Two
JUNE 1996
I was bored the summer I met Grant. Bored, annoyed, and forbidden from expressing even an eye roll of teen angst for fear of ruining our future.
Most of the two-hour car ride with my mother was spent staring out the window as I counted houses. The longer we drove, the farther apart they became. My mother’s car had no air-conditioning. We rigged the roof with thumb tacks so that the felt ceiling didn’t drop on our heads. Luckily, it wasn’t too hot that day, but by next month, the car would be unbearable.
My mother barely spoke the entire drive, the whites of her knuckles visible from the persistent grip on the steering wheel. Pulling into this imposing place, with its stone entrance and driveway so long the house was hidden from the road, only increased her nerves.
We both gasped when the house where we would spend the summer finally came into view. Houses, more accurately. There was the main house, with white columns and multiple chimneys looking more like a museum than a place anyone actually lived. Some distance away, there was a barn, and the more we looked, our eyes adjusting to the size and wealth of this place, the more we saw. There were cottages throughout the property.
“Which one is ours?” I asked.
“Whichever one they tell us to sleep in,” my mom quickly replied.
She parked in front of the main house, flipping down the visor as she slid the mirror open. I wasn’t sure what she was hoping to see. She looked the exact same every day. Dark hair pulled into a ponytail, no makeup because the kitchen’s heat melted it away. She seemed satisfied by her reflection and looked over at me, nodding as if I passed whatever standard she imagined was required of this summer.
“Ready?” she asked as we got out of the car.
I looked around. There wasn’t a single stray leaf on the driveway. The flower beds were perfectly symmetrical, the paint smooth on the front door. I was used to chipped surfaces and weeds in gravel. My mother’s ancient gray sedan parked in front of this house did not belong.
“Do we go in the front door?” I asked warily. “Isn’t there some servants’ entrance or something?”
“I’m following the instructions,” my mother said before adding, “and I’m not a servant. I’m an employee.”
I tilted my head sideways. “Somebody here is going to call you a servant this summer.”
“Tess. I need you to be on your best behavior. This is our opportunity for a new life. Do not mess it up with your smart mouth.”
I kicked the gravel, feeling simultaneously frustrated and defeated. Everything I said was wrong these days. My mother and I existed in a perpetual state of heightened criticism, each of us disappointed that we couldn’t be what the other needed.
“What am I supposed to do all summer?” I mumbled.
“Read those books you packed and stay out of trouble. We’re lucky they let me bring you.”
“I still don’t know why I had to come.”
“Because I’m not leaving a seventeen-year-old alone for three months.”
Alone. I was never alone before, but after my grandmother died, I felt alone all the time. My mother worked long hours as a line cook, caterer, baker, any job she could scrounge up. We lived with my grandparents, in their small trailer nestled in the woods of southwestern Virginia. When my grandfather died, it was just the three of us. My grandmother was home when I got back from school, read to me at bedtime when my mother was at the restaurant, and whispered dreams in my ear about the things she knew I could accomplish. She died a year ago, but every day I missed her more, especially when it felt like my mother didn’t understand me at all.
She constantly scrutinized. My mother wanted better for me, “a future with possibility,” she’d often say. If I studied for an hour, I should have studied for two because one bad grade erased any chance of a scholarship. If I met friends at the gas station after school, she warned me not to get caught up with a bad crowd, as if Slurpees and Cheetos were a gateway to prison. I wore a tube top and she told me to change because it brought the wrong kind of attention . I wanted her trust, but all I got was her criticism.
“Explain to me again how working at some fancy house is going to change our lives?” I asked.
“Madeline Milton offered me this job on a trial basis. She has a very busy life in Washington, D.C. This is her weekend home and she needs someone to manage the property and prepare meals when she’s visiting. It’s the kind of job I’ve dreamed of my entire life. I wouldn’t have to fight over shifts or try to pick up side jobs to cover our bills. If she likes me—likes us—this could turn into a permanent position, with a steady paycheck, housing, and good schools. Wouldn’t you want to live here instead of in Grandma’s trailer?”
I considered this for a moment, not sure whether a place like this would ever feel like home but also knowing my grandmother’s trailer wouldn’t either. Not anymore.
When I didn’t respond quickly enough, my mother huffed. “Don’t you understand what’s at stake?”
I appeased my mother with a small nod rather than any verbal assurances. Because what I wanted to shout was Of course I know what’s at stake. When your mother constantly reminds you of every tiny consequence to your actions, that’s something no one can ignore. But I didn’t want to fight with her, especially here, in front of this imposing estate, so instead I asked, “Why does she have a house this big if she doesn’t even live here all the time?”
My mom swiped her cheek. “It’s a different world, Tess.”
“How can she afford this place?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask for her résumé. She was born or married into money, most likely.” She said this like it was some unspoken law I ignored. My mother placed a hand on my shoulder as she added, “You lost out on the first opportunity, but there’s still hope you’ll find the second.”
My mother defined herself by her place in life, her job, her bank account, or lack thereof. I hated her narrow view of the world. She believed there were impenetrable gatekeepers to success. No matter how hard she worked, she was born poor, didn’t have a rich husband, and would never amount to much. But once in a while, it seemed like she had higher hopes for me.
