by Celia Loren
"I'm Whitney. The sister. Probably they forgot to tell you about me," she says, rolling her eyes. I smile at her, even as I'm struck by how little she resembles her brother and mother, with her pale blonde hair and hazel eyes.
"No, no, of course not. I just wasn't expecting to find anyone out here."
"My roommate has her boyfriend over again, so I decided to come home for the night to actually get some sleep. Not that I feel much like sleeping," she adds, bouncing from one foot to the other. "I'm looking for some sheets actually, maybe you've seen them," she explains in a whisper, moving toward the closet. "Pink, with these little dark pink hearts on them. They're my favorite, but there's these plain white sheets on my bed right now and they're not as soft."
I wince. "Oh. I have seen those. I'm sorry, I washed all the bed sheets today, and your mother told me to throw those out."
"Ugh, she's such a bitch sometimes! She was just waiting for the opportunity," Whitney moans. "So I have a couple stuffed animals and stuff still, so what? I don't get why she cares."
"I am sorry," I repeat. I didn't realize I was stepping into their family drama when I tossed the sheets. My eye moves to the linen closet. "This may sound like a silly question, but did you take a pillow with you to school?"
"No, are you kidding? My mom would never have allowed it. Why?"
"It's just, there are only four of them, and this closet is so carefully organized. See? There are five of absolutely everything else. I didn't see it around the house, so I just wondered."
"Huh. I like you better than Jody," she states matter-of-factly, though I can't help but wince. She is dead, after all, but it's clear Whitney didn't mean anything by it. She seems to possess a forthrightness and energy that causes her to say whatever comes to her mind. I can see how she and her well-heeled mother would grate against each other. "You got her old room, huh?" she asks, walking in.
"Oh, um, yes," I say, trailing her. I remember the drawing on my desk a second too late.
"Well, well, well," she says, raising her eyebrows. "So you're the latest woman to fall under my brother's spell. Good drawing, though. I mean, I can actually tell it's him—you even captured that haughty look he gets sometimes."
"Um, I'm not under his spell or anything," I protest, even though she's exactly right.
"It's OK. I can't tell you how many girls in high school only wanted to be my friend so they could come over and flirt with him. It was gross. He's way old. Also my brother."
"Right," I reply with a smile as she plops onto my bed. I take a seat across from her in my desk chair.
"Isn't it creepy for you? Staying in here?" she asks, looking around.
"Well, the police already checked it out, and they said it's fine. Sounds like she might have just fallen off the bridge over Cedar Lake on her way back from town or something. Maybe she couldn't swim, and the water must have been freezing."
"Hm, maybe. Doesn't that hurt your head? Wearing your hair pulled so tight like that?"
"Oh, I forgot I hadn't taken it out yet. My hair's so crazy, I just like to have it out of the way while I'm working," I reply, reaching behind me to pull out the bobby pins. "You're very inquisitive," I observe with a smile.
"Tell me about it. My mom hates it. Do you want me to stop? She's always telling me that people find it rude."
"No, I don't mind at all. You remind me a little of my sister, actually."
"She in college, too?"
"No. She's dead."
"Oh." Whitney's face fills with chagrin. "See, that's why I'm not supposed to ask so many questions."
"It's OK, I promise," I tell her, trying to give her a smile that doesn't contain any sadness in it. As I take out the last pin, she jumps up and runs her fingers through my hair, fluffing it out.
"Wow, I wish I had hair like yours. Mine's so thin and flat. Here, I'll give you a braid on the side."
"OK," I laugh, amazed by her energy. She's like a shot of sunlight after feeling so down about what happened with her brother.
"I have some real art supplies in my room. You can use them anytime you want. One of the many activities my mom tried to get me to do, she said I needed to focus my energies and all that."
"Thanks, but I don't really do art anymore. What are you studying in college, then?"
"Dunno yet. Undeclared. Maybe philosophy, but there aren't a ton of jobs as a philosopher these days. Not that I really need a job…because we're super rich and everything, but nobody likes to talk about that."
