Chapter 3
three
. . .
peony
Istand outside of Mr. Edgewood’s quarters, my vacuum and caddy behind me, wondering what I’m going to find inside.
He’s out for the day, and I saw the huge black SUV pulling away as I arrived. Wow. It was a monster of a vehicle. Is Mr. Edgewood some kind of giant, or does he just like rolling in style?
It’s probably a rich person thing I don’t understand.
As I turn the worn doorknob to his rooms and push, I’m met with a puff of dust. It’s been some time, I think, since anyone came in here who wasn’t Mr. Edgewood.
The room is dark because the curtains are mostly drawn, allowing only thin beams of light through.
Off to one side is a large sitting area with a fireplace that has most certainly been used, and often.
A behemoth of a leather chair sits in front of it, with a normal-sized chair beside that.
When my eyes adjust to the light, I creep closer to get a better look and realize just how massive the first chair is—as is the imprint of the person who uses it. Mr. Edgewood clearly sits here often.
What’s strangest about it, though, is the way the back is constructed with a rather large hole at the base. An odd design choice, and I can’t say that it’s one I would pick for myself.
Bookshelves line the walls of the sitting room, ending where the hallway begins. I go up three steps to reach it and discover a number of doors leading into adjoining rooms. I have to flip on the light switch because it’s almost too dark to see.
I open the first door to a large bathroom, which seems to join with the next room through another Jack and Jill door. Everything is built large, from the shower that’s big enough for four grown men to wash in, to the sprawling tub. Melted candles line the edge, and the natural light is dim.
Mr. Edgewood sure likes to keep things dark. I suppose it fits with his eccentric recluse persona.
I peer through the Jack and Jill door and find the bedroom where Mr. Edgewood must sleep. It feels eerily personal to be here, even though I’ve cleaned many bedrooms before—and found all manner of surprises there. I usually keep out of drawers whenever possible.
I’m making a battle plan in my mind while I slip out of the bedroom, then open the last door across from it.
This appears to be a study, with even more bookshelves lining the walls, and a huge oak desk arranged near the center.
It has another fireplace, which will also require cleaning, and I add it to my mental to-do list. Neither of them has been kept up very well, and I’ll have a lot of ashes to take out.
I don’t know how long Mr. Edgewood plans to be away, so I’ll clean as fast as I can and hope I get it all done before he returns. I feel that this is an important test, and it might just determine whether I stick around at Edgewood Manor.
I start with the cobwebs high in the corners, sprinting back to the west end of the house to fetch my step stool and the duster attached to a long pole that Mr. Castle gifted to me yesterday.
That man is rather growing on me. His hair is a perfect salty white, but he doesn’t look a day over forty-five.
He’s not necessarily kind, but he’s not gruff, either.
He’s flexible, like a reed in the wind, never showing more than a breath of emotion here and there.
Once the cobwebs are done, I take care of the two fireplaces, dumping all the ash into trash bags and leaving them tied up in the hall.
Then I dust every surface I can reach, from the mantelpiece to the frames of the dark paintings Mr. Edgewood has hanging everywhere.
Some depict deep woods interrupted by thin beams of light; others are figures reclining under a night sky.
There’s a black-and-white photograph in the study of the branches of a withered tree, and it casts such an eerie mood on the room that I can’t look at it for too long without getting the creeps.
Mr. Edgewood has peculiar taste, but I must admit he has an artistic eye, even if the subject matter is, well, depressing. At least it all matches.
Once I’ve dusted, I vacuum the lavish rugs. When I’m finished, they’re much brighter than before, and when I empty out the vacuum bag, I discover…
Fur. Tons and tons of fur. Shitloads of fur, as if there’s a dog living here I haven’t heard or seen.
Bewildered, I replace the bag and continue down the runner in the hallway. Vacuuming it has the same effect, leaving the rug a different color than when I started.
The bathroom too has a hair problem. Mr. Edgewood must have rather thick, long hair based on what I find caught in the drains.
I wonder if the water can even run properly with how much is trapped in here.
I end up spending far too long prying up the drain covers and then using a snake from my caddy to fish it all out.
It ends up in the trash bag with the fur.
Finally, the study. It’s nearly three p.m., and I realize that I’ve completely skipped lunch. Oh well. I wanted to be quick about it, and this is the best way to do that.
I dust all the spines of the books, then use polish on the desk after moving his pens, stapler, laptop and calendar from one side to the other. The calendar only has one appointment on it for today: SEE GIANCARLO.
What does he do the rest of the time?
After cleaning his entire living space, I thought surely I would understand Mr. Edgewood better.
But even the titles of his books give nothing away, as they’re all of a huge variety, from biographies to fiction adventure novels, to even a romance paperback here and there.
All I know is that he has a dog he’s hiding, and he must be a very, very large man.
He doesn’t like sunlight, and he sure as hell doesn’t like dusting.
Plus, he has morbid taste in art.
What I find most interesting when I leave is how accustomed I’d grown to the scent of him, even for just the few hours I cleaned his living space.
It’s spicy and musky, like cinnamon and leather mixed together, with a tang of something unique I can’t quite place.
It reminds me of what a field smells like in winter, and I wonder if it’s a scent he uses.
Who would he be trying to impress with it?
When I’m finished, I take out the trash and help myself to a snack in the kitchen. Not long after, I hear a rumbling sound in front, and when I take a peek out the window, the huge black SUV drives around the carriage circle and toward the garages.
I’m tempted to look. If I went right now to the garage entrance, I would probably see Mr. Edgewood with my own eyes.
But I also know he doesn’t want to be seen—he’s made that clear enough. And I don’t want to lose this job, so I make my way back to the kitchen and start planning what I’m going to make for dinner.
