“Not for another hour. Can you finish by then?” I say. She nods. I set my bag on the counter and lean in close. The sun catches in my eyes but I let it. “I need to ask you a favor.”
She nods, but I wait until she croaks, “Okay.” There is a fuzz of sweat along her top lip. I can tell she is uneasy. It’s something about this house that does it. People feel themselves falling. It took me ages to get used to.
“Don’t mention to my husband where we met. Let’s pretend you’re an old friend, someone I can trust. I can trust you, can’t I?”
“You just met me,” she says, which proves her trustworthiness.
“Exactly.” I straighten my spine. “I can’t trust anyone I know.”
* * *
I SIT ON a bench at the kitchen island and watch her cook because I don’t have anything else to do. It’s soothing actually, the way she knows just what to do and when. It’s like watching a witch cast a spell, a pinch of bay leaves and a sparkle of salt. I am not used to seeing people do things with their hands. There is something so earthy about it. Her necklaces glint and twist together.
“Where did you learn to do this?” I imagine taking cooking lessons but what would be the point when you can hire someone better without lifting a finger?
“My mother taught me.” Her voice is monotone. She’s in a cooking trance.
“We used to have a tenant who cooked.” I sigh into my knuckles. “You could smell it rising up all the way from down there.” I indicate the yard beyond the glass, which is blackening by the minute.
“A tenant?”
“Yes, we used to take tenants in our guesthouse. It was our way of giving back. We would find someone in need and try to help them. This world can be so inaccessible.” I have repeated this spiel so many times, it comes easily off my tongue, but my nose crinkles, my tongue sours.
“Used to?” Her eyes tip up, catch mine, then flutter down.
“We stopped after the last one. It turns out it’s very draining having a stranger practically underneath you. You end up wrapped up in their lives. Besides”—I stand up, walk across the floor to the point in the glass where you can see the house down below—“it’s so hard helping people, you know. Some people just don’t want to be helped.” I see the roof peaking out from below, the porch and the fence around it. I remember nights on that same porch, how loud we would laugh, knowing our laughter would rise up. “There’s a little guesthouse right there. It’s a terrible place to live. It’s very dark and cold. I told Graham we ought to keep the help down there. Would you want to live there?”
“No. I mean, no, thank you.” Her jaw is set in a funny way.
“No.” I run a finger down the glass. “Neither would I.”
* * *
THE PASTA SAUCE is simmering pleasantly when I hear Graham come through the gate. I know it’s him by the way he shoves it, like he hopes it will snap back. I peek around the glass and see him hesitate over the fountain, catching his reflection.
Graham is one of the few people I know who is more attractive close-up than he is at a distance. Far away he could be any other handsome, well-dressed man. Up close, his appearance feels like a threat.
He finds what he is looking for and walks toward the door, briefcase swinging easily beside him. The new housekeeper is gone, like the best help, invisible. I gave her a bottle of Mo?t to take with her.
I can see the scent hit his nostrils as he walks through the door, spring in his step. “What the hell is that?” he says, lips teased into a smile.
“I made dinner.”
He swings his briefcase onto the table by the door. It clangs against a decorative silver tray. “You made dinner?”
“Well, I hired someone. Obviously”
“Thank God.” He undoes his top button. “I don’t want you cooking.”
He pauses at the mirror. Graham is doomed to be beautiful, or everyone else is doomed for him to be. True beauty is always confused for goodness in a man and deceptiveness in a woman. Graham looks like a saint. He dresses in three-piece suits in shades of blue so dark, they’re near black. His suits are so perfectly tailored, it looks like he was made for them. He is so clean that he makes you want to wash your hands.
“And I found a housekeeper.” My voice hits a high note, too eager to please. “Two in one.”
He loosens his tie. “What a woman.” He strides to the kitchen and wraps his arms around me, like tentacles. I can smell him.