I head around a sharp turn in the road and stop in shock at the sprawling estate laid out in front of me. This has to be the Redmond estate, because the street dead ends in front of its impressive gates. I start walking slowly toward it. Even in this community of opulent houses, this one stands out. Behind the gates I can see white columns rising two stories high around the portico, and the rest of the house spreads out on either side in monolithic red brick. A well-manicured lawn dotted with stately oaks and maples surrounds it, and I think I can safely guess that the gardens extend quite far in the back.
I approach the towering gates and spot a small call box on the left side. I walk over and press a button on it, staring into the nearly white sky as I wait for a response.
"Yes?" a woman's voice crackles through.
"Hi, it's Cora MacAuliffe, from Landmark Domestics. I'm the new maid."
"There's a small gate on the side. I'll buzz you through."
I glance around and then spot a well-camouflaged gate to my left, separate from the main gate made for cars, that's emitting a soft humming noise. I hurriedly push it open before I miss my chance, and step onto a path of small stones that connects to the curving driveway. I walk up, hearing the crunch of the white gravel under my feet.
The front door opens and a portly woman who looks to be in her early sixties stands in the doorway, fist perched expectantly on her hip.
"I'm Ms. Mueller," she says without a trace of a smile. "I'm the cook. I'll be showing you around."
"Cora. Nice to meet you."
"Well, we'd better drop your suitcase off first, and then I'll show you the rest of the house and explain your duties." I follow her through an enormous entryway. Everywhere I look are touches of opulence, from the white marble floor to the gold inlay on the small table by the door with a vase of pink lilies on top of it. I realize I've stopped and hurry to catch up to her as she marches through a lavish formal living room, dining room, and then finally into a large, spotless kitchen equipped with modern appliances.
We walk to a small, unobtrusive doorway in the corner of the kitchen and up a narrow, winding staircase. "Here's your room," she says, pointing to a closed door, then gestures further down the hallway. "The next door is your bathroom, then my room and then Mr. Sarka's. He's the head of security for Mr. Redmond, and his driver. The gardener, Mr. Jones, lives offsite, though I'm sure you'll see him working around the grounds once it warms up. Mr. Sarka and I each have our own bathroom, so you're the only person using that one."
"Wow," is all I can say. She opens up the door and I walk in. It's a small, but clean and sunny room, lit by a floor-to-ceiling window on the wall opposite the door. A desk sits on one wall next to a bureau, and there's a closet and a twin bed across from them. "Is this where the last maid—"
"Yes," she cuts me off. "But the police have gone through everything, so there's no problem with you staying here."
"Right," I murmur, thinking that it does feel just a bit creepy anyway. She stands looking at me expectantly and I wheel my suitcase into the corner and take off my coat. She nods.
"You'll find your uniform in the closet. Make sure it's always clean and pressed. Follow me." I hurry after her as she abruptly turns and walks back down the stairwell. "The house was built in the late 1800's in the Colonial Revival style by the Redmonds' ancestors, and then added onto by subsequent generations. Mr. Redmond built the guest house out back only two years ago for his mother to live in," she says over her shoulder.
"So just Brent Redmond and his mother live here?"
"His younger sister Whitney goes to Wellesley and visits home quite often, and Mr. Redmond frequently has overnight guests and parties. This house functions not just as a home, but as a centerpiece for his real estate company," she replies boastfully. "The parlor," she points out as we pass a room facing the backyard with a grand piano in the corner. "The dining room," she says continuing, gesturing toward a large room with a table that must seat at least a dozen people. "I've been trying to do some of the cleaning myself since we've had a difficult time filling your position, but I'm so busy with the cooking, and my knees aren't what they used to be. I used to do it all, but I move a little slower now."
This is her slower? She's walking so briskly through the house that I hardly have time to look at anything. We circle back to the formal living room before we head upstairs and I stop, glancing at a family portrait over the fireplace. An oil done in muted colors—but that's not what catches my eye.
"Is that him?" I ask, staring at the light blue eyes that have stopped me in my tracks. His dark brown, almost black hair is combed back, though I can see a slight wave to it, and his strong nose has just the slightest turn to it, as though he may have broken it at as a child.