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?”
CHAPTER 12
Finn
