Considering Us

1

“This is pasta salad with chicken. It’s already dressed with a red wine vinaigrette, but here’s extra if they want it. The gazpacho will taste better tomorrow because the flavors will be more developed, so maybe someone can have that for lunch.” I dug out one more container from my cooler bag. “And this is the broth Mrs. Preston requested. Oh, I don’t think I caught your name. I’m Devon.”

The housekeeper nodded, almost shaking from what was likely an overwhelming first week on the job. Staff never lasted long in the Prestons’ house. “She told me she asked you for vegetable instead of chicken,” the young woman said with a nervous quiver in her voice, smoothing her unwrinkled apron. “I’m supposed to make sure it’s vegetable.” Despite her novice status in the Preston household, she had already learned that she didn’t want to piss off Julianna Preston. “I’m Angie,” she squeaked out.

I groaned to myself. I had been through this sort of thing with multiple housekeepers at this address. “It’s vegetable, I promise. You won’t get in any kind of trouble.” I zipped up the cooler. “Thanks, Angie. I’ll be back on Monday. I can show myself out.”

I walked out into the hallway from the kitchen slowly, peering through open doors to see if anyone else was home. I knew my way around the Prestons’ stately four-floor Commonwealth Avenue townhome much more intimately than the rookie housekeeper likely realized. And I was in the mood to see one particular resident of the house.

Bentley Preston stepped out into the hallway from the den at the sound of my footsteps. Clad in khaki shorts and a Tommy Bahama polo shirt, he had likely been working from home while also watching a golf tournament on TV based on the noise I could hear in the background. A smile curved onto his lips as he looked me over. I couldn’t help but feel a bit giddy at his focus on me and the possibility of what might happen next.

“Delicious Devon,” he murmured, as cheesy as he could be. I relished the attention.

We both looked around, and seeing no one else, he grabbed my hand and drew me into a large hallway closet. I shut the door behind us and breathed in, smelling a mix of the musty sporting equipment surrounding us and Bentley’s spicy aftershave.

“The closet?” I whispered just before I felt his lips reach mine. Being with him was always a thrilling mix of excitement and fear of getting caught.

“Not the first time we’ve done it in a closet,” he said, accidentally knocking over a lacrosse stick. He was correct; we had been having a clandestine affair for the past ten months and had found ourselves in all kinds of odd places. I enjoyed the way he looked at me and appreciated me— all of me—but part of me had no idea why I was involved with him. Was it boredom? Convenience? He was fifty years old—fifteen years my senior—and married to a woman most people either despised or were terrified of. Who, as far as I could ascertain, left my delicious food to her husband and teenage daughter while she survived on overnight oats with chia seeds from a nearby coffee shop and the broth I made for her. Life was too short for that kind of self-inflicted torture and deprivation.

Bentley seemed to agree with my feelings about food and joy, often sneaking out to meet me for ice cream. He grabbed onto my well-fed thigh and gave it an appreciative squeeze. “What did you bring for me today?” he murmured. “Any Chicken Milanese?” He kissed my neck and slipped his hand down my shorts. Two months earlier, I would have found the whole scenario exciting, but I found myself trying to enjoy the moment despite the hangers I kept bumping into.

I tried to answer his question despite where this was going. “There’s some pasta salad and—” I was interrupted by a teenage girl’s voice yelling outside the closet door about her tennis racket. Bentley and I locked eyes in the dim light, and our bodies froze, realizing what was likely to happen soon. Sure enough, the door swung open, and sixteen-year-old Adrienne Preston stood before us with a horrified expression.

“Mom! Mom!” she shrieked, and that moment marked the end of my employment in the Preston household.

...

I had taken the T three stops from Park Street to Copley on my way to the Prestons’ just an hour earlier, but the thought of jamming into a Green Line subway car with a sweaty crowd that had just come from a Red Sox game on a hot August Thursday evening was not appealing. I stumbled down Comm Ave until I hit the Public Garden and stood at the edge, staring at the tourists, families, green grass, and trees. People were laughing and happy, while I was in a daze as if I had a migraine without the actual headache. What the hell had I done? And why? Another roll in the hay with Bentley Preston certainly wasn’t worth this.

Julianna Preston’s words burned in my brain as I watched the world go on in front of me in the late August haze. “You’re through, Devon Paige. Your days in Boston are over.” And I knew she meant it. I heard a hysterical Adrienne Preston screaming every nasty word imaginable at both of her parents, blaming them for ruining her life. And as if I was watching a movie of the whole damn thing, I saw myself tripping over the tennis racket in question, grabbing my purse and cooler, and making a beeline for the front door.

I forced myself to move forward, deciding to meander through the park’s paths instead of taking the sidewalk around, past the swan boats, until I got to the Common. An ice cream stand was set up, selling various bars, popsicles, and Italian ices. It wasn’t J.P. Licks—that was in the opposite direction, way down on Newbury Street—but this would do for now. As cliché as the whole thing was, ice cream was always my go-to. In a cloud of chaos, it was the only thing that made any sense.

I cut in front of a line of kids who were hemming and hawing over what to get and threw a ten-dollar bill on the little window ledge. “You have anything with toffee? Heath bar something?” The confused worker handed me a Blue Bunny Heath ice cream bar and started to get me change, but I walked away and headed across Tremont to Avery Street. The ice cream tasted cool and creamy through the chocolate and candy crunch, but the heat coming from the still-prominent sun above and the sidewalk vents below me caused it to melt way too quickly. By the time I walked into the front doors of the Ritz-Carlton, I was sweating and dripping ice cream all over myself.