"It might feel good to have a job, though. So you feel useful."
"Yeah, that's true. I can't see myself as a lady who lunches or anything, just sitting on a bunch of charitable boards and getting Botox."
"Your brother won't talk to you about it?"
"Brent still thinks I'm twelve. I mean, he's way better than my mom, though, who wants me to act like some thirty-year old lady or something. Hey, you want to go for a walk?" She asks, dropping my finished braid.
"Isn't it past midnight?"
"You're probably right," she agrees, frowning out at the darkness outside my window.
"And I have work tomorrow."
"Oh yeah, I forgot you worked here. OK, well, I'll go amuse myself," she says, heading for the door.
"OK. Sorry about your sheets."
"Not your fault. See you later!" she says with a wave, disappearing into the hallway. I stand to close the door behind her, feeling like a small tornado just swept me up for a minute. She has so much energy!
A troubling thought occurs to me that I hope isn't true. She is in college, could she be experimenting with drugs? I never did cocaine in college, but certainly other students did. Well, at least she seemed like she had a warm heart, and a good head on her shoulders otherwise. The room seems rather empty without her now, actually.
I walk back to my desk and look down at the drawing. It is a good likeness. I pause for a moment, then reach forward and tear off the sheet, crumpling it up before tossing it in the trash can under the desk. Don't need anyone else seeing that. I sit down and start a new list. I can already tell tonight's going to be a particularly rough one, insomnia-wise. Let's see, what did I have before:
Mrs. Redmond—Krug Grand Cuvee…
Chapter Nine
The problem with kissing your boss when you're a live-in maid, is that, you know, you LIVE IN THE SAME HOUSE, I think to myself over and over as I go out of my way to avoid him. I've managed to pull it off for the last few days, except for serving him at dinner, of course. At dinnertime, he's only made contact with me when absolutely necessary, and I've done the same. There's nothing I can do about my body's reaction to him, unfortunately. After such a long break, it's like my hormones are determined to make up for lost time. But at least we haven't been alone together again.
I make my way across the foyer from the kitchen to do a final sweep for glasses before I turn on the dishwasher. I've noticed Mr. Redmond often has a glass of whiskey in his office at night, though I want to make sure he's not in there now. I slow down as I walk toward his door. I can see that it's open, and there's no sound coming from inside. He must have gone to bed already.
I walk in quickly, and stop short. He's sitting behind his desk with his face in his hands.
"Oh, sorry, I—" I stammer, retreating to the door.
"It's alright," he says, raising his head.
"I didn't think anyone was in here. I just came to pick up your glass," I say, pointing to the empty lowball glass in front of him. He pushes it toward me and I use the opportunity to glance at his expression. He looks exhausted. "Um, are you…are you alright?"
He clears his throat. "I was about to go to bed when Aaron called. Autopsy results came in today and his contact in the department let him know. Jody was murdered. Smothered."
"Oh my god." I pause for a moment, not knowing quite what to say. "You were… close then?"
"No…I just…I feel responsible."
"I…how so?"
"An employee of mine
…someone who worked in my own home…murdered."
"You're not responsible for us. Especially, I mean, she was on her day off. What are you supposed to do? Give each of us a twenty-four hour armed guard?"
"I should have let Aaron put up the cameras when he wanted to. Then they'd have a more precise time for when she left. It just felt so 'big brother' to me. When people come here, I want them to feel a sense of tradition, not never-ending surveillance. Well, anyway, he's having them put in in a few days." He stands and walks over to the bar cart with his glass, pouring himself a couple fingers of Laphroaig.
"You have to stop that kind of thinking. If you let just a little bit of it in, it'll spread in your brain like a poison." He turns to me with his eyebrows raised. "Or something like that," I add with a small smile.
"You drink whiskey?"
"Not really."
"Well, do me a favor and have some now. It'll make me feel less pathetic if I'm not drinking alone."
