She stared up at the lighting until her neck began to ache, trying to determine where the wax dripped when it was alit with candles. Cara tried very hard to commit every detail to memory so that she would not overlook any aspects of cleaning when she began her routine but she was already becoming dizzy with sensory overload. As Cara ventured further into the center hallway leading into the bowels of the house, she peered into open doorways, taking in the two sitting rooms, each decorated in different styles but consistently in colors too dark to be considered anything but uninviting. She ruefully wondered if that was the point. There was a theater room, complete with a dozen black, leather recliner chairs for 3D viewing and their own build in speaker systems which could be toned down with top of the line headsets. The screen itself was larger than the average movie theater’s, spanning the entire wall from top to bottom. Because of this set up, the seating was built into a drop floor so the viewers were able to see the entire shot, but the recliners were tilted back so no one was staring at the floor. An old fashioned popcorn machine was along the back wall and beside it, a wheelbarrow cart like old theaters used to pedal their wares. Continuing down the corridor, Cara could smell something wonderful and she knew that she was close to the kitchen. She realized she was starving and picked up the pace, following her old factory senses. To her immediate left, was a dining room that had the capacity of an army mess hall and it had the feel of a medieval dining quarter with a huge rectangular slab table which sat twenty-four people and rested underneath three cast iron chandeliers. Again, the lighting was simple, candle-lit in nature and made what would have been bright room slightly forbidding. At that point of the day, however, sunlight filtered through the wall length paneled windows, boasting a gorgeous view of the north, east and west sides of the property. She noticed the drapes, while pulled open, were heavy, coarse wool and of course, dark grey like everything else. Cara was happy to move on with her tour. There was something about this house, amidst all of its grandeur, which made her uneasy. She had always had a keen sixth sense and small fusions of alarm kept sparking in her gut almost at every turn. She felt as though she was being watched somehow but of course that was ridiculous. Yet even as she thought it, she noticed small circular cameras in various points of the house. Well, if I had millions of dollars of material goods in my home, I think I would want the added security too, Cara thought justifiably. Still, she quickened her step and found her way into the restaurant grade kitchen just beyond the dining area. Brightness unlike anywhere else in the house met her eyes and instantly, a sense of warmth and comfort flowed through Cara as she inhaled deeply and looked around. She counted six men in chef’s hats and aprons running amok through the stainless steel and clanging of pots but there was a synchronized dance to the madness. They barked orders at one another and in a distant corner, a dish washer was almost buried in a mound of cutlery, pots and pans in the dish pit. Suddenly, someone was yelling at her.
“You! What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?” The only cook in a black coat bellowed at her, startling Cara as he only stood a few feet away.
“I-I’m sorry. I’m Cara. Tabitha said – “
“Oh let me guess!” The beefy man cut her off. “Her highness said you could come in here demanding food whenever you goddamn want, right?”
Cara began to slowly walk backward, no longer hungry. Was everyone in the house so surly? First Tabitha then this man. She hadn’t even been there two hours and she was already making enemies for reasons beyond her control.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, feeling behind her back for the swinging door, slowly walking backward. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can come back at dinnertime.”
“Oh god dammit, now you’re going to cry, aren’t you? Just get in here.” With that, he grabbed her roughly by the arm and planted her on a stool facing one of the glistening countertops.
“In the future, the staff eats breakfast at six in the morning, lunch at one in the afternoon and usually dinner is at five but that can change depending on Mr. Lamoreaux’s schedule. Do you think you can remember that, princess?”
Cara nodded solemnly, ignoring his condescending endearment. The chunky man broke into a smile so hideous, Cara almost wished for his scowl to return.
“Don’t look so scared. I don’t bite. I’m Maurice. Who are you?”
“I’m Cara Castillo. I’m the new housekeeper.” Maurice’s brown eyes brightened.
“Ah! It’s about time they replaced that little brat, Kippy. It’s been months and Queen Tabitha’s is becoming a full bitch, instead of just a partial with the workload. Not that I entirely blame her but if I can’t call her a bitch, who can, right? Hey assholes! Meet Kippy’s replacement, Clara!” Cara didn’t bother to correct him. He didn’t seem like the type who took well to being contradicted. There was a chorus of “hi” and “hey” and she received a couple of leers but no one made direct eye contact or bothered to introduce themselves, consumed by the intense bustle before them.
“They aren’t important,” Maurice told her as he began fixing her a plate of food. “But you’ll learn their names eventually…” he raised his voice over the din. “…if I don’t fire their incompetent asses first. Andrew, what the fuck are you doing? You’re burning the sauce. Again!”
One of the sous chefs did a double take at a pot which was bubbling over and quickly removed it from the stove top. Maurice sighed and rubbed his graying temples as if he were in terminal pain before resuming the task at hand. Skillfully, he moved from gas range to range, adding to the ever growing plate of food before presenting it to Cara gracefully. She had no idea what she was looking at but her mouth was producing saliva at such a rapid pace, she was afraid she might choke.