My mother knocked and we waited. After a minute, she knocked again, this time more forcefully, the brass fixture shaped like a fox clanking against the massive oak door.
We could hear a faint shout and then the door was flung open by a woman in a peach silk robe, clutching the opening with a hand dripping in gold jewelry and an emerald ring bigger than a pecan. I immediately looked down at my nubby, dirty fingernails and felt inadequate by comparison.
My mother’s voice cracked slightly as she said, “Hello, Ms. Milton. I’m Genie Murphy, the new summer house manager.”
The woman looked from my mother to me, making me swallow nervously with the intensity of her stares.
“This is my daughter, Tess. She can help out. Or not. Whatever you want. She’s very quiet and very smart.”
Only one of those things was true, but I didn’t speak, not wanting to ruin my mother’s introduction.
For a moment, I wondered if we were in the right place or whether my mother had completely misinterpreted this job offer. But then the woman lunged forward and pulled my mother into an uncomfortably tight hug. “I’m thrilled you’re here. This place is a disaster. Come in.”
We followed Ms. Milton inside a home that absolutely no one else would describe as a disaster. It was a grand space, with gleaming hardwood floors and a double staircase that swept upward.
“Come into the sitting room,” Ms. Milton instructed.
The room smelled like lemon polish and was filled with ornately upholstered furniture and draperies that looked as if they weighed more than I did. In the center of the room was a round table with a sterling tea set surrounded by stacks of cups and saucers.
“I completely forgot you were arriving today, but the timing is perfect,” Ms. Milton said. “My meeting in D.C. ran late last night and I couldn’t get out here until this morning. I’m running behind and my guests arrive in an hour.”
“You’re hosting a party?” my mother asked. “In an hour?” The pitch of her voice rose with each question, hardly masking her panic.
“Yes. I do it every year. It’s casual. Only twenty or so people. A little fundraiser for the local historic society. My neighbor is the chair.”
“Should I check in with the caterers?” my mother asked.
“Well, if they’d bothered to show up, you could. That’s why I’m so frantic. I have no food. Nothing set up. My neighbor, Kay, was supposed to be here an hour ago and she’s nowhere to be found. And I’m not even dressed.”
My mother nodded. “I can pull together food in the next hour. Tess will set the tables. You take your time getting ready. We have this under control.”
Ms. Milton sighed, hugged my mother again, and seemed to float upstairs.
“Do we have this under control?” I asked in a whisper once Ms. Milton was out of sight.
My mother’s eyes widened. “Not at all. This is a disaster. I’m going to move my car around to the back and try to pull together a menu. Do your best setting up the cups and plates.”
My mother went outside, and I picked up the linen cloth lying next to the teacups.
My hand shook. The cups were so delicate, the china so thin I was surprised they weren’t transparent. This was probably a bad assignment for me given my general clumsiness and the fact that each of these cups likely cost more than my mother would make that summer. But something about the intensity of my mother’s instructions told me I should zip it, wipe the cups, and pretend I knew how to set up a tea party.
I was almost done with the first stack of teacups when I heard footsteps.
I turned around and saw the fanciest woman I’d ever encountered. She was wearing a cream silk sheath dress, a long strand of pearls, and strappy heels that would make me trip. Her hair was short, a blond cap that set off her bright blue eyes and bold red lips.
She was beautiful and glowing, and looked years younger than my mother, though they were probably the same age. That summer, I quickly learned rich people hide their age, their weaknesses, their personalities, behind cloaks of cash. And this woman was the richest I’d ever seen.
“Sorry. I didn’t hear you knock,” I stuttered.
“I’ve been coming to this house my entire life and never once knocked.”
She walked into the room and surveyed the space. She picked up a cup from the set I was wiping and immediately flipped it over. “Madeline’s making you wipe down her mother’s Wedgwood? She’s really putting on airs today.” She walked toward me and asked, “Who are you?”
Under normal circumstances, I had no problem speaking my mind, but from the first moment I met this woman, I was intimidated.
I’m sure my eyes turned into saucers. “I’m the cup wiper,” I stammered.
“What’s your name, child?” She stared directly at me. “If you are going to define yourself by your occupation, please let it be something more noble than cup wiping.”
I quickly replied, “But I’ve always dreamed of being a cup wiper, ma’am.”
A flash of panic shot through my mind as I realized, not even an hour into this summer adventure, I had already broken my mother’s number one rule of not revealing my true personality by speaking to anyone in this house.
But I was immediately relieved when a booming laugh erupted from the bold red lips in front of me. She extended her hand. “I’m Kay Alexander and I may have met my match.”
I wiped my sweaty palm on my shorts before shaking her hand. “I’m Tess and I’m certain no one would put us anywhere near the same category.” I returned to the cup wiping. “My mom is working here this summer. Ms. Milton asked us to help set up for the party while she’s getting dressed.”
“I suppose that’s because I’m late. Madeline panics about her parties. She views every event as a client networking opportunity and always tries to impress.”
I nodded, as if I knew about the spectrum of parties.
