Page 23 of The Homemaker

I slip my phone into my pocket. “Really? Do youlikethis job?”

Alice folds her hands in front of her, fingers relaxed. “It’s the best job I’ve ever had.”

I rub my chin and nod several times to hide my reaction. What happened to her thatthisis the best job she’s ever had?

“That’s interesting.Why do you say that?”

Her brow wrinkles.

“I’m just curious. That’s all.”

“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Morrison are very kind to me. And they’re entertaining. I like their dynamic, this house and its location, and I have a wide variety of tasks, so it’s never boring.”

“And who doesn’t love to wear a dress and apron every day?” I chuckle.

“Well, sometimes I think life was probably better seventy years ago. Less noise. A simpler life. Great music. And yeah,” she glances down, “women brushing their hair fifty times before bed and needing no excuse to look cute and feminine in a pre-yoga-pants era is appealing to me, even if it’s weird to you or your fiancée.”

I’m a dick.

Eight years ago, she imploded before my eyes, leaving me in the rubble. What I would have given to see her in absolutely any dress, doing any job.

“What do you do for a living?” she asks before I have a chance to apologize for my comment.

“I’m a freelance technical writer. Basically, I write?—”

“You write support documents for technical and complex information. Instruction manuals.”

“Uh, yeah. How did you know that?”

She squints for a second. “I don’t know. I must have come across someone who had the same profession.”

I bite my tongue, thinkingme. You came across me.

“Okay. I’m out of here. Last chance for one of you to join me,” Hunter says, parading down the stairs.

“Have a lovely time, Mr. Morrison. I’m off to finish your study,” Alice says.

I jab my thumb behind me. “You know where I’ll be.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles on his way to the back door.

It clicks shut, and a few minutes later, I hear the rumble of his red 1967 Corvette coupe pulling onto the street. I force myself to work for another twenty minutes before breaking for dinner. Taking the long way to the kitchen, I peek into Hunter’s study. Alice has all of his books in neat piles on the floor, while she stands on the sliding ladder to dust the shelves. Her wedge heels are next to his desk, and Billie Holiday is singing “I’ll Be Seeing You” on Hunter’s upscale turntable.

When Blair introduced me to her parents, I was instantly drawn to his vinyl collection and his fifteen-thousand-dollar turntable. She said her dad never let her touch his collection and didn’t understand why I cared about something so old. How would she feel about the homemaker playing his records?

I leave Alice to her work and make myself dinner. While I smash avocado with lime, garlic, salt, and cilantro, I hear footsteps behind me and turn. Alice has her shoes back on.

“You don’t have to wear those for me,” I say.

“I thought I smelled something burning,” she says, ignoring my shoe comment.

“A little cheese ran out of my quesadilla.” I nod toward the griddle. “Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up.”

“I would have made you dinner.” She pulls a plate from the cabinet.

“You’re not my homemaker. I’ve got this.”

“I’mthehomemaker. And you live in this home for now, so I’m your …”