Who is Maud Dixon?(26)
When she heard the word “forceful” being used in connection with herself, even though she knew it was perfectly true and not intended as derogation, she immediately felt like some rather ungraceful something animal, and the sensation did not please her.
Florence tapped her lower lip with her finger. Predatory? Yes. She nodded definitively. She typed it into the manuscript and underlined it, praying that she’d picked the right word—not just because she was eager for Helen’s approval, but because, she realized, she was slightly terrified of her.
16.
Over the next few days, Helen and Florence fell into a rhythm. Florence went over to the main house around nine or ten. She and Helen usually had a cup of coffee together while they went over the plan for the day. Otherwise, Florence would find a note on the kitchen counter listing her projects. There was usually some typing to be done, along with keeping up with Helen’s correspondence. Helen also wanted Florence to read several books on Moroccan history and culture and write up a summary of her findings.
Twice Helen lent Florence her car so she could drive to Hudson and pick up a book she needed or a few bottles of the Chateauneuf-du-Pape she liked to drink. Each time she told Florence to take her time and enjoy herself.
Florence discovered that Hudson proper was actually just as charming and picturesque as she’d imagined; it wasn’t until you crossed the bridge heading back to Cairo that things started to go to seed. The town’s main street, which they’d bypassed on the drive from the train station, was filled with bakeries, home-decor shops, and sunny restaurants.
On her second visit, however, Florence started to see something artificial in the town’s charm. It seemed designed for people who wanted to experience country living without feeling like they’d left Brooklyn. Plus, it wasn’t like she could afford the hand-dyed Shibori tablecloths and reclaimed driftwood objets d’art the boutiques sold. She could understand why Helen had settled in less fashionable Cairo.
Helen rarely went into town herself. Most days, she didn’t leave the property. It wasn’t until Florence’s second week on the job that she found herself alone in the house for the first time. Helen hadn’t mentioned where she was going, just that she’d be gone for several hours.
A few minutes after the car pulled away, Florence did something she’d wanted to do since she arrived: She crept up to the second floor and into Helen’s study. The sun streamed in from windows on two sides of the room, illuminating dust motes in the air. Florence sat down in Helen’s seat. The chair was made of ribbed, caramel-colored leather that had been worn down by use. She ran her hands across the desk’s scarred wood. She opened the top drawer and found a laptop in it. She glanced at the door, then took it out and opened it. The screen came to life but a dialog box appeared asking for a password. Florence quickly shut it and put it back where she’d found it. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. She pretended that this was her study. That all she ever had to do was to sit in this beautiful room and write whatever she wanted.
Suddenly she heard a bang downstairs and bolted from the room, sending the chair careening across the floor. Downstairs, she realized that it had only been the wind blowing the kitchen door shut. She hurried back up to make sure she left the room exactly as she’d found it.
This aborted foray upstairs did nothing to allay her curiosity. If anything, it emboldened her. She sifted through Helen’s emails, looking for something personal. She finally spotted, three pages in, a message with the subject line Turandot? She opened it.
Helen,
What do you think about Turandot on April 5th? I know we just saw it last year, but this production is supposed to be spectacular. Let me know.
Sylvie
Florence Googled the name in the email address: Sylvie Daloud. She was an architect who lived in New York. Florence searched the inbox for more emails from her. There were dozens, nearly all of them concerning opera. Helen’s replies were just as polite and formal as Sylvie’s. So much for deploring moderation, Florence thought.
Florence had to skim through emails back until November before she found a personal email from someone other than Sylvie.
Helen!!! I hope this is actually you. I just ran into Daphne and she gave me your email address but said she hadn’t used it in ages. How are you?? Married? Kids? Where are you living now? I’m still in Jackson, married to Tim. We’ve got two great girls, and we’re waiting on a third. Let’s just say Tim knows more about Disney princesses than he ever thought he would lol. Anyhoo! I just wanted to say hi. I still see the gang pretty regularly and we all realized we hadn’t talked to you in forever. Do you ever come back to visit? We just built an extension on our house (don’t ask me about it—I’ve barely recovered!) so there’s a guestroom with your name on it…
Xoxo Tori
Florence searched the Sent folder. Helen had never responded, and Tori hadn’t tried again. Florence thought it was little wonder that Helen hadn’t wanted to keep in touch with someone who casually deployed “anyhoo!” in her correspondence.
She looked in Helen’s search history and found a seemingly random collection of terms: Guerlain KissKiss Shaping Cream lip color in “Red Passion.” How to replace a lost passport abroad. Mississippi parole regulations. Someone named Lisa Blackford. A restaurant in a place called Semat, Morocco. Florence’s own LinkedIn page and Instagram account. She flushed when she saw that. Florence was mortified at the thought of Helen looking through her Instagram account, which had barely thirty followers and featured mainly pictures of dogs she saw on the street and quotes from books she was reading.