8
Before...
JUNE 1938
Wilson arrived home late in the afternoon. Alphonse had taken the night off but had prepared dishes the day before and had left instructions for me on how to reheat and assemble them. I’d been busy seeing to all this and hadn’t heard Wilson come in the front door. I emerged from the kitchen a little after five o’clock to prepare the dining table and there he was, standing with his parents across the entry in the open living room, sipping an aperitif.
He’d turned toward me and smiled when I stepped into the dining room.
Wilson had grown tall and good-looking like his father, with the same sandy-brown hair and strong build. But he had Celine’s nose and cheekbones, and even from yards away he radiated the same confidence as his mother. He seemed a perfect blend of his parents’ best physical qualities.
“Rosie, come here a moment,” Celine said.
I crossed the entry to the living room, wishing with all my might I’d had a moment to redo my hair and check a mirror for smudges on my face.
“You remember Wilson, don’t you?” Celine asked.
“I... Yes.”
“Well, hey.” Wilson’s self-assured smile deepened. His voice was draped in forest green. “So you’re living and working for my parents here in the house now, eh?”
“Y-yes.”
He was even more handsome at only a few feet away.
“Are you liking the new job okay?”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking, his smile was so deceptively charming. Did he really expect me to say if I didn’t like my new situation with his parents standing right there?
“I... I do. I mean, I am.”
“She’s doing great,” Celine interjected, almost proudly. “And she makes the most wonderful omelets. You’ll see, Wilson.”
“They are quite good,” Truman added.
I felt my face blush a little at the praise. “My mother was a good teacher.”
Wilson tipped his head up slightly as if suddenly remembering. “Oh yes. I heard about what happened to your parents and brother. That’s so awful.”
His tone was mysterious. Was he sincerely sad for me? Or was he just saying what one would be expected to say? I couldn’t tell. The color of his voice was the same, yet different somehow.
“It was,” I said. “It was awful.”
An uncomfortable hush filled the room. It was obvious no one knew what to say next.
“Well, go on with what you were doing, Rosie,” Celine instructed, breaking the silence. “We don’t want to keep you.”
Half an hour later, the family came to the table just as I was setting down the last dish. As they took their places, Wilson asked why there were only three place settings.
“Rosie doesn’t eat with us,” Celine said amiably. “She prefers to take her meals on her own.”
Wilson turned his attention to me. “You do?”
“I doubt that’s how she would describe it,” Truman said under his breath as he reached for the wine bottle.
Celine leveled her gaze at her husband. “I told you before, we are trying to help this girl prepare for her life on her own. She is going to make an excellent domestic with the training she is getting here. It would be ridiculous of her to think she could sit with the family she works for at their dinner table.”
“Yes, but she doesn’t just work for us,” Truman said as he poured wine into his glass. “We’re guardians of her care.”
