The Housemaid(14)

“It was just that landscaper guy,” I explain. “He was helping me carry groceries into the house. That’s all.”

I had expected the explanation would satisfy Nina, but instead, her eyes darken. A muscle twitches under her right eye. “The landscaper? Enzo? He was here?”

“Um.” I rub the back of my neck. “Is that his name? I don’t know. He just carried the groceries in.”

Nina studies my face as if trying to detect a lie. “I don’t want him inside this house again. He’s filthy from working outside. I work so hard to keep this house clean.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Enzo wiped his boots off when he came into the house and he didn’t track in any dirt. And nothing is comparable to the mess I saw when I first walked into this house yesterday.

“Do you understand me, Millie?” she presses me.

“Yes,” I say quickly. “I understand.”

Her eyes flick over me in a way that makes me very uncomfortable. I shift between my feet. “By the way, how come you never wear your glasses?”

My fingers fly to my face. Why did I wear those stupid glasses the first day? I should never have worn them, and when she asked me about them yesterday, I shouldn’t have lied. “Um…”

She arches an eyebrow. “I was up in the bathroom in the attic and I didn’t see any contact lens solution. I didn’t mean to snoop, but if you’re going to be driving around with my child at some point, I expect you to have good vision.”

“Right…” I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans. I should just come clean. “The thing is, I don’t really…” I clear my throat. “I don’t actually need glasses. The ones I was wearing at my interview were more… sort of, decorative. You know?”

She licks her lips. “I see. So you lied to me.”

“I wasn’t lying. It was a fashion statement.”

“Yes.” Her blue eyes are like ice. “But then later I asked you about it and you said you had on contacts. Didn’t you?”

“Oh.” I wring my hands together. “Well, I guess… Yes, I was lying that time. I guess I felt embarrassed about the glasses… I’m really sorry.”

The corners of her lips tug down. “Please don’t lie to me ever again.”

“I won’t. I’m so sorry.”

She stares at me for a moment, her eyes unreadable. Then she glances around the living room, her eyes sweeping over every surface. “And please clean up this room. I’m not paying you to flirt with the landscaper.”

With those words, Nina strides out the front door, slamming it behind her.





NINE





Nina is at her PTA meeting tonight—the one I ruined by throwing out her notes. She is grabbing a bite to eat with some of the other parents, so I’ve been tasked with making dinner for Andrew and Cecelia.

The house is so much quieter when Nina isn’t here. I’m not sure why, but she just has an energy that fills the entire space. Right now I’m alone in the kitchen, searing a filet mignon in the frying pan before sticking it in the oven, and it’s heavenly silent in the Winchester household. It’s nice. This job would be so great if not for my boss.

Andrew has incredible timing—he comes home just as I’m taking the steaks out of the oven and letting them rest on the kitchen counter. He peeks into the kitchen. “Smells great—again.”

“Thanks.” I add a little bit more salt to the mashed potatoes, which are already drenched in butter and cream. “Can you tell Cecelia to come down? I called her twice but…” Actually, I called up to her three times. She has not yet answered me.

Andrew nods. “Gotcha.”

Shortly after Andrew disappears into the dining room and calls her name, I hear her quick footsteps on the staircase. So that’s how it’s going to be.

I put together two plates containing the steak, mashed potatoes, and a side of broccoli. The portions are smaller on Cecelia’s plate, and I am not going to enforce whether she eats the broccoli or not. If her father wants her to eat it, he can make her do it. But I would be remiss if I didn’t provide vegetables. When I was growing up, my mother always made sure to have a serving of vegetables on a dinner plate.

I’m sure she’s still wondering where she went wrong with raising me.

Cecelia is wearing another of her overly fancy dresses in an impractical pale color. I’ve never seen her wear normal kid clothing, and it just seems wrong. You can’t play in the dresses Cecelia wears—they’re too uncomfortable and they show every speck of dirt. She sits down at one of the chairs at the dining table, takes the napkin I laid out, and places it down on her lap daintily. For a moment, I’m a bit charmed. Then she opens her mouth.

“Why did you give me water?” She crinkles her nose at the glass of filtered water I put at her place setting. “I hate water. Get me apple juice.”

If I had spoken to somebody like that when I was a child, my mother would have smacked my hand and told me to say “please.” But Cecelia isn’t my child, and I haven’t managed to endear myself to her yet in the time I’ve been here. So I smile politely, take the water away, and bring her a glass of apple juice.

When I place the new glass in front of her, she carefully examines it. She holds it up to the light, narrowing her eyes. “This glass is dirty. Get me another one.”