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.