"'Pathetic' isn't really a word I'd associate with you, but alright," I acquiesce. He gestures toward the two armchairs in the corner by the window as he hands me a glass.
"I hope you don't think I just enjoy getting you drunk."
"The thought hadn't crossed my mind," I reply. A blush begins to spread across my cheeks as I wonder if he's going to bring up the kiss, but he sits down silently, tilting his glass from side to side so that the liquid swirls inside.
"Maybe I shouldn't feel so responsible, but I do," he finally says. "I inherited this company from my father when it was in shambles. His deathbed wish was for me to build it back up. Make it greater than it had ever been before."
I wince. "That's a lot of pressure. How did he die?"
"Lung cancer. He was a lifetime smoker. I think he could have lasted a little longer, but he just gave up. He felt like a failure for losing the house, and almost losing the company." He looks up and stares at me, his eyes boring into me until I shift nervously. "Why do I feel so comfortable talking to you?"
"I have no idea," I whisper.
He blinks, and I'm realized from his gaze. "My sister likes you," he states, taking a sip of his whiskey.
"I like her. Very much."
"I know she's…not everyone's cup of tea, but she's still just a kid." I can't help but smile. He narrows his eyes at me as I try to hide it behind my glass.
"Sorry, it's just that's exactly what she said you thought of her."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, she said you thought of her as still being twelve years old. I mean, what is she? Nineteen? That's just five years younger than me."
He frowns. "But Whitney is… well, she's just different. She needs protecting." I don't say anything in response, recognizing the stubborn look of an older sibling on his face. "How'd your parents feel about you going to art school?"
"They were just happy I was going to college. Any college. I was the first one in my family."
"They still live in…sorry, where was it?"
"So you still haven't read my file," I say with a smile. "It's this small town called Haverbrook, east of here—no one's ever heard of it. And no, they don't, they're divorced. My mom lives in Florida near her brother's family, and my dad's in California."
"You see them often?"
"Not really, no."
"Long story?"
"Long story."
A silence falls over us. With my eyes downcast, I can still just see his long finger rubbing against the top of his glass, back and forth, back and forth.
"You are younger than me, and you're my employee," he murmurs. My eyes flick back up to his. "I would be opening myself up to the possibility of a lawsuit. Especially with what happened to Jody…the press is already going to have a field day with that."
"It's alright, you don't have to explain," I whisper, looking back down at my hands. "It was my mistake. God, I'm embarrassed."
"No, you misunderstand. These aren't excuses. I kissed you."
"But I was the one who—"
"Cora. You are…if the situation were different…" he trails off. "I'd like to consider us friends. I find…I don't have many moments in my life when I can relax and be myself. Talking to you lately, I'm reminded how much I wear a mask in my life. It's a relief to take it off." I feel aware of every molecule of air entering my body, and my heartbeat sounds so loud in my ears. "I've made you uncomfortable."
"No. I just…I feel the same way."
"Good," he says, and takes another sip of whiskey. I follow suit, trying to digest everything he just said, and almost spit the fiery drink back in the glass. I look up to see him grinning at me.
"Well, I did say I wasn't much of a whiskey drinker," I say. "I should get to bed." I think a slight look of disappointment crosses his face, but he nods. I rise and take my glass with me to the door.
"Will you join me again tomorrow night? You don't have to drink whiskey, or anything else, for that matter."
"Alright. Goodnight, Mr. Redmond."
"Goodnight." I walk toward the kitchen, thinking how strange it felt to call him Mr. Redmond just then. I certainly never had any conversations like that with either of the Akermans. And then he asked me to 'join him' again tomorrow night…which felt like somewhere between a request from my boss and a friendly invitation.
He did seem to be saying he'd like to be more than friends, I think as I turn on the dishwasher. But even being friends with him feels strange. I mean, I wash his sheets. And his underwear. Briefs, black.
