Page 3 of The Homemaker

“Historically speaking, yes.” I press my lips together to hide my grin.

“Touché. Does that mean you’re a history buff?” He nods to the chair beside him.

I hesitate to sit because I have dishes to wash and clothes to launder. But maybe discussing my knowledge of politics over coffee is part of the homemaker’s job. When he uses his foot to slide the chair away from the table, I assume that keeping him company during breakfastispart of my job, so I sit.

“I’ll share my steak with you. Have you eaten?” he asks, cutting into the rare New York strip.

“Thank you, but I’ve eaten.”

“What were we talking about?” He furrows his brow while slowly chewing. “Oh yes,” he mumbles, pressing his fist to his mouth while swallowing, “I asked if you’re a history buff.”

“No. I’m not.” I rest my hands on my lap, smoothing the white apron.

“A shame,” Hunter says, stabbing his fork into a berry. “But are you a democrat?”

I bat my eyelashes, embodying the role I’ve been hired to play. “What do you think?”

With a hearty chuckle, he shakes his head. “I don’t know what to think about you, yet. What are your hobbies?”

I smile. “Quilting. Soap making. Beekeeping. But I love fishing and skeet shooting too.”

He stops mid-chew. After a couple blinks, he swallows, sets his fork down, and adjusts himself. “Careful. I’m a married man. And it’s a little early in the morning to get me so aroused. Did Vera tell you to say all of that?”

“Which part don’t you believe? The soap making or beekeeping?”

Mr. Morrison’s face lights up much like Vera’s did when I jumped onboard with the fifties housedresses and ankle-strap shoes.

He slowly nods and adds a wink. “I knew I was going to like you, but you’ve exceeded all my expectations in less than five minutes.”

Now, I’m the one beaming with satisfaction. His words are the equivalent of a standing ovation.

“Good morning, my love.” Vera sweeps into the diningroom, wearing white leggings and a zip hoodie from a luxury brand of athleisure wear with her hair twisted into a bun. She stops at the back of his chair and leans forward, kissing his cheek. Then she eyes me. “You look lovely, Alice. Did my husband give you his nod of approval as well?”

I look at him.

Mischief steals his lips. “Alice was just telling me how brilliant and handsome I am.”

As she fills her hydrogen water bottle from the glass carafe on the table, she glances up at me. “Alice, dear, you can’t compliment Hunter. He’s an addict. It’s like giving bacon to a dog. Now he’s going to chase you with his tongue out until you give him more compliments.”

“Isn’t it a bit early for you to be up, darling?” Mr. Morrison asks.

“I need to go over things with Alice for this weekend before I meet with my trainer at nine.”

“When are the kids arriving?” he asks as they talk over me.

“They’ll be here by noon on Saturday.”

I slip out of my chair and disappear into the kitchen, where I place the dishes in the sink to wash by hand since they don’t like dirty dishes in the dishwasher, which kind of defeats the purpose of having one, in my humble, lower-class opinion.

“Oh, Alice,” Vera says, stepping into the kitchen for a green banana from the bunch on the counter, “there are gloves under the sink. You really should wear them. Washing dishes is terrible for your nails.”

I don the pink latex gloves and make a mental note to keep my nails manicured.

“I’ll see you lovely ladies later,” Mr. Morrison says,sauntering into the kitchen and straightening his tie before kissing Vera on her cheek. “I love you,” he whispers. “Thanks for breakfast, Alice.” He winks at me.

I quickly look away after gawking at the unexpected tender moment between them.

Vera smacks him on the butt. “You’re such a flirt. Behave so she doesn’t quit.”