Page 9 of The Homemaker

“Are you sure you want to sign up for this, Murphy? My daughter will never bake bread for you.”

“I uh … need to use the restroom,” Murphy says.

The sound of his voice unearths memories that no pill can erase.

“Is everything all right, babe?” Blair asks. “Sorry. I’m not trying to start a fight with my father.”

I peek my head around the corner as she touches his arm. Murphy gives her a shaky smile. “It’s uh … fine,” he mumbles.

I jerk my head back to hide, pressing my body to the wall as he passes the kitchen on the way to the bathroom. Then I refocus on the dessert. By the time I have the cups filled with two small scoops of sorbet and garnished with mint leaves, Murphy has returned to the dining room.

“Have you always been a homemaker, Alice?” Blair asks, when I gather the empty plates and replace them with glass cups of sorbet, hands still shaking because I feelhisgaze on me.

“No, Miss Morrison,” I say, clearing my throat. “But I hope your parents are happy with my performance thus far. They are a delight to work for,” I say, meaning the wordperformancein the most literal sense.

Mr. and Mrs. Morrison sit up a little straighter, chins an inch higher. Flattery goes a long way in the world of padded bank accounts and over-inflated egos.

“You’re doing a great job, Alice,” Vera says. “Thank you. That will be all. When you’re done in the kitchen, we won’t require anything else today.”

“What about dinner?” Hunter asks, lifting his spoon toward his mouth.

I try to keep my gaze on him, but I can tell from the corner of my eye that Blair’s fiancé isn’t touching his sorbet.

“I’ve made reservations,” Vera replies.

“Who will turn down my bed?” Now Hunter’s justtoying with his wife and daughter, trolling them for a reaction.

“Excuse me?” Blair takes the bait.

I slowly slink out of the room.

“Your mom has an obsession with throw blankets and decor pillows, so Alice makes a neat pile of everything and folds down the bedding, assuring it’s smooth and tight, just how I like it.”

“Are we still talking about the bedding?” Vera asks.

“Oh my god, Mother!”

Vera and Hunter laugh while I anxiously wait for everyone to finish their dessert so I can clean up and get the heck out of here.

An hour later, the kitchen is clean, sourdough starter fed, and meals planned for the next day. Mr. Morrison has a button that needs to be repaired on his favorite shirt, but I’ll do that tomorrow, since Vera seems eager for me to leave.

“Do you remember me?”

I startle, glancing up as I remove my wedge pumps at the back door and exchange them for my leather slip-ons. My insides twist when I look at him. His shoulders seem broader, more muscular. The shadow of whiskers on his face is thicker. He’s justmoreeverything in the best possible way.

Murphy eyes me with a forlorn expression, pain etched into his forehead, hands in his front pockets. I pause for a moment. He’s giving me a choice? My conscience chews on the agonizing decision for a few seconds.

I’m better now.

He’s engaged to my boss’s daughter.

What good can come from remembering?

I remove my apron and hang it on the brushed silver hook. “You look familiar, but I can’t quite place you.” It’s a version of the truth, a stretch. Buttruthfully,I don’t remember everything, like how it ended.

His brow tightens, as do my heartstrings.

“Remind me?” I say with a cruel casualness that’s unplanned but feels necessary.