Maid Fohr Love

Chapter 1

ONE

It was here.

It was happening.

The one thing we’d all dreaded, but knew was coming was finally amongst us.

The Mayor of Channing stood at the podium, in all of his handsome glory, ordering us to our respective homes.

At midnight, the shelter-in-place order would go into full effect and the entire city would be shutting down.

Only essential businesses were authorized to keep operating.

In addition to the order, we were also forbidden to leave our homes after three o’clock. If curfew was broken, a misdemeanor would be the consequence. My heart ached for the city of Channing and the rest of the world. Everything was bad… really bad.

“Hey, I’m going to have to call you back.” I sighed into the receiver of my phone, feeling the gush of air bounce from the plastic and rest on my face.

“I need to get to my desktop and send my clients the email that I had saved in my drafts for the last week.”

“Yes, of course,” my sister responded, immediately. She, too, was in a state of disbelief. Her usually airy tone was flat and nearly unrecognizable.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, maybe?”

“Yeah. Sure,” she agreed. A pleasant visual of her nodding appeared in my head, bringing a smile to my face.

“Listen, babe, everything is going to be fine. We’re loners, anyway.” I chucked to make light of the seriousness of the situation. “Homebodies. This is what we do.”

“You’re right,” she tittered.

Her instant relief removed a boulder that sat on the tip of my shoulder, knowing that my little sister was worried.

An empath by nature, I selflessly acquired the weight of everyone’s world around me – even when I wasn’t trying.

As often as it was a curse, it was a gift.

The balance was something I couldn’t complain about.

“Okay. Talk to you later. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Kit.”

The line died shortly after, freeing me to move about the kitchen after I’d placed the corded phone on the receiver that clung to the wall closest to the exit. Technology had long ago advanced, but the simplicity and convenience of landlines had always been alluring.

I’d personally prohibited my cellphone when I was home. I didn’t feel the need to have it glued to my face as the world passed me by. Instead, I preferred enjoying time with myself, learning the newer version of me that appeared on a daily basis.

As I cut the corner to exit my kitchen, I grabbed a juice from the counter that had been refrigerated for the last eighteen hours.

With the pandemic at the forefront of my thoughts, sleep was hard to come by.

To alleviate the stress that it was accompanied by, I dragged my weary bones down the stairs and to my juicer.

When sleep finally hit me like a ton of bricks, I’d curated a shelf full of glassed juices of all flavors with an astounding amount of benefits. Satisfaction lulled me to sleep as nursery rhymes would a young, tired baby. I was on my second eight-ounce jar of the day.

As I perched my behind on the fluffy chair that I’d rolled from my desk, sadness penetrated my flesh. The lengthy email I’d drawn up in case of an emergency briefly touched on my leave of absence, change of schedule, and links to reschedule appointments once everything settled.

The remainder of the email was an in-depth explanation of the current pandemic we were forced to deal with, how they could stay safe, and organizations they could donate to if they felt inclined.

Of course, I encouraged, being that my clientele wasn’t worried about depleting funds during the economy’s dip.

Of course, their pockets would suffer a beating with everything coming to a screeching halt, but they could stand to take the hit.

Each one of them was swimming in millions – ranging from CEOs to celebrities.

I screwed the gold lid from the jar, rereading the email for the fifth time since I’d written it.

Agreeing with the verbiage and amount of information I’d given, I chose my list of clients from the dropdown menu with my free hand.

This feels so surreal. As I sipped my plum-colored juice, I couldn’t help but think.

Send.

I tapped the left side of my mouse, sending the email to the sixteen clients that I currently service.

My shoulders slumped and limbs loosened immediately after hearing the loud swoosh, signaling that my email had been sent.

I leaned forward and rested my glass beside the keyboard of my iMac, pulling my legs up toward my chest and bowing my head between their folds shortly after.

Blunder.

A highly contagious viral infection that affects both the digestive system and bloodstream, causing the smaller intestines to deteriorate at a rapid rate as well as septic shock in some cases. Healthy blood cells didn’t stand a chance against this incredibly powerful virus.

Side effects were as mild as debilitating stomach pains and as serious as death. The origin of Blunder had yet to be identified, which was one reason the fears of the world’s people had heightened as the days have continued without solutions or answers.