“Although, I suppose that opportunistic nature has served her well. If you think this place is impressive, you should see her townhome in Georgetown.”
I had no idea why this woman was talking to me as if I was deserving of any information, but I took the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity. “Does Ms. Milton work in D.C.?”
“Some might call it work. Some might call it calculated socializing. She’s a lobbyist.” Mrs. Alexander walked across the room to retrieve crystal water glasses and brought them back to the table. “Madeline never married, much to her parents’ disappointment. She always did exactly what she wanted, unburdened by the expectations that seem to limit the rest of us. She used her father’s money and connections to get started, but she’s created her own empire through sheer determination.”
“It’s impressive,” I said. I had no idea what lobbyists did, but somehow it afforded two grand homes and a life I could only dream about.
“Yes, but we grew up together. Our parents were neighbors and raised us in these homes. We got in trouble for climbing trees by the river and sneaking frogs into the kitchen. It’s hard for me to see Madeline as impressive.”
Mrs. Alexander walked over to the mantel and picked up a vase of peonies. “Especially when she doesn’t even take care of her flowers.”
It was a pale pink arrangement and the petals had begun to droop. I crossed toward her and asked, “Want me to freshen those up?”
“And how would you do that?” she asked, eyebrow cocked.
“A teaspoon of sugar in the water usually does the trick. I’ll snip the stems under fresh water too. They’re not too far gone. I can get them perked up in a few minutes.”
“Where did you learn that?”
I shrugged. “I know flower stuff. Do you want me to take them to the kitchen?”
Mrs. Alexander nodded. “Yes. I’ll finish up setting the table.”
I cradled the vase of peonies and shuffled out of the room.
When I walked into the kitchen, my mother was pulling a sheet of something sweet and warm out of the oven as her head whipped around, eyeing me and the vase of flowers. “What are you doing?”
“Changing the water in these flowers. Mrs. Alexander asked me to.”
“Who is Mrs. Alexander?” my mother scream-whispered.
“The neighbor who was supposed to be here an hour ago to help. She walked in and we chatted a bit.”
My mother sighed. “Please don’t chat with guests. We’re working. Don’t mess this up, Tess.”
I nodded and removed the flowers and placed them beside the kitchen sink, dumping the old water and trying to ignore my mother’s criticism. “Where’s the sugar?” I asked.
“In the baking pantry,” my mother said, her eyes wide and full of glee.
She pointed toward a small room off the kitchen lined with shelves of flours, sugars, and baking tools I didn’t even know existed. No wonder my mother was so excited. I quickly scooped a spoonful of sugar into the vase and returned to the sink, filling it with fresh water and snipping each stem before returning them to the vase.
“When you’re done with that, help me get this ready,” my mother said as she moved her signature scones from the baking sheet to a serving platter.
How she threw those together in twenty minutes, I had no idea. “You baked already?”
“Of course. That’s my job.” She inspected each scone, lifting the spatula before arranging them in a circle around a bowl of whipped cream. “These are not my best, but they’ll do. I didn’t get to chill the dough, and I had to make them smaller than usual, but I’m not messing up on my first day. I came here to impress Ms. Milton, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
I gave my mother a high five with her free hand as she drizzled lemon glaze on the scones.
She nodded at the vase by the sink. “Those are already perking up.”
“We’re basically domestic superheroes, rescuing flowers and baked goods from peril. What else is on the menu?”
“It’s bare pickings in the fridge. I’ll need to shop. But I scrounged together enough for some goat cheese puffs and cucumber sandwiches. Let’s take the scones out and check on your table settings and then you can help me finish the menu.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
We walked into the sitting room to find Mrs. Alexander sprawled across the chaise lounge, her heels kicked off.
“Hello, Tess Cup Wiper,” she said.
My mother looked at me sideways and I whispered, “Just a little joke. Don’t worry.”
“Hello, Mrs. Alexander. This is my mother, Genie Murphy. We’ll drop off these flowers and scones and then get out of your way.”
“Those smell heavenly. What are they?”
“Lemon vanilla scones, ma’am.” My mother placed a scone on a plate and handed it to Mrs. Alexander, who took a bite, closed her eyes, and moaned.
“Thank God none of these women eat, so I can devour that platter myself.”
“None of the women eat?” my mother asked, alarmed.
“Oh no,” Mrs. Alexander said, sighing. “Madeline Milton and every other woman we know survive solely on those dehydrated packets of Nutrisystem. Occasionally a SlimFast shake. They like having food around for decoration purposes only.”
I saw the color drain from my mother’s face. Her food was amazing but not exactly low-calorie.
Mrs. Alexander walked toward me, inspecting the vase of flowers. “You did a nice job with these. Do you like flowers?”
I nodded, my mother’s scrutiny making the room feel ten degrees warmer.
“What’s your favorite flower?” Mrs. Alexander asked.
I shrugged, looking nervously over at my mother. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing, so I figured saying nothing was better. This approach did not work.
Mrs. Alexander took a step closer to me. “Let me give you some advice. If you look around the room for permission to speak no one will care what you have to say. Speak your mind; speak it clearly, especially when you are asked. Now, what is your favorite flower?”