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. Sendingwineand requesting ano contact delivery. It’ll be on your porch bynine.
The ridgesthat 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 threeyears 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. Itwasn’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.
