Page 10 of The Homemaker (The Chain of Lakes #1)

Chapter Ten

Murphy

If we are what we eat, make every plate beautiful, every bite vibrant with flavor and color.

Weeks float by in an endless loop of monotony. Blair and Vera spend an ungodly amount of time planning a wedding that I’ve been told will be “simple and intimate.” When I offer to help, they chuckle like the idea is ridiculous.

I get work done on my computer at the desk in our bedroom on the days I’m not golfing with Hunter.

The “homemaker” haunts me because I can’t look at her as a stranger in a dress and white apron.

Instead, every time I see Alice, I look for a spark of recognition, and I swallow all the unanswered questions that race to the tip of my tongue.

When we make brief eye contact, she offers the same perfected smile before asking if she can get me anything.

“Vera?” Hunter calls with agitation to his voice. “Vera! ”

I poke my head out of the bedroom just as he stomps toward the front door.

“Are the women not back yet?” he asks me in a grumble.

“Not yet. Something wrong?”

“I’m speaking at a charity auction, and I can’t get this fucking bow tie to look right.”

“Mr. Morrison?”

Our attention shifts to Alice as she saunters toward him with ease and confidence. “Let me,” she says, reaching for his bow tie.

He relaxes in tiny increments because that’s the effect she has on everyone, except me. I want to shake her and demand she remember me, tell me what happened so I can get rid of this guilt.

“Did Vera teach you how to do this?” Hunter asks.

Her delicate, steady hands work the tie.

“Vera told me I should know how to tie all your ties. But YouTube taught me.” She smirks, shifting her gaze to his face for a moment, like she adores him as much as he adores her.

Fuck, maybe Vera is dying, and Alice will be the replacement. That makes me nauseous.

“Do you want to go to this auction with me?” Hunter lifts a suggestive eyebrow.

“Not particularly.” Alice gives him a big, cheesy smile while refocusing on his tie.

“Oh, come on. Vera never goes to auction dinners with me. Besides, all our friends know she hired me a homemaker. I’m the envy of the neighborhood and everyone in our social circle.” He glances back at me. “Murphy, you’ll understand after twenty-plus years of marriage.”

“There,” Alice says, taking a step back to admire her work .

Hunter turns toward the entry mirror. “Not bad.”

“Thank you.” She smiles, bending into a playful curtsy.

“There will be a band. Do you like to dance?” Hunter looks at her reflection in the mirror.

“Yes, by myself, with the shades drawn.”

He laughs. “Then we’d be in trouble. Vera is the dancer, so I let her lead. Blair loves to dance, too. What about you, Murphy?” He turns away from the mirror. “Can you dance?”

I look to Alice for any sort of recognition, but she offers nothing more than a soft smile while waiting for my response like she doesn’t know the answer. And once again it hits me—she doesn’t. God, this is torture.

“I’m okay,” I say just as my phone vibrates on the desk, so I retreat to check my message. “Blair just messaged me,” I say. “She and Vera are going to dinner with friends. Vera wants me to go to the auction with you.” I step outside of the bedroom with my phone. “I can lead when we dance.”

Alice snorts.

“Or you can go by yourself,” I say, “and I can get some more work done.”

Hunter nods. “Alice can make you dinner.”

“I can make my dinner.” When I look at her, she averts her gaze. Did I offend her?

“Looks like you have the night off, Alice.” Hunter struts up the stairs.

“I’ll finish organizing your study before I go,” she says.

“You’re a gem, thank you.”

She smooths her hands down the front of her apron.

A stranger before me. But all I see are the familiar things.

The blue eyes. Turned-up nose. Bow-shaped lips.

Delicate fingers with trimmed nails. A mole on her neck that I’ve kissed countless times.

The three-inch scar on her right arm that I’ve traced with the pad of my finger.

“Would you have gone with him had he pushed you on it?” I ask.

“Of course.”

I slip my phone into my pocket. “Really? Do you like this 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 that this is 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, thinking me . 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’m the homemaker. And you live in this home for now, so I’m your …”

I chuckle. “Maker?”

Alice returns a half grin. “Yes. Where are your tomatoes?”

“I don’t need any. This will work.”

“Of course you need tomatoes. Be right back.”

“Alice—”

She’s out the door before I can finish my protest. A few minutes later, she returns with the perfect orange and yellow heirloom tomato. After a quick rinse, she sets it on the butcher block cutting board and dices it.

“Don’t you have a study to finish organizing?”

“I’m about done. It’s been a three-day project.” She checks on my quesadilla and transfers it to the cutting board, where she uses her chef’s knife to cut it into four wedges. Then she steals the bowl of guacamole from me and mixes in the fresh cut tomatoes.

I step aside because I know she gets into a zone while cooking. It’s hard to hide my grin when she chops red onion to add to the guacamole. Then she arranges the quesadilla on the plate and transfers the guacamole to a smaller dish that fits nicely in the middle of the plate.

“What can I get you to drink?” she asks, taking the plate to the dining room table where she sets it on a placemat and arranges utensils on a cloth napkin next to it.

I hold up my bottle of beer when she turns to face me. “Got my own drink like a big boy. And I will not use any of that silverware. I’ll eat it with my hands, lick my greasy fingers, and wipe them on my jeans if I need a napkin.”

God I wish I could read her mind. How does she not remember the best (and worst) two weeks of my life? A fortnight that ended abruptly, a scar that I’ve carried ever since.

“I’m going to finish up in the study. If you need anything, let me know.”

“I need you to eat dinner with me. I was going to take it to the bedroom and eat it at my desk while working, but now you have everything neatly arranged at this big table. So I need company.”

“I really should finish in the study.”

I sit at the table. “Hunter says you’re an excellent listener, way more attentive than Vera. Sit. I have some grievances to air about this upcoming wedding. Do I have homemaker-client confidentiality privileges with you?” I dip the quesadilla into the guacamole.

Alice studies me for a few seconds before smoothing her hand down the front of her apron and pulling out the chair next to me, sitting with her legs crossed. I remember so many things about those fucking incredible legs, but I wish I didn’t.

She clears her throat, and my eyes lift. There’s an awkward breath as we share a silent acknowledgment that I was staring at her legs.

“Blair told me I could have lots of input on this wedding.” I dive into conversation as I hand Alice a wedge of my quesadilla.

She shakes her head, so I set it on the table in front of her, which makes her frown while picking up the wedge and eyeing the grease it left behind.

“I was told I could pick out whatever cake flavor I wanted for the groom’s cake. Makes sense, right?” I mumble over a bite of food.

Alice offers a one-shouldered shrug with a tiny nod. Then she steals the knife to spread guacamole over the top of her quesadilla. I keep my grin in check.

“So I said chocolate cake, and Blair and Vera rolled their eyes at me. The baker suggested red velvet cake, and that seemed to please Blair and her mom, but I don’t want red velvet cake.

I want regular chocolate. Then they suggested a filling if I wanted chocolate.

They said orange, cherry, or raspberry pair well with chocolate cake.

Nope. I just want plain chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. ”

Alice finishes chewing and licks her lips. “So what cake are you getting?”

“Rum cake.”

She presses her fingers to her lips to muffle her laughter. Then she reaches for my beer.

I don’t stop her, but before the bottle touches her lips, she freezes, and her smile dies as she slowly sets the beer back on the table.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, swallowing hard. “I’d better get back to work.”

I don’t argue because even if she doesn’t remember me, her body has muscle memory of how we were together.