Beautiful Affliction

by Celia Loren

  "Of course," I nod, putting on the impassive mask that I've learned to wear as a domestic even as I wonder about my new boss. "Let's keep going."

  After a whirlwind tour of the rest of the house, I'm given a chance to go back to my room to change. I take a moment to plug my phone into the outlet next to the desk, and see a small brown stain on the carpet between the desk and the window. I push my foot over it, but it looks like it's been there a while. I have no time to attempt to clean it now. Instead, I step around my suitcase to open my closet door.

  The only contents are three identical gray dresses, with white cuffs on their short sleeves. I take one out and lay it on the bed as I undress. I expected this kind of uniform, and came prepared with stockings and comfortable black shoes. I pull the sturdy fabric over my head and smooth it down. There's a mirror on the inside of the closet door and I study myself in it. I never had to wear a uniform at the Akermans', but I like the way it looks. I could practically fade into the background in this thing.

  I know that sounds like a perverse thing to enjoy, but ever since my sister Grace died I've lost interest in…well, everything. My mom used to clean houses to help support our family, and being a maid appealed to me. No one expecting anything from me except that I do my job. I could be almost nameless, faceless, and I liked the idea of having small, repetitive tasks to focus my mind on. Besides, since I was dropping out of college, I needed a place to live.

  I open my suitcase and find my brush in my toiletries case. I undo my ponytail and comb my hair into the low, tight bun that I always wear when I'm working. My thick, auburn hair is quite unwieldy, and I know that it takes exactly ten bobby pins to hold it in place firmly. I make eye contact with myself in the mirror and quickly look away. There's sadness behind my green eyes, a constant, unshakeable reminder.

  I open the door to my bedroom and walk down to the kitchen. Ms. Mueller is standing over the stove with her back to me, so I continue to the mud room off the kitchen where all the cleaning supplies are kept. It's already one P.M. and the guests will be arriving at seven, so I'll have to hurry to do at least a basic cleaning of the whole first floor. I almost smile. Burying myself in that kind of task is the closest I come to happiness these days.

  Chapter Three

  As I crouch on my hands and knees, wiping down the legs of the grand piano in the parlor, I can faintly hear the sound of a car coming up the front drive. A few minutes later, footsteps echo from the foyer's marble floor. If I understand the layout of the house correctly, I think someone has come in from the garage, and then crossed through the Eastern wing of the house. As the footsteps approach the parlor, I duck my head around one of the legs just in time to see a flash of a tall, elegantly dressed man cross the doorway and continue toward the kitchen.

  Must have been Mr. Redmond. I wonder if I should stop my task and follow him into the kitchen to introduce myself, but I still have a few more spots left to clean; and the grandfather clock on the wall reads just after six.

  After another half hour, I return the cleaning supplies to the mud room and run up to my room to check my uniform and hair. After a cursory glance in the mirror, I hurry back downstairs to help Ms. Mueller in the kitchen. A wave of delicious smells greets me and I watch her scurrying from one pot to another. I wonder how I can assist. I would cook small meals now and then for the Akermans, but nothing like the feast being prepared in front of me. She glances up and spots me.

  "Take the silver trays out of the cupboard next to the fridge and start plating the hors d'oeuvres," she instructs me. "When the guests arrive, take their coats and put them in the front closet and then ask them what they'd like to drink. The bar is in the living room, and sometimes Mr. Redmond will man it himself. If he asks you to get a bottle of wine, the wine cellar is in the basement."

  Holy hell, there's a whole additional floor to this house that I haven't even seen?

  As I locate the ornate trays in the cupboard, an elegantly-dressed woman with dark brown hair pulled into a chignon bursts through the French doors and walks into the kitchen. Her skin is only softly lined for a woman of her age, and I can’t help but wonder if she's had work done. She surveys me with a trained eye as I set the tray on the kitchen island.

  "I'm Leigh Redmond," she introduces herself. "I'm sorry I couldn't meet you earlier, but I've been laid up with a headache."

  "Cora MacAuliffe," I reply. "I'm glad to see you're feeling better. Would you like anything to drink?"

