A woman.
I opened my bedroom door, and there, standing near the sink in between Wilson and Truman, was a stunningly beautiful woman, petite and pretty with curls the color of corn silk. Herwhite teeth were framed by perfectly applied red lipstick. She wore a periwinkle-hued linen suit and glossy black pumps.
Wilson had brought a girl home for the weekend.
He’d been turning toward a kitchen drawer at that same moment, and when he saw me, he smiled. “Hey, Rosie. Perfect timing. We’re looking for the old corkscrew. The new one in the breakfront broke. Is it in this drawer somewhere?”
I couldn’t find my voice. I could only stare at the woman, unable to wrest my eyes from her.
Wilson had brought home a girl.
“Uh... I... Maybe.” I forced my feet to move toward the three of them, toward the drawer that Wilson had just opened. Toward the woman with the perfect body and smile.
Wilson had brought a girl home. For the weekend.
I started to rummage through the utensil drawer, but I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to be looking for.
“I’ve got plenty down in the tasting room,” Truman said after a few seconds. “I’ll be back in a flash. Wilson, you should introduce Alice to Rosie.”
“Oh. Right,” Wilson said as Truman walked away. I pushed the drawer closed and turned to face him and his guest.
“Rosie, this is Alice Barrow. Alice, this is Rosie. Rosie’s kind of like our...” Wilson stopped and looked at me. “What are you? I’m not sure.”
Again, for several seconds, my voice was lost to me.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Barrow,” I finally said mechanically. Like a thing made of clockwork. “I am... uh, I live here and I take care of the house and kitchen. I’ll be serving the evening meal.”
“A pleasure,” the woman said genially but somehow also distantly. Then she turned to Wilson. “I thought we were going into the city tonight.”
“We are.” He turned to me. “We’re just going to have a quick glass of the family vintage before heading down to the Sausalito Ferry. I want to show Alice San Francisco this weekend.”
“Ah. How nice.” I barely recognized my voice.
“I know! Let’s go down to the barrel and tasting room and have our wine there,” Wilson said to Alice. “I can show you the caves.”
“All right,” his guest said in a tone that told me it made no difference to her where they had their glass of wine before heading out for San Francisco. Wilson was trying to impress this woman. I could tell he hadn’t been successful yet.
“Nice to have met you,” Alice said languidly as they turned to leave the kitchen.
“Yes. Enjoy your evening,” I returned.
Wilson had his hand on the small of her back as they started to walk away. He looked back at me with a smile as they crossed from the kitchen to the dining room. “Bye, Rosie.”
I waved, and then they were gone.
For several seconds, I just stood there wondering what to do with my immense disappointment and feeling like a fool for having imagined—again—that Wilson would have any interest in me. Perhaps it wasn’t actually Wilson that I longed for as much as I just longed to be wanted. It had been exhilarating to think he could have feelings for me. I’d loved imagining it was possible.
I changed into a blouse and trousers and then began to pull out the things to make dinner, moving about the kitchen as if in a disjointed dream. The long day in the fields was catching up with me now that there was nothing exciting to look forward to for the weekend. I just wanted to finish the dinner preparations, serve Truman, clean up, and be done with this day.
Wilson and Alice were already gone when supper was ready. The harvest crews had left, too, and the house and the property were quiet.
I served Truman in the study, where he decided to take his meal, and I ate in the kitchen while I absently flipped through a magazine. By eight o’clock, I was bone-tired in body and soul, and I went to retrieve Truman’s dinner plate so that I could clean up for the night and crawl into bed.
He had a cheery fire going and music playing on the phonograph that I’d never heard before. As I stepped into the room, I was nearly swept off my feet at the sound of it. Swirls of lavender and bright yellow hovered on the tripping piano notes and an accompanying horn. A saxophone, I thought.
Truman was sitting in one of the two chairs in front of the fireplace, a bottle of whisky in front of him, and a glass. A lit cigarette resting on an ashtray on the table next to him was sending curls of smoke into the air.
“What is that music?” I asked him.