Uncertainty was my biggest enemy, next to clutter and disfunction. They were the catalysts behind the success of my business, as well as the reasons for its birth. I cleaned homes for a living.

Not because I had to, but because I preferred it. Cleaning gave me more joy than any vacation I’d taken to the many countries I’d been fortunate enough to visit. The invigorating feeling it afforded me with was inexplicable.

A maid.

A housekeeper.

A cleanup lady.

Whatever one preferred, I didn’t mind. They all suited my line of work, being that it often went far beyond scrubbing countertops and organizing closets.

My clients trusted me. Sometimes, I was a babysitter for their young children and other times, I was their therapist. It depended on the day and the crap that life swung their way.

No matter the task or title, my respect was required. I was a partner, not a peasant. It was crucial that my clientele understood this or they’d forfeit their occupancy on my list. I was highly recommended and families were waiting for a spot to free to claim it. Kit Delucca was that darn good.

Dunt.

My computer chimed, alerting me of an email. Mrs. Rayland’s profile picture appeared with a short, sweet message to follow. With such an uplifting spirit, I could count on her generosity to lure me to a more pleasant space.

Kit,

Stay home. Stay safe. I’ll be making my monthly deposit as stated in our contract. You deserve it. Enjoy your time off and try not to wash the paint from the walls if you get too bored. I’m sure your home is already spotless, doll.

Rita Rayland.

P.S. Sending wine and requesting a no contact delivery. It’ll be on your porch by nine.

The ridges that formed on each side of my lips as they curved were evidence of the pleasure her email had given me. Mrs. Rayland was a delight. Her presence offered the justice life just wasn’t willing to.

She was a woman of her word and so true to the nature of her character. Since the day she’d signed on as a client three years ago up until tonight, she’d never changed. It wouldn’t be a stretch if I admitted that I loved her. She was dear to my heart.

Mrs. Rayland,

Your kindness precedes you in every way. I won’t fuss about the wine or pay, because I know you’re not interested in reading the denial and will ignore it. So, thank you. I will be waiting patiently for the wine. I could surely use a glass.

Kit.

P.S. True to nature, my home is spotless.

As I sent the email, my home phone began to ring – startling me in the midst. The loud, echoing tone caused it to vibrate on the hook against the wall. Desperate for silence, again, I rushed toward the kitchen and snatched it from the base.

“Kit Delucca, please,” the female caller requested.

“Speaking.” I sighed, catching my breath.

Before I was able to remove the phone from my ear completely to check the caller’s identification, I remembered that I needed new batteries. The screen had died, and if I wanted to see who was calling, I’d need to make my way to the cordless phone in the living room – or ask, “Who’s calling?”

“I’m Olivia Tate, executive assistant of Fohr McClarren.”

“Fohr McClarren,” I whispered, recalling the name after a brief second of thought.

Fohr McClarren.

Of course.

My nostrils flared as my head bobbed. Vivid flashbacks of the mountains of condom wrappers and thongs that piled in corners each week that I visited the residence caused my blood to boil.

It wasn’t the task of cleaning it, it was the thought of their origins and the disregard for personal health that peeved me.

I’d seen the semen-stained sheets – cleaned them, even. I felt as if it was pointless to protect yourself from a woman’s vagina as if her mouth wasn’t capable of carrying the same diseases. Oral was as risky as vaginal penetration.

Men really aren’t well, I concluded – as it was the simple answer to the many questionable moves they made.

“Yes. Mr. McClarren is due home within the next hour. As you know, a state of emergency has been declared and a stay at home order is in place.”

“I’m aware,” I responded with a nod.

“The entire baseball league has come to a screeching halt and things are crazy for us all right now.”

“Okay, Olivia, please tell me what any of this has to do with me?” I questioned without hesitation. I needed to know why she felt inclined to give me information about a client that I hadn’t requested.

“We received your email,” she confirmed.

“Good. I was hoping all of my clients did.” I prepared to end the call.

“But, wait,” Olivia continued.

“Yes?” My brows hiked as I leaned into the wall beside me to relieve the pressure my weight was placing on my feet.

“Mr. McClarren can’t afford to have your services revoked at the moment. He’d be a lost cause home alone. We have him on a strict diet and exercise regimen. We really need someone home with him to assist.”