  "Champagne," she says. "I drink Krug Grand Cuvee. You'll find plenty of bottles on the left wall of the wine cellar as you walk in. At some point I might ask you for a vodka tonic, which I like with three ice cubes and one thinly sliced lime wedge."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Is my son home yet?"

  "Yes, ma'am," Ms. Mueller replies. "He's upstairs getting changed I believe."

  "He finally made it on time for once," she comments. "He works so much that he's frequently late to his own parties," she explains to me. "Everything looks wonderful, Eugenia."

  Eugenia? Ah, must be Ms. Mueller's first name. I smile inwardly. Quite a flowery name for such a shrewd woman. As Mrs. Redmond leans over the stove and begins to talk with Ms. Mueller, I find the door to the basement and head into the wine cellar to get the champagne. The basement is finished, and there's a huge great room ahead of me, but I see the wine cellar on my right and head in. Sure enough, there’s over a dozen bottles of the champagne in green bottles with gold labels. I take two just in case other guests may want some, and head back up to the kitchen. Mrs. Redmond is gone when I return and I have just enough time to plate a container of mini crab cakes when I hear the doorbell ring.

  I rub my hands dry on my dress as I hurry to the front door. I can hear jazz music playing from the living room, but don't see anyone. I open the door to find a handsome man in his early 30s standing on the threshold. He does a slight double take as he sees me.

  "Oh, you must be new! You're very…" he trails off and clears his throat, stepping inside. "Mark Scanlon, friend of Brent's. Also a lawyer, but try not to hold it against me," he says as he hands me his dark wool coat.

  "I'll do my absolute best," I murmur in reply. His lips turn up in amusement just as Mrs. Redmond breezes toward us.

  "Mark! Where's Kristine?" she asks, kissing him on the cheek.

  "Not feeling well, but she's trying to rally."

  "I think there's something going around…" I hear Mrs. Redmond reply as I hang up Mark's coat. I'm about to head back into the kitchen when I hear the doorbell ring again.

  A flurry of guests begin to arrive and in a short time the living room is filled with about a dozen people. I can't imagine any more will fit at the dining room table, so I hurry back into the kitchen for a tray and find that Ms. Mueller has set out an additional tray of food for me.

  "Figs with pancetta and goat cheese," she explains, waving me toward the door.

  I nod, my head spinning, as I balance the tray on my palm and head toward the living room. As I enter, I see the people have split into several small clusters, so I head toward the nearest one. They shift slightly as I walk toward them, and I glance up and directly into the pale blue eyes of the man tending bar at the other end of the room.

  My stomach flips and I catch my toe on the edge of the rug. "Oh!" I exclaim as I stumble slightly but manage to catch myself on a wing-backed chair before any of the hors d'oeuvres go flying off the tray.

  The room quiets for a moment, and I hear Mrs. Redmond say, "I hope she's not going to be as clumsy as Jody."

  "Mom," a deep, throaty voice admonishes her and I glance up to see the man staring at me. Brent Redmond. His light eyes feel like they're looking right through me. And I can immediately tell that he's filled out since the painting was done, his broad shoulders testing the width of his black suit and open, white collared shirt. He breaks his gaze away. "Who'd like a drink?" he asks loudly, and to my great relief, the rest of the room turns away from the spectacle that is me.


  I blink a couple times and take a deep breath, then walk around the room offering Ms. Mueller's fig concoctions and taking wine and champagne orders from people who aren't drinking from the bar. I give the host himself a wide berth. When my tray is empty, I return to the kitchen and set it down on the counter. I fill up a couple champagne flutes and glasses of white wine and notice that my hands are shaking.

  I feel…I feel…butterflies, I realize. It's been so long that I can hardly remember what the sensation is like. There is something odd about Mr. Redmond, something that doesn’t quite fit—it’s as if he’s a rough prizefighter wrapped up in an expensive suit.

  Mr. Redmond, Mr. Redmond, Mr. Redmond, I repeat in my head as I place the drinks on the tray and hurry back into the living room, taking care to step over the fringed edge of the carpet this time.