“Eat! Enjoy! I hope you can handle a bit of spice,” Maurice told her. Cara nodded eagerly and picked up a fork. He stared at her, willing her to take a bite. She put the fork in her mouth and nodded her approval with vigor. Maurice smiled. Then, just as soon as he had acknowledged her, he dismissed her, turning back to his work as she began to devour the massive dish. As she ate the Cajun flavored meal, she took in the bustle of the workers and even though Maurice had been brusque, she found that she was the most comfortable there as she had been anywhere else since she had arrived. There was a clear comradery among the staff who bantered almost cruelly with each other as they literally sweated over their craft, profanities and filthy jokes meeting her ears from all angles. Cara felt herself relax for the first time since she had left her mother’s apartment. She decided that she had been imagining whatever umbra she felt chasing her throughout the magnificent house because of her nerves. Maurice appeared at her side again.
“Are you finished yet? I’ll show you to the staff room. Her highness, Queen Tabithasshole left you a bible of instructions.” Cara smiled and nodded, picking up her plate and following Maurice. His jaw dropped.
“Are you actually picking up your own plate? You’re not expecting the kitchen staff to clean up after you?” he asked in sarcastic shock. Cara blinked.
“Of course not. I’m staff too,” she replied, surprised that anyone would expect their co-workers to clean up after them. Maurice whistled at the young boy in the dish pit who jumped to attention and ran over instantly, his hands still dripping from soapy water.
“This is Clara, Van. I want you to make sure she gets everything she needs. She’s not a spoiled little bitch like Kippy so take care of her and don’t let any of these assholes mistreat her. In fact, keep them away from her altogether. If anyone gives her trouble, you come directly to me, you hear?” There was a wave of protest from the kitchen staff who had heard his command to the teenager.
“We’re not that bad!” a tall, black man in his late twenties yelled. “And we’re awesome in the sack!”
“Shut up, Andrew, you pig! Just watch the fucking sauce. You’re burning it again. Did you hear me, Van? Keep these dickheads away from this one. There’s something special about her and I don’t want them doing someth
ing to scare her off.” Maurice stared at the dishwasher pointedly, awaiting a response. The blonde boy nodded, hazel eyes filled with some sort of idol-like admiration for the crass executive chef.
“Yes sir, chef!” Van chirped.
“Now take her plate and hurry up on those dishes! How long does it take someone to wash some goddamn spoons, honestly? You’re the slowest little shithead I’ve ever hired. Go! They aren’t going to wash themselves!” Van nodded eagerly and scampered off while Maurice continued in the opposite direction. Cara shook her head in disbelief that the boy seemed almost pleased by the cook’s mean spirited remarks. As if Maurice could read her thoughts, he waved her to his side. She hurried forward to catch up.
“Van is an aspiring chef. He wants to be my protégé so he does everything I ask of him.” In what Cara was beginning to recognize as true Maurice fashion, he raised his voice for the benefit of his subordinates.
“Van is just biding his time until I fire one of these fuck ups which should be any day now. Bruno, are you on your fucking phone again? Go to your room and flush it down the toilet. I mean it. If I ever see you with that particular phone again, you are fired and will never again work on the east coast. Do you hear me?” A prep chef looked guiltily up from the handheld device and paled under Maurice’s scathing glare. He ran out of the room through the butler stairs and Cara was sure he had tears in his eyes. She felt sorry for Maurice’s horde. He was a brute with an awful tongue. She followed him through the maze of steel counters and wooden islands into a moderately sized, windowless room in the back. It was completely without charm, especially after the feast her eyes had beheld in the rest of the house but it was a decently furnished, adeptly functioning staff room with a small leather love seat and a long wooden Ikea style table covered in magazines and newspapers. There was a coffee and espresso maker, a kettle, a small bar fridge, not unlike the one she had in her own quarters, and a dozen simple wooden chairs. To one back wall was a stack of cubbies which seemed to house various shoes. Cara guessed that not all the staff lived on the site so they had shoes to wear within the walls as well as shoes in which to go home. She had guessed wrong.
“All the staff lives here, from the chefs to the landscapers,” Maurice told her, motioning her to sit at the table as he caught her looking at the strange array of shoes. “The cubbies over there are not assigned but one is yours and you can keep an extra pair of shoes there.”
“Why?” Cara asked. Maurice raised one bushy eyebrow.
“Haven’t you ever worked in an estate?” he asked with some contempt. Cara wasn’t sure if she liked this man and his patronizing tones.
“Yes but I’ve never had occasion to use more than one pair of shoes during a work day,” she snapped back. Maurice smiled slowly, a twinkle in his dark eye.
“Oh, you will, princess. Your feet will be so blistered from all of the work, that your feet will swell up in your shitty little patent leather Mary Jane’s and you’ll be begging to put on a pair of the ugliest Crocs you can find. You’ll be so sore that you won’t be able to climb up that staircase to make that happen. That’s why we have the cubby in the staff room. But you’ll find out soon enough – if you last long enough.” Cara looked at him disbelieving. He had to be exaggerating. Still, she glanced back at the wall and realized that all of the footwear was indeed casual and there were several pairs of Crocs and even slippers in their midst.