“Ma’am, may I help you?” the doorman asked as I walked past him toward the Avery Bar just off the lobby. One of my favorite drinking spots in Boston, I sat on a leather stool and grabbed a few cocktail napkins to wipe off what I could. There was something about a hotel bar when you wanted to be anonymous. I ordered a drink and finally took out my phone to call Tam.

“I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” she said as she answered the call. My best friend and the closest thing to a sister I had, Tamara Sparks was an anchor and reporter for the NBC affiliate in Boston. If there was any buzz east of I-495, she likely knew about it. And she had definitely heard what had just happened less than an hour earlier. “How are you, Dev?”

“So, it’s already out there,” I grumbled, taking a swig of my beverage. This was what happened when you were stupid enough to have an affair with the husband of one of the most well-connected women in Boston. “She moves quickly, that one. Are you doing the eleven o’clock?”

“No, and I’m not letting you watch it, either. Where are you?”

“I’m at the Ritz. Avery Bar. Huge whiskey sour with Angel’s Envy.”

Tam sighed. “I should have known. You and the hotel bars. Let’s get you out of there and have something delivered to your place. We can order ice cream and whatever else you want. We can get more bourbon. I don’t think you should be in such a public venue right now. You don’t want to get recognized and have people—”

“Talk shit about me to my face?” I laughed wryly. Tam didn’t swear much, but I certainly did. “It’s all tourists in here. There’s a dude in a huge cowboy hat. Trust me, these people have no idea who I am or who you are, for that matter.”

“Okay, okay. I’m on my way over there. Just, well, don’t get into it with anyone. Do a crossword or something.”

I couldn’t focus on a crossword, but it didn’t matter because my phone soon blew up with messages. One by one, my clients fired me. Some made excuses, such as upcoming vacations, which I knew was bullshit since almost all my clients had children who were starting school in the next two weeks. Others said things along the lines of due to “recent events,” they felt as if it was time to end our working relationship. Each message felt like a punch to a different part of my body, and I knew I would have to go home soon and crawl into bed. Tam had probably been right about needing to leave. By the time she arrived twenty minutes after we had hung up, I was gutted.

She hugged me and sat on the stool adjacent to mine. “This is bad, huh?” she posed, knowing that it was awful. “Is there anyone left?”

“David Anders,” I said quietly with my head in my hands. He was the one client that some people in the bar might be familiar with. “I haven’t heard from his mom yet.”

“She might not know,” said Tam, tapping on the counter. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll call her later,” I said. “She’s a smart woman. She might be in Atlanta, but she works at a big hospital. I’m sure she’s told some of the doctors that I cook for her son. I owe it to her to let her know.”

“Good idea,” she said. “I feel like I’m to blame for some of this.”

“Why?” I asked, chewing on an ice cube from my empty glass. “Because Julianna met me at that networking event three years ago? You didn’t bring me there; you just interviewed me at it. The organizers invited me. The only reason you and I are friends is because of that event. And I got most of my clients because of it, so I am grateful for it. I just had to screw everything else up by banging her husband in a closet.”

“You were mid-bang?” Tam asked, wide-eyed. I couldn’t imagine Tam ever getting herself into this situation. Nope, never.

“No, no, no. We were just fooling around at that moment. But the optics were terrible.” I grabbed my phone back. “Seriously, how did the media—how did you—find out already? I get it that she texted all her friends and told them to fire me, but how did everyone else find out?” I typed my name into the search bar on Twitter. “Oh my God.”

“You’re trending, my friend,” Tam said softly. “We got a brief press release from her publicist.”

“She has a publicist ? She doesn’t even have a job,” I gasped, scrolling through all the tweets that included my name. “ Former Minx chef de cuisine-turned-private chef Devon Paige caught having affairs with married clients she met through Back Bay Women’s Network in apparent homewrecking plot ,” I read aloud. “Homewrecking plot? I wasn’t trying to wreck anyone’s home. I just thought she was a horrible person. And Bentley loved my food and paid attention to me. A lot of attention.” I threw my head in my hands and pulled on the back of my hair. “What did I get myself into?” I wailed.

“Everyone loves your food, Dev,” Tam said, putting her arm around me. “Look, I’m not going to judge anyone here. I’m sorry about what’s happening to you. I want to help you figure out what to do next because you definitely need a plan.” Tam’s phone buzzed, and she looked at the screen. “Ugh, it’s that Boston public service announcement TikTok lady again,” she said, clicking on a message. “She posts something every day, and I think she’s onto you.” I lifted my head to see what had caught Tam’s attention.

A woman with big blonde hair, heavy black eyeliner, and a very strong Boston accent was on the screen. “Ladies of Boston, this is your public service announcement of the day. Watch out. There’s a chef in town named Debbie who tricks women into cooking for them and then has sex with their husbands. So don’t let nobody named Debbie cook for you. This woman is gonna be lookin’ for new customers, so you are warned, Boston.” She lifted a Dunkin’ coffee cup and signed off.

“Only one! I had sex with one husband! And I’m not Debbie!” I moaned, and people started to turn to look at us. The bartender began walking toward us. It was time to go.

“And that’s enough for today,” Tam said, pulling out two twenties from her wallet and dropping them on the bar counter. “Let’s go order that ice cream.”