  The group has livened up, particularly around the bar where Mr. Redmond seems to be holding court. I hear a rough laugh bubble up from his direction and feel a corresponding shiver go up my spine. I finish passing out the drink orders just as the doorbell rings again. I walk to the door with the tray in my hand and open it to find a tall, pretty young woman with light brown hair. She starts as she looks up at me.

  "Oh, hello! Sorry I'm late. I got caught up, I think it's about to storm out here—"

  "That's alright. Everyone is still just having drinks," I assure her as she walks in and I take her coat. "Would you like anything?"

  "Red wine," she murmurs.

  "Kristine! You made it." Mark walks over to us and pulls her toward the rest of the party. I hang her coat and fetch a glass of red and the tray of crab cakes. After one more round of hors d'oeuvres, the guests move into the dining room. By the time I serve the first course, the group’s already become quite lively. I do my best to navigate the crowded dining room and meet every raucous request before I retire—with relief—to the kitchen.

  As I walk back in, I see a strange man munching on the remains of the salad. He's middle-aged, balding, just under six feet and wiry. He winks at me and I blush.

  "Don't worry, I'm not an intruder. Name’s Aaron. Aaron Sarka, head of security, driver, man about town," he says. "Say…you're too pretty to be a maid."

  "Ease off, Aaron," Ms. Mueller says, emerging from the pantry, though I get the feeling she's amused by him.

  "Come on, this isn't Downton Abbey," he replies, with a grin that I can't help but return. It's nice to have someone poke fun at the formality of this place. "You settling in alright? Where are you from?" he asks, not giving me time to answer the first question.

  "Haverbrook. Small town, about forty-five minutes away," I reply, sitting in a chair next to the island. It feels good to rest my feet for a moment. "You?"

  "Army brat. Here, there, and everywhere. So I'll give you the formal rundown of the security procedures tomorrow, but you won't get any alarm codes for a little while. Just standard procedure. Have to make sure you're one of the good ones."

  "Would you stop picking at that?!" Ms. Mueller exclaims, batting his hand away from a plate of salmon. "There's a plate for you in the fridge!"

  "Why didn't you just tell me?" Aaron replies with faux exasperation.

  "There's one for you, too, Cora, though you should wait until the guests finish eating."

  "Of course," I nod, eyeing Aaron's plate hungrily. The next few hours fly by, between making frequent trips into the dining room with additional courses, refilling drinks, clearing plates, and avoiding staring at Mr. Redmond. The guests are gathering in the parlor for after dinner drinks as I finally fill the dishwasher and have a chance to glance at the clock, which reads just after eleven. Aaron and Ms. Mueller have already gone to bed.

  I fetch my dinner plate from the fridge and reheat it in the microwave, then sit at the counter to eat it. It's beyond delicious, and I’m already looking forward to eating more of Ms. Mueller's leftovers while I'm working here. I can hear faint sounds of laughter outside and the cars starting and driving off as I'm eating. I finish quickly and make a couple trips to the parlor to clear glasses and dessert plates. On my last trip, the only people left are Mr. Redmond, Mark, and Kristine, who looks to be Mark's girlfriend, judging by their body language. None of them look up at me as I quietly enter and exit, though I'm used to that. It's amazing how much you can pick up about people's behavior when they don't even notice you're there.

  As I put my own dinner plate in the dishwasher, I hear a slight noise behind me. I glance around and straighten up quickly when I see that it's Mr. Redmond, watching me in silence from the doorway. My breath catches in my throat and I stare back at him. He's taller than he looked from a distance—can't be an inch under six foot three.

  "Brent Redmond," he introduces himself from the across the island.

  "Cora MacAuliffe," I reply, my voice just above a whisper.

  "I hope my mother didn't embarrass you, but please be more careful in the future. I like everything to be neat and in its proper place," he continues in his deep, gravelly voice.

  I turn scarlet. Here I was feeling grateful for him for distracting everyone from my misstep, and he'd just been waiting to admonish me in private.

  "Of course, Brent—" I catch myself just after his first name slips through my lips. Fuck. I don't have to look up to tell that he's frowning at me.

