Fox is in the shower—I can hear the water running, the master bath draws from pipes that run around the porch, which means sound carries in one direction only—so hollering for him isn’t an option. Not that I’m a hollerer.
I could stand up and hobble in, but I don’t feel like it, so I stay, my eyes closed, my hands on my chest, the sun warm and cozy.
Maybe it’s someone who is delivering something. His assistant comes in and out, leaving this, that, and the other. There’s a housekeeper, new, whom he hired because I’m supposed to do nothing but sit around, sleep around, lounge around. I’m fine with that. I can’t do more than sit around, sleep around, and lounge around right now, anyway.
Or maybe it’s the cleaners—he’s always had them, refused to let them go when I moved in, no matter what I said about liking to clean.
“No fucking way,” he said. “You work fulltime like I do. We’re not going to be cleaning this massive place, especially when we can afford not to.”
I felt guilty for about half a minute, then quickly got used to having someone clean the house from head to toe, change the sheets, do the laundry….
What a luxury!
I’m drowsy when I hear voices. I hear footsteps. I hear someone call out, “Archibald.”
Ugh!
Only one person calls him that—his mother.
Does the woman have a key to the house? When did that happen? Not while I lived here.
Well, Lucy, technically, you still live here.
But it’s under false pretense.
“Fox,” a second voice, female, calls out.
Not Caroline. Then….
I turn my head.
Margaret Bennett steps out onto the porch. She has this way about her, like every place she enters is hers. You can have your opinions about it, but she’s gonna own it now.
I hope my gorgeous peonies burn her ass.
She is dressed as someone fromBridgertonwould in this day and age—with care and a plan for what image to project. I doubt this woman has ever just slipped on jeans and shoes to rush somewhere because she’s running late.
A step behind her, arranged like a punctuation, is Reina.
I’ve met her a couple of times at family gatherings. She’s Fox’s ex. They used to date a long time ago, and he left her because she cheated on him. He said it in passing to me once, like it didn’t matter to him.
She’s tall and polished. She works in PR at her father’s company, which I know is code for making a living doing no work, which is what everyone in Fox’s family does. She dresses like a mini Margaret, wearing clothes and jewelry that cost more than my monthly salary plus my annual profit cut at Dina’s.
But, as I have lost my memory, I don’t actually know or remember these people.
I wonder if Fox has told them about my selective amnesia. If he has, this will be interesting. If he hasn’t, this will be entertainingandinteresting.
They both look at me with quiet contempt, like I am asituationthat has not yet been fully resolved. I recognize it well.ButI have lost my memory so….
“Yes?” I ask, setting my teacup on the table next to the chair I’mrestingon.
“Lucy.” Margaret controls a sneer. Not well because I see it, and probably that’s her intention. “You look better than I expected.”
“Thank you.” I keep my tone pleasant but not warm because I have approximately zero warmth available for this woman.
“Lucy, I heard about the accident.” Reina comes to stand by me. She has a sweet voice—snake-like.
Obviously, Fox hasn’t told them about my memory loss.
