CHAPTER 11
Emma
I say goodbye to Jasmine and her dad as they head out the front door.
Then I pull up a tall chair and sit at the kitchen island to sip my coffee.
It’s the smooth, expensive kind I’ve never been able to afford.
They don’t serve this kind of coffee at the dives where I’ve worked.
This coffee is so tasty and rich that it almost doesn’t need sugar, but I add two teaspoons anyway, along with some of the half and half I find in the gigantic refrigerator.
One look in that fridge and any appetite I’d had is gone.
It’s overflowing with half-eaten crap, and some of it could double as a school science project. My first day is going to be a long one. The refrigerator alone will take hours to deep clean. I start doing some of the math in my head.
The home must be five thousand square feet, and the kitchen alone is as big as some of the houses I’ve lived in. And I think it’s safe to say that none of the five thousand feet has had any deep cleaning since they moved in.
I’m beginning to suspect that anything that’s clean and orderly in this house—including the guest room’s sparkling sheets and towels—is because of Phyllis.
But in my long history of doing part-time cleaning in addition to my waitressing work, I’ve developed a way of tackling tasks that tends to impress the client. First, I do a general tidy all over the house. That way, if the client returns at any point, they see that progress has been made.
Once the general tidy is done, I start on anything with a drain and then move to deeper cleaning.
I sip my coffee and take another look at the pages of rules. No opening of drawers, cabinets, closets, and pantries? Right. It might be hard to find cleaning supplies if I can’t open anything that might let me discover where they’re stored.
Whoops! Clumsy me!
I’ve just spilled coffee all over the list.
“Too bad,” I say to the empty kitchen. “I guess I’ll need to ask for a new copy, because I can’t read a single word!”
Taking my coffee cup with me, I go in search of the Cap’n Crunch cereal. It’s my favorite. How Jasmine knew that is a mystery.
Since it’s a beautiful day, I pour myself a bowl and open the windows. There are French doors everywhere in this house, and I’m relieved to see that they come with screens. If we really are in snake country, I don’t want to let them slither into the house.
I step out back with my coffee, cereal, and a handful of paper towels. There are two options for seating. I see a small bistro table with four chairs in a shady spot under a tree near the pool. And I see a large pergola with a table and chairs that could probably seat thirty people.
It’s impressive, but it’s nothing compared to the pool itself. It’s more of a lagoon than a pool. I see a rock platform on one end, and a beach on the other. A large slide is cut out of the rockface.
I wish I owned a swimsuit. I would jump in right now. Maybe it’s for the best, since it wouldn’t look good for the boss to find me in his pool before I even get around to dusting a single television screen.
So I decide to satisfy myself with eating a bowl of cereal at the bistro table under the tree—until I see how dirty it is.
It’s covered in cottonwood tree fluff, bird poop, and dust. I use the paper towel to carve out a clean spot, knowing this table will be one of the first things I clean.
I like it here, and I want to be able come outside to drink my coffee every morning.
If only for another week.
The birds are keeping me company with their song.
Most of them are hidden in the trees bordering the property, but occasionally, I see a bird of prey fly overhead.
I can’t tell the difference between a hawk and an eagle with any confidence, but whatever is flying overhead has a huge wingspan.
The bird floats on the air currents and scans the land below for breakfast.
I know what it’s like to be looking for your next meal. That was me only last night, when I wandered onto this property. How is it that the hungry and scared Emma from last night already feels like a memory?
I wish I could turn all the ugliness of my past into faded memories. That would sure be a neat trick.
When I finish my cereal, I go back inside to start the day’s work.
The first thing I need to do is find the cleaning supplies and get the lay of the land.
Though it’s a flat-out violation of the rules, I search through every cabinet and drawer in the cavernous kitchen.
Half of them are empty. A few are filled with dusty, unused, extremely expensive china and crystal.
I finally find the one cabinet where they keep the stuff they actually use. There are mismatched break-proof dishes and bowls, acrylic glasses and cups, and a bunch of paper plates and bowls.
I find the butler’s pantry, throw open the double doors, and gasp out loud.
I looked at a Williams Sonoma catalog at the library once, in awe of all the things and gadgets people with money might buy if they felt like it. This pantry is that catalog come to life.
It’s crammed with shiny new juicers and waffle irons.
I see a fresh pasta maker, a bread machine, and a whole bunch of stuff I’ve only seen on the Food Network.
I lovingly trail my fingers over the stainless-steel body of a tomato grinder.
