“Millie!”
Behind the woman who greeted us, a voice floats out from within the depths of the house. A second later, Suzette descends the stairs, looking simultaneously slightly breathless and yet without a single hair out of place. She’s wearing a green dress that makes me realize her eyes are actually more green than blue, and whatever miraculous bra she’s wearing pushes her boobs practically up to her chin. Her butterscotch-colored hair is shiny, like she was just whisked out of the salon, and her skin almost seems like it’s glowing. She looks gorgeous.
I look over at Enzo to see if he’s noticing how she looks, but he’s busy fiddling with a button on his shirt. Hereallyhates that shirt. Hopefully he can keep it on till we get home.
“Millie and Enzo!” she cries, clasping her hands together with more delight than anyone could possibly have over theneighbors coming to visit. “I’msoglad you could make it. And so fashionably late.”
Sheesh, we’re only five minutes late.
“Hi, Suzette,” I say.
“I see you’ve already met Martha.” Suzette’s eyes twinkle as she puts a hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “She helps out here two days a week. Jonathan and I are justsobusy, and Martha is a lifesaver.”
“Yes,” I murmur.
I have been many families’ Martha in the past. But I was never able to play the part as well as this woman clearly does. She looks like a maid right from out of the fifties. All she needs is a little feather duster and one of those vacuums with the comically large engines.
Yet there’s something unnerving about her. Possibly because she’s still staring at me like she can’t rip her eyes away. I’m used to women staring at Enzo, but she’s not interested in him or my children. Her gaze is laser-beam focused on my face.
What is so interesting? Do I have spinach in my teeth? Is there a celebrity I resemble and she wants an autograph?
“Could Martha get you anything to drink?” Suzette asks me and Enzo, although she’s looking at him. “Water? A glass of wine? I believe we also have some lovely pomegranate juice.”
We both shake our heads. “No, thank you,” I say.
“Are you sure?” she says. “It’s no trouble for Martha.”
I look over at the older woman, who is still standing there rigidly, waiting for the word to dash back in the kitchen and fetch us a beverage. “It’s no trouble,” she chimes in, her voice low and gravelly, like she’s not used to using it.
“We’re fine,” I assure her, hoping she’ll leave. She doesn’t.
Suzette finally notices Nico and Ada, who are patiently huddled in the doorway. “And these must be your two beautiful children. How completely precious.”
“Thank you,” I say. It always struck me as odd that when you compliment someone’s children, the parent says “thank you,” like they are the owner of the child. Yet here I am, saying thank you.
Suzette turns her attention back to Enzo. “They both lookexactlylike you.”
“Not exactly,” Enzo says, which is a bald-faced lie. “Ada has Millie’s mouth and lips.”
“Hmm, I don’t see it,” Suzette says.
She doesn’t see it because it’s not true. Neither of them look anything like me. And while we’re at it, neither of the kids shares my personality. Nico is a lot like Enzo, and I don’t know where on earth my intelligent, reserved daughter came from.
“By the way,” Suzette says. “I just found out somefantasticnews. Another family that Martha works for has just moved away. I’ll bet she would be happy to clean for you too.”
“Oh.” Enzo and I exchange looks.Of courseI love the idea of someone besides me cleaning my house, but we can’t afford it. “That’s so nice of you, really, but I don’t think…”
“I’m free Thursday mornings,” Martha tells me.
“Would Thursday mornings work for you?” Suzette asks me.
How do I explain to this woman whose house is twice the size of ours that we can’t afford a cleaning woman? And even if we could afford one, there’s something about Martha that makes me incredibly uncomfortable. “Um, the time is okay, but…”
Before I can come up with an excuse that doesn’t involve me admitting that we don’t want Martha’s services, Suzette’s eyes drop to the pie in my hands. She lets out a tinkling laugh. “Oh no, Millie, did youdrop thaton the way over?”
Ugh, I guess I made ittoorustic.
Thankfully, I at least manage to put down the pie on the coffee table in their living room while Martha disappears to the kitchen. The living room is much larger than ours. Every partof their house is twice as large as ours or possibly three times. The outside is just as old as ours—the house was built in the late 1800s and not much has been altered—but unlike ours, the inside of their house has been fully renovated. Enzo has promised to renovate our house the same way, but I suspect it will take the better part of the next decade.