  "You should refer to me as Mr. Redmond," he says quietly, and I bristle at the slight arrogance that works its way into his voice, even though I know I'm at fault.

  "Of course, Mr. Redmond," I reply, biting my lip. “I’m sorry sir.” I can't think of a worse way to start off a first meeting with a new boss. His proximity is just so…unnerving. "Do you need anything?"

  He pauses for so long that I finally raise my eyes. He's staring at me with an unreadable expression in his pale blue eyes, his thick brows drawn slightly together.

  "No," he finally replies. "Goodnight," he adds, turning to leave.

  "Goodnight," I breathe, so quietly that he probably doesn't even hear me. I curse myself inwardly. Get it together, Cora, or your first day is going to be your last.

  Chapter Four

  I lean forward onto the granite-topped island and give myself a minute to shake off our humiliating interaction. I steady myself and take another look around the kitchen, and then stop into the parlor, living room, and dining room to make sure they're all clean, then finally make my way up the back staircase to my room. Just as a guest predicted earlier, I see the first drops of rain hit the glass of my window.

  I take off my shoes stiffly, feeling the wear of the day in my bones. That was a doozy. I hope not every day here is that exhausting. I should definitely remember to ask Ms. Mueller how many parties Mr. Redmond actually throws. I grab my toiletry bag and head to the bathroom. Ms. Mueller said I'm the only one who uses it, so I unpack my toiletries, feeling slightly more at home with my things in the medicine cabinet. As I brush my teeth, I think over my short interaction with Mr. Redmond.

  He can't be much older than thirty, so his financial success is nothing short of astounding. During the party, from what I observed, he seemed lively, even boisterous, but in the kitchen, he seemed much more tightly wound, and, frankly, full of himself. I can't excuse the fact that I did almost trip and I certainly called him by his first name, but it was his aloofness when taking me to task that bothered me. My mind starts wandering to those broad shoulders, and I shake my head at myself. Even if he didn't seem so arrogant, he's still my boss.

  Back in my bedroom, I undress slowly and dig my nightgown out of my suitcase. I wish I'd had a chance to unpack today. Well, I just have tomorrow to get through, and then Sunday is my day off. As I close my eyes, I hope that my long day will help me get to sleep, but my usual insomnia takes hold. I grab my phone from its charger and find myself typing in "Jody Hall disappearance." A few small stories from the Herald pop up, but it doesn't seem to have garnered much attention. I open the first article and my stomach clenches as Jody's photo pops up.

  The caption below
it identifies her as twenty-nine years old, but she could pass for a decade younger, especially because of the naïve expression in her eyes. That's what's made my hair stand on end—those green eyes, so similar to Grace's, and my own. Her expression is slightly startled, her lips parted, as though she didn't know the photograph was being taken. She's far plainer than my little sister, that's true; it's the innocence of her countenance and her eyes that made me think of Grace. I scroll farther down the page and start reading:

  Jody Hall, 29, has disappeared from the town of Norwich. She was last seen by her boyfriend, Andres Moreno, when they met for coffee at Alicia's Diner on the corner of Ludlow and Sixth Streets on the afternoon of Sunday, February 18th.

  Police have no leads at this time, though Detective Felix Donohue of the Norwich Police Department stated, "Norwich has one of the lowest crime rates in the state, not to mention the country, and we intend to keep it that way. We have not uncovered any signs of foul play, and we still hold out hope that we will find Ms. Hall unharmed."

  At the time of her disappearance, Ms. Hall was in the employ of Brent Redmond, CEO of Redmond Capital Properties, as a domestic servant at his Norwich estate. When contacted for comment, Mr. Redmond replied through his attorney Mark Scanlon, saying, "Jody is a fine employee, and everyone at Redmond Capital Properties hopes for her safe return." Pressed for further comment, Mr. Scanlon would only say that there seems to be no evidence of a connection between Ms. Hall's employment and her disappearance.

  I scan the other two articles, which are even more sparsely detailed. They simply relay the fact that no new information has been uncovered. I frown. Missing four weeks? Seems rather optimistic to keep calling it a disappearance, though no one would accuse me of being a positive thinker.