“I love you, tomato grinder,” I whisper. “Someday I’ll use you.”
But none of these gizmos and whatsits have ever been used, as far as I can tell, and I don’t think Finn would take kindly to me to breaking in his expensive small appliances. The pasta maker alone must have cost as much as I make in a month.
I move to the walk-in food pantry, separate from the butler’s pantry. Half of it is filled with cookies, candy, and chips, and the other half with wiring and various electronics. Under the three kitchen sinks, I only find dishwasher detergent and dish soap.
“What the hell?” I say to the empty kitchen. “Where are the cleaning supplies?”
It’s possible that Finn doesn’t have any. He’s a man, after all.
A man without cleaning supplies. And pants.
I start to pick up around the house. There’s practically an entire little girl’s wardrobe in the living room, which I hadn’t noticed at first. My guess is that Jasmine must change for school while watching cartoons, because I find nightgowns and underpants stuffed under the couch and between the cushions.
With an armful of her clothes, I search for the laundry room.
I find it next to the garage, where—eureka!
—I find the cleaning supplies. There’s an entire cabinet in the laundry room chock full of everything I might need, including dusters and microfiber cloths and sponges.
I see that the various squirt bottles and liquids have gotten about as much use as the pasta maker, however.
As unnecessary as it seems, Finn has three washers and three dryers. After I drop Jasmine’s clothes into one of the washers, I give the cold steel machine a big warm hug. I pet its smooth lid.
I’ve spent my entire life going to laundromats so skanky that it was a challenge to find a chair safe to sit on or a surface clean enough to fold my clothes. Having three pristine washers and dryers at my disposal nearly brings tears of gratitude to my eyes.
I choose a fancy wash setting for Jasmine’s clothes and return to the tidying.
Fifteen minutes later, the living room is picked up, swept, and wiped down, and I move on to the entryway.
Since there’s nothing much here except for designer furniture, I’m pretty much done tidying the downstairs in less than an hour.
Except for Finn’s office, which I don’t dare touch.
And the kitchen. Which is a nightmare. I have to gird my loins for the kitchen.
“No time like the present,” I say, making my way into the explosion zone. I turn on the television that hangs in the kitchen’s breakfast nook and find a reality show to keep me company.
There’s nothing like hearing rich women complain about their chauffeurs and private chefs while I snap on a pair of latex gloves and tackle shelves of green yogurt, liquified produce, and petrified leftover pizza. I carry two huge garbage bags out to the dumpsters Phyllis pointed out last night.
When I return to the kitchen, I give myself a moment to take a breather, grab another cup of coffee, and tell myself the worst is over.
Next, it’s on to the dishes. Luckily, there are two dishwashers, so I don’t panic too much about the sinks overflowing with dirty plates, cups, pots, pans, and stainless. I open the dishwashers and groan in frustration to find them both already stacked with dirty dishes.
“Okay, I get it,” I say out loud. “You definitely don’t have a wife.”
I take everything out and re-load both appliances properly. Next, I clear off the counters, wipe down the cabinets and stainless surfaces, sweep the floor, and make my way upstairs.
There are six bedrooms and four full baths on the second floor. Three bedrooms are completely untouched, and there’s no tidying required. My room is clean. But Jasmine’s bedroom seems to be the site of yet another explosion.
At first it looks as if a sea of toys, dolls, and princess dresses were the main casualties.
But after a couple minutes of digging through the piles, I’m unearthing belongings from a wide variety of age ranges.
I’m finding everything from newborn teething toys to an eight-year old’s portable game console.
It seems as if everything from Jasmine’s whole life has been tossed on the floor. Nothing’s ever been sorted or thrown away. I wonder if she likes it like this, or if she doesn’t realize there’s another way.
I sit there on the carpet, staring at the mess and trying to figure out where and how to begin. I can’t help myself—my thoughts spiral back to my own childhood. The lack. The loneliness. The pain.
It’s true that this is the bedroom of a well-loved and privileged little girl, but I detect some pain in the disorder. Definitely some confusion. I’m so deep in thought—and shock—that I don’t hear the front door open, and I don’t hear the footsteps climbing the stairs.
“Emma!”
Jasmine’s excited voice comes from behind me. I turn, knowing I’ll find her upset that I’ve invaded her room. There’s no faster way to get yourself fired than to invade a family member’s privacy. So I prepare the wording for my apology.
But when my eyes meet hers, no words come out.
“What’re you doing in my room?”