“Just don’t let Mr. Lam catch you in anything other than standard uniform issue or you’ll be in deep shit. He prides himself of running a ship as tight as a virgin’s pussy around here.” Cara idly wondered if he kissed his mother with that foul mouth. Maurice reached up on a shelf next to the cubbies and retrieved a file folder. He opened it and slapped a stack of papers in front of her.
“Make sure you sign the non-disclosure and non-compete right away,” he told her, moving for the door. “Her Highness will collect them from you later on.”
“I already did,” Cara assured him. “When I got hired, in Manhattan.”
“You’ll sign another one. And you’ll probably even sign one more. Mr. Lam is extremely thorough. Let’s just say we’ve had some real assholes come through this house over the years. Mr. Lam had to figure out how to cover his own ass.” She raised an eyebrow, wondering what Connor Lamoreaux felt the need to hide so desperately that he wanted two non-disclosure agreements signed. Maurice did not offer anything further and instead left Cara to the papers in front of her. Heavily, she sat back in the chair and sighed. Rubbing her eyes, she glanced at the legal forms before her and quickly signed her name and dated them. They were exactly the same as the ones she had already signed in New York City. Then she turned her attention to the other paperwork. She began to read the six pages Tabitha had left for her. The first consisted of the schedule.
6:00 a.m. – Breakfast
6:30 a.m. – Main Floor Daily Schedule*
11:00 a.m. – Break
10:15 a.m. – West Wing Daily Schedule*
1:00 p.m. – Lunch
1:30 p.m. – East Wing Daily Schedule*
4:00 p.m. – Break
4:15 p.m. – Misc. Spot Cleaning
5:00 p.m. – Dinner**
5:30 p.m. – Walk Through
7:00 p.m. – End Day***
* Daily cleaning routines found in red binder
** Dinner hour subject to change
*** End day subject to change
Cara glanced around the room and saw the red binder on the same shelf from which Maurice had pulled her paperwork. There were four binders in total, each in various colors upon the white slat. The binders were overfilled with papers, and the red one seemed ready to explode. Cara let out another breath and turned to the next page. Looks like you have some reading to do, she told herself, feeling her heart sink. On some level, she had realized that the job was going to require extensive training but she was only coming to terms with the depth of that as she sat alone in the staff room. She was beginning to feel overwhelmed at the prospect. Am I really ready to start new at this again? She asked herself. It didn’t matter if she was ready or not; she was there and it was happening.
The next five sheets of papers were filled with “Rules of the House.” Cara blinked and rubbed her eyes. Her face twisted into a grimace as she began to read. This can’t be real. What am I, twelve years old? This is insane. Yet the more she read, the faster those almost forsaken doubts came flooding back through her. What did I get myself into? There were literally one hundred rules and they included such beauties as “absolutely no fornication within the house walls” “no sexual fraternization among staff members” and “you may not consort with any person with whom Mr. Lamoreaux may have business dealings in either a domestic or foreign situation.” From what Cara gleaned, the idea was to not have any form of social life involving other people. Cara had no way of knowing if Tabitha had concocted them or if they had come directly from Connor Lamoreaux himself but either way, she wanted to run screaming from the mansion by the time she had finished reading. These people were loony, applying rules as if they were living in a quad residence – or monastery. She hadn’t even looked at the list of chores yet. Suddenly feeling very hot in her own skin, Cara stood up and sprinted out of the staff room, slipping into the house without being noticed by Maurice. She made her way back in the dining room and she welcomed the shadows behind the drapes. She felt like a small child, hiding from the Bogeyman. Blinking away tears of self-pity she stared up at the heavens and wondered how had she even ended up there, a lowly servant in a big, lonely house.
Chapter Two
Nine Years Earlier
She had only been at the prestigious private school for two weeks when the invites had begun. There were movie offers and suggestions of weekend yacht parties, even trips skiing in Switzerland all with unspoken sexual undercurrents but Cara had no interest in any of them. While her twin brother Jaime had flourished among the privileged children in the Junior class of Flaxfair Collegiate, Cara found
the entire school a huge culture shock and she constantly felt out of her element. She had never handled change exceptionally well and she was painfully aware that the only reason she and Jaime were even permitted within the ivy covered walls was because their parents were the head caretakers of the school. One of the perks of the job had been a full scholarship for the Castillo children and the senior Castillo’s had jumped on the opportunity. In fact, it was probably the main reason they had accepted the position at all. Being working class Mexican immigrants, they had strived their entire lives to make life easier and better for their offspring and now the universe had presented them with an incredible opportunity. Before beginning the school year, Andréa Castillo had sat her children down and had a sobering conversation with them, one that Cara was sure she would never forget as long as she lived.
“Queridos, when you go to this school you will meet the sons and daughters of senators, doