"Yes, that's Mr. Redmond," Ms. Mueller replies, throwing me a sharp glance. "With Whitney and their parents. His father passed away soon after they lost the house."
"Lost the house?" I repeat, breaking the painting's gaze to turn to her.
She turns to face me from the first step. "Hugh Redmond did not have his son's talent in business, nor did his father or grandfather, for that matter. They went into debt and the house had to be sold. Hugh Redmond passed away, and his son made it his mission to build the company back from bankruptcy. He more than succeeded, and one of the first things he did was to buy this house back."
"You've been with them a long time."
"Almost twenty years," she says, a hint of softness creeping into her voice. "Except for a short time during the years when they couldn't pay me." She looks me over for a moment and I wonder if she’s found something to criticize, but she steps forward and says, "I'm sorry I have to rush you, but Mr. Redmond is having a dinner party tonight, the house doesn’t quite look like the way it should, and I have a lot of food prep to get to. Mr. Redmond is very…specific about what he likes."
"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.