I opt for something healthy but delicious, so I prepare a fig walnut salad with a crusted chicken breast, the meat brined for an hour in order to stay as moist as possible while cooking.
As if he can read my mind, Mr. Castle appears just as I’m putting the finishing touches on our meals. Picking up a plate, he squints at it, then nods in approval.
“Mr. Edgewood loves figs,” he says as he whisks the plate off the counter, and I file that information away for later.
Afterward, I busy myself cleaning the rest of the sprawling, granite kitchen, including emptying out the fridge of old vegetables and leftovers, until Mr. Castle returns with Mr. Edgewood’s plate. He leaves it meaningfully on the counter, and when I glance over, a note sits on top.
Good figs.
That’s all it says. At the bottom is a curlicue R, and I wonder what it stands for. I don’t even know Mr. Edgewood’s first name, I realize. Maybe it’ll be on the pay stub.
Good figs. I read it again before tossing the note away and cleaning up the plate. He ate every last thing on it.
What does it mean? Is he complimenting the way I prepared the figs with a quick braise, or is he pleased that I utilized them? I’m not sure why it matters so much to me, when Mr. Edgewood has otherwise been standoffish and absent. But my chef’s heart swells knowing he liked it.
When Mr. Castle goes to get my car that evening, he stops before letting me climb into the driver’s seat.
“Here,” he says, holding out an envelope.
Curiously, I take it and open the flap to reveal a wad of cash inside.
“Typically, Mr. Edgewood pays his staff every other week by automatic deposit. But he got the sense”—he glances sideways at my car, a hint of disgust on his lip—“that you need this a little sooner than that.”
How did he know? I take the envelope and curl it under my arm.
“Thank you.” My voice shakes unintentionally. Since leaving Andy’s house and abandoning everything I know, I’ve felt adrift. I know that I’m on my own now, that I’m independent, but it’s been one setback after another. I still don’t have my own bank account.
For the first time, holding this money, it feels like I might just have a chance to make it. To build a new life for myself without him.
“You’re welcome.” Mr. Castle pats my shoulder, but it’s an awkward gesture, like it’s very unfamiliar to him. “I think after today, we would like it if you stuck around.”
I think that means I passed my interview. I could practically jump up and down, because this means a long-term job, where I can save up and have all the things I’ve been dreaming of. But I rein myself in and smile.
“Please, tell Mr. Edgewood thank you.”
Mr. Castle nods, then turns and heads back into the house, and I drive away with a pile of cash in my lap, giddy for the first time in who knows how long.
It felt like I was always standing in a shadow living with Andy, but for the first time, I might just be emerging out into the light.
I’m going to spoil myself.
When I get back to the Thrifty Mart, I park in my usual spot at the far end of the lot, in the corner that isn’t well lit by the streetlamps.
I try to stay far away from the sign that says CUSTOMER PARKING ONLY, VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED.
With the money I have in my pocket, I’m going to walk three blocks to the Mexican restaurant I’ve had to smell out my car window ever since I got here.
This town is far enough from Andy that I don’t think he’ll find me here, and big enough that if he did, he’d have trouble picking me out from the thirty thousand other people. Which means there are food options, unlike the tiny town where we lived together, and I’m going to finally get to enjoy it.
Locking up my car, I put on my coat, stuff the money into the deepest pocket, then zip it closed for good measure. Once I’m bundled up, I truck off down the street toward the smell of tacos and burritos.
God, how I’ve needed a meal like this. I’ve been subsisting off what I can get at the Thrifty Mart, eating cheap hot dogs with buns that are little more than paper, and then whatever meals I make at Mr. Edgewood’s house.
But sitting down for a proper dinner, with someone serving me hot food I don’t have to cook myself? What a treat.
I probably shouldn’t be spending my money this way, but I need something for myself, a little luxury that’s all mine. To keep my sanity, to act as proof that I can survive just fine without Andy.
The restaurant is bustling when I arrive, and I ask to be seated alone.
I peruse the menu, eating free chips with salsa while I wait for the server and filling up on them before I’ve even ordered.
I make sure to get something big so I can take the other half back to my car with me, and I’ll eat it in the morning for breakfast.
After the waiter departs, I simply relax and enjoy the mariachi band making their way around the restaurant, dancing a little in my seat when they reach me. After doing such a good job on Mr. Edgewood’s rooms today, I feel like… there’s a chance I could be happy.
Yeah, that’s what this feeling is. Potential. I’m not there yet, but I’m on my way to finding a new normal, one where I’m not always looking over my shoulder, wondering if Andy’s going to finally break.
He didn’t hit me, not yet. But I knew the hit was coming at some point soon, and if I didn’t act, he would render me truly helpless.
He had already crafted a bubble of isolation around me, telling off my dad in no uncertain terms. Then we moved, separating me from my best friends.
I kept in touch with them for a while, but Andy didn’t like how much cell phone data I was using.
When he took that away, too, he made sure that I was wholly and completely reliant on him, hoping that I wouldn’t have the balls to leave.
He was wrong.
I stole our only car when I left. He must have raged for a long time, I imagine, when he found out I’d taken it. He probably couldn’t get to work that day, and I bet he wanted to strangle me.
He probably regrets never hitting me.
But I’m not in that place tonight. Tonight, I’m enjoying my new life.
Finally, my food arrives, and I dig into it even though I’m stuffed with free chips. It tastes like absolutely everything I’ve craved, spicy and cheesy and beefy—I’m in heaven.
I eat as much as I can, closing my eyes and listening to the mariachi music until it’s time to go. I take my leftovers in a container, then pay my bill using cash from the envelope.
When I walk back the three blocks to my car, I’m light as a feather, riding on hot air. This is my moment, my time to finally move up in the world.
But when I get back to my parking spot, my car is gone.