Chapter Ten
As I sit at the kitchen table polishing the silver, I catch a glimpse of myself in the teapot's warped reflection. I'm smiling, I realize with surprise. Happiness has crept onto the edges of my life so quietly that I didn't even notice it. I feel a stab of guilt as I press my cloth back into the polish. I don't deserve happiness. No one responsible for their own sister's death does.
It's Mr. Redmond, and the familiar routine I've settled into here, that's what's to blame. Almost every night for the last couple weeks I've joined him in his study for a nightcap, except on nights when he's hosting a party. On those nights I tend to be asleep before the last guests have even left.
"Was that the doorbell?" I hear Kristine Harrington ask from behind me, and turn to see her standing in the doorway.
"No, I'm sorry, Ms. Harrington," I reply, smiling at the rather high strung brunette.
"Ugh, where is she?" she mutters, dialing a number on her cell phone. She wanders into the kitchen and leans against the island as I continue with my work. She and Mark came over earlier in the afternoon and have been waiting for the fourth member of their group to show up. "Becca! Why haven't you been answering? Where are you?" she exclaims into the phone. I prick up my ears. I love that people don't care if the maid overhears their conversations. I pick up a lot. "Seriously? You've been begging me for this setup for months…why would you get wasted last night? No, I'm not going to set you up with Brent again! This was the only time he could do for months and it was a favor to you—it's not like he needs help in the dating department!" She hangs up her phone with an exclamation of annoyance.
I feel a pang of jealousy at hearing her last comment. I mean, obviously Mr. Redmond must have women throwing themselves at him, though I'm glad I've never had to witness it personally. I wonder if Kristine ever regrets her decision to dump him and go after his friend Mark. I mean, Mark is great—funny, smart, friendly—but he's no Brent Redmond.
"Well?" Mark asks as he and Mr. Redmond walk into the kitchen.
Kristine shakes her head. "Becca has, according to her, the worst hangover in the history of the world, so she's not coming. Sorry, guys."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Redmond shrug as Mark sighs in exasperation. "Well, what are we supposed to do then? You sort of need four people for a game day."
"Is Whitney home?" Kristine asks.
"At school," Mr. Redmond replies. I rub a dull spot on the creamer until I realize that there's an odd silence in the room. I look up
to see they're all staring at me.
"How are you at cards?" Mark asks.
"Um, fine, I guess," I reply, uncomfortable with the attention.
"Mark, she's working," Kristine says.
"Yeah, for Brent," Mark replies, smiling at his friend. "So, boss man, what do you say?"
"It's up to Cora," Mr. Redmond says, looking at me. I try to read his expression, but as usual, I fail. They're all looking at me still, though, so what choice do I really have?
"Sure," I reply, standing up and putting down the cloth.
"Fantastic!" Mark exclaims as I walk over to them. He gestures for me to follow him, and we head toward the basement steps with Mr. Redmond and Kristine trailing behind us. We go down the steps and continue past the door to the wine cellar and into the main room. I can see they've got a stack of cards waiting on the felt-covered poker table.
"Kristine and I are pretty good bridge players," Mark tells me warningly as he walks to the table.
"Oh, bridge?" I ask, beginning to feel embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I don't know how to play. I thought you meant poker or something." I've only ever heard of elderly people playing bridge. Elderly people and rich people, I realize. I see Mark glance at Kristine behind me and feel a blush spread across my cheeks. I don't belong.
"Billiards, then," Mr. Redmond says from behind me, crossing to the rack of cues.
"Is that OK, Cora?" Mark asks.
"Pool's good," I reply with a little smile.
"Kristine and I versus you two, then," Mark says, walking over to get a cue. "Should we make it interesting?" he asks Mr. Redmond. I notice my boss looking at me, and I give him the barest of nods. His eyes light up a little and he grins at Mark.
"Sure. If you win, you can pick any bottle from my wine cellar," he says.
"And if you win…we'll finish polishing that silver tea set," Mark replies, winking at me.
"Sound fair to you, Cora?" Mr. Redmond asks.
"I guess," I reply, trying to sound reluctant.
