“You’re a hard worker.”
“I have to be,” I mutter, not turning around.Unlike you, I want to add. Grace’s life has been so easy compared to mine. She grew up rich, the heir to an oil-and-gas fortune, and has never really had to worry about money. Even now, when money is ‘tight’—whatever that means for people like this—she’s got me to clean for her. “I’ve always had to be.”
The sentence is pointed, though I only dare to say it because I’m not looking right at her.
“Isn’t it interesting how people assume that money makes life easier?”
“Of course it does,” I say, continuing to scrub.
“I understand the reasoning. You think that rich people can just pay others to do the unpleasant jobs in their lives. But this makes one assumption, an incorrect one, I think.”
I stand up slowly, my legs stiff, and wash my hands in the sink. Grace looks at me in the mirror. Compared to me—sweaty, blotchy—she’s astonishingly beautiful. If Bradley walked in right now, I have no doubts about which of us he’d choose to go to bed with.
“Yes?” I say, taking the bait.
“You assume it’s easier to be left alone with your thoughts. To have time to sit and probe the depths of your own being. To dwell on what we are and what we are capable of doing. When really, it’s the most profound agony. I’d rather distract myself with aimless chores than sit alone in an empty house and try to tame my thoughts.”
I want to ask her what exact thoughts of hers need taming, but I can’t let her think she’s won the argument.
“Here you go, then.” I hold out the toilet cleaner. “Go nuts. Let me try sitting on my own.”
“I wish I could,” she replies, with a world-weary shake of her head. “I really do. But I’m compelled to other work. It’s my vocation.” Before I can give the sarcastic retort I have loaded up, she waves for me to follow. “Come. There’s one more task for today.”
I look at my watch. I could say no. It’s 2 p.m. I should be done for the day.
She notices and lets out an annoyed sigh, as if to say,You can’t find good help these days. “There’s lunch on the counter. Take it with you. And you can take tomorrow off. I’d prefer you get this done today so I don’t need to worry about it.”
After grabbing a sandwich from the bench, I follow her through the kitchen and out into the backyard. She takes me around the side of the house where, amongst the weeds and spiky blackberry cane, is a crumbling set of stairs.
Grace walks carefully down. I hesitate, then follow. At the foot of the stairs is a heavy wooden door.
“Most homesteads around here don’t have basements,” she explains, fitting a long silver key into the door. “It’s a flood risk more than anything. But this place is relatively new, believe it or not. A mere century old.”
After she turns the lock, she places her foot against the bottom of the door and pushes hard. As it swings open, she brushes her hand along the inside wall until she finds a light switch. I hesitate at the door. Inside, there are piles of boxes on the far wall, along with abandoned exercise equipment and stacks of old furniture.
“Bradley originally planned to turn this into a gym, but it’s impossible to keep the air circulating in the winter. Because I’ve turned the attic into my office, I put all my old books and papers down here.” She crosses the basement floor and opens a boxwith a sniff. “Turns out that was a dumb idea. Half of this stuff will need to be tossed. But I don’t have time to go through it.”
I shiver as the door slams shut behind me. There’s no way I want to spend my afternoon down here. I’m formulating my argument for saying no when she tosses a book into my hands.
“I’m heading off for the night. I have meetings in LA. A production company wants to optionThe Last Date, but I need to look them in the eye before I say yes. That city is full of philistines.” Before I can respond, she’s on the steps. “Put anything that’s got water damage in a pile on the lawn. Maybe we can burn them at the next full moon. We can have our own bonfire of the vanities. I’ve often wondered what Savonarola felt like.”
I wait for her to keep talking—or even just explain who the hell Savonarola is—but she closes the door behind her. She jiggles the door handle, presumably so that it doesn’t slam.
When she’s gone, I realize I didn’t speak the entire time. Another one of her spells, I suppose. Or my own cowardice. I look at the book in my hands.The Unwomanly Face of War. Several pages are dog-eared. I open it up and see passages of female soldiers fighting for the Soviets in World War II. Snipers are taking out German soldiers by the dozen. One person is haunted by what she did during the war, another is proud.
The book isn’t damaged at all, and I wonder why Grace gave it to me. Is it a message? Does she want me to read it? Or is it just random? I feel like a courtier in the Dark Ages, trying to interpret the moods of a mercurial queen.
Forget her, I tell myself, and get to work going through the boxes. If I can kill an hour down here, then with any luck, Grace will be gone.
Maybe Bradley and I can even revisit our plans from the other night, and I can sleep in a real bed, in a room with actual windows.
I go through the boxes and find that nearly everything is in good condition. It’s damp down here, and the books won’t last forever, but there’s no reason to toss just about any of it. I work through a dozen boxes, then stand and crack my back, before returning to sort through the rest.
At the bottom of the pile, I find a box full of manila folders and notebooks. I open one, and a dozen loose newspaper clippings fall to the basement floor. Reviews ofThe Last Date,which are uniformly gushing.
I shift the box closer to the light to go through the notebooks, but a cloud of dust rises, and I break into a coughing fit. I stumble to the door and decide it’s about time I checked to see if Grace is still home.
I pull at the door, but it’s stuck. I pull harder, then harder, until my shoulder aches.
