending her hand.
I take her hand in mine. “I’m Lily Moore. Thank you for your call.”
“Do come in.” She turns and opens the tall black door behind her.
I step through the doorway into the foyer, where a huge crystal chandelier hangs from a high ceiling. Several of its bulbs are unlit. There is a long staircase to the left, leading up to the second floor, its carpet worn. The black-and-white marble-tiled floor looks like a checkerboard. There are two sets of closed double doors to my left and right.
I notice a line of framed sketches hung along the walls as I follow Emilia to the back of the house, one of which catches my eye as I walk by it. I stop to observe it up close because it looks so familiar.
I shake my head. No, it couldn’t be. An artist must live here, that’s all.
Continuing down the hall, I spot a living room with several threadbare couches scattered about. Several sets of French doors open to the back of the house.
We turn to the left and enter a small hallway that leads to a huge chef’s kitchen—there are two stoves, and pots and pans hang from hooks above a long marble island with a wood base. A small breakfast nook in the far corner holds a round table and four chairs.
Emilia signals to the table. “Please. Coffee? Tea?”
The idea of drinking something cool right now tempts my dry throat. “May I have some water?”
“Certainly. Have a seat.”
I sit down in one of the chairs at the table, which is decorated with a ceramic bowl holding a handful of ripe lemons. A folded piece of paper, notepad, and pen lie next to it.
Emilia comes back to the table and hands me a glass of cool water. I take two deep swallows, placing the glass on the table.
I start to pull out the fresh copies of my résumé from the manila envelope but the woman waves her hand at me. “No need, dear. I have a copy right here. But thank you.”
“Of course.” I tuck the envelope back into my bag, then fold my hands in my lap, ready for her questions.
She places her glasses on the bridge of her nose, pulling the folded paper toward her and opening it. “Thank you for replying so quickly. Our maid broke her leg last week falling down the stairs and unfortunately will be out until it heals. Poor thing was carrying the vacuum and tripped.”
I nod at the information, nervous for the answer to the question I’m about to ask. “May I ask you something?”
She nods her head. “Go ahead.”
“Exactly how much of the house am I expected to clean? The house is…”
“Rather large?” she offers.
My shoulders drop in relief from her understanding. “Yes.”
“The owner prefers that only the kitchen, guest bathroom, foyer, and upstairs hallway are maintained. The rest of the rooms are not your responsibility.”
“I see. And it’s only for two days a week?”
“Yes. You can start at ten in the morning, and leave any time after you’ve finished for the day.”
This keeps sounding better and better. But it’s just too good to be true.
“May I ask what the exact salary is?”
She pulls the notepad to her and writes on it. When she pushes the paper toward me, I nearly jump out of the chair in a mixture of shock and pure joy from the number she’s written down.
“Would that work for you?”
Ummm, hell yes.
“It would. Very much.”
“Do you need to give your other job two weeks’ notice, or can you start immediately?”
“I can start whenever you need me.”
“Well, then, if you want the job, it’s yours.”
I sit back in my chair, pursing my lips together. “That’s really all I have to do? Just clean four entire spaces for such short hours and a rather nice salary?”
“Yes, that’s all, Miss Moore. You seem suspicious, as if there’s something I’m not telling you.”
I shake my head. “It just seems too good to be true. I don’t even have any experience as a maid, except for cleaning my own house. And the pay is…”
Excessive.
“…substantial.”
She nods her head. “You can thank the owner for that. He’s a very generous man. I’m also too old to be climbing the stairs every day until the position is filled. Would you like the job?”
For crying out loud, I can’t look a damn gift horse in the mouth. I need the money. I can’t believe I’ll be able to pay off all of my student loans cleaning someone’s house.
A huge smile takes over my entire face. “Thank you so much. I would like it. I can start right away.”
Emilia sighs. “That’s wonderful, Miss Moore. And may I say a huge relief for me. Come with me and let me show you the essentials.”
She rises from her chair and I do the same. We go back to the foyer and head up the stairs. A long narrow hallway runs the entirety of the second floor. She heads to a door and opens it, revealing a broom and a vacuum cleaner that from the looks of it is probably left over from the seventies.
“All you need to do up here is vacuum the hallway carpet once a week.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes. And all of these rooms are off limits,” she informs me roughly.
“Of course. I understand.”
“The owner does not like anyone intruding on his privacy,” she adds for emphasis.
Her strict tone has me nodding, my eyes boring on hers. “I would never do that.”
“Good,” she replies curtly. “Let’s go back downstairs.”
The next stop is the guest bathroom, which only holds a toilet and a sink. But the cabinet over the sink intrigues me because it has a large empty space in its center, missing the mirror that should obviously be there.
“Who’s the owner of this place? Dracula?”
Suddenly I realize I’ve said that out loud.
Shit.
Good-bye, easiest part-time job I ever would have had with a dream salary for just vacuuming a fucking hallway.
I turn around to look at Emilia, but her face doesn’t read as angry. Her mouth is downturned, almost as if in sadness.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I can go…”
I start to walk past her, but she grabs my forearm.
“It’s all right. I know you didn’t mean it. The owner just likes to keep to himself.”
I bow my head briefly, embarrassed. “I understand. Forgive me.”
Emilia nods silently to herself without looking directly at me. “Let me show you where the cleaning supplies are,” she replies, almost more to herself than me.
Something in the tone of her voice makes me want to push further about the owner, whoever he or she is, but I decide I’ve said enough for one day.
The tour finally ends, and Emilia shows me to the door.
“You can start the day after tomorrow, if that suits your schedule. And wear whatever is comfortable. The owner doesn’t require the staff to wear uniforms.”
I glance at the woman, giving her clothes a once-over. She’s dressed like she’s stepped out of an Eileen Fisher catalog. “Very good. I’ll see you then. And thank you again.”
The woman holds out her hand to me. “Thank you, Lily.”
I smile and shake her hand one last time.
Reaching my car, I shove my hand into my purse to rummage around for my keys. As I pull them out, something catches my attention in my peripheral vision. When I look up at the side of the house, a white silk curtain is fluttering behind a window on the second floor as if someone had been standing there and quickly backed away.
I stop for a minute to see if someone reappears, but the space remains empty. I push Ingrid’s driver door once, twice, finally getting in to start her engine, which doesn’t kick over.
“Come on, sweets. Please. It’s been a long day and I just want to get the fuck home,” I plead.
Finally, one more try and the engine roars to life. I exhale in relief.
I back out, glancing up one last time at the window. The curtain is still fluttering as I shift the car’s gear into drive.
* * *
Walking into our house, I kick off my heels at the door. I drop my bag and head to the living room, collapsing onto the couch.
Heavy footsteps sound from the stairs. “Lily?”
“In here.”
Reed appears in my sight, his eyes roaming over my clothes. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“I just had a job interview.”
He sits down next to me, taking my feet into his lap. “And?”
“I got it.”
“That’s great, babe. What kind of job is it?”
“I’m a cleaning lady for some rich family.”
He pauses then shakes his head; his mouth instantly draws into a frown. “Couldn’t you find something better?”
I push my feet off his lap and sit up. “You know what the job market is like around here, Reed. I had to take what I could get. And it pays way more than minimum wage.”
“I suppose that’s all right,” he mumbles. “Want to order pizza for dinner?”
Thanks for all the support, babe.
“Sure.”
He rises to his feet. “I’ll go call it in.”
“Thanks.”
I watch him walk into the kitchen, then stretch out on the sofa and stare up at the ceiling.
It’s fine. He’s probably just tired from work.
I get up and head upstairs to take a long, hot shower and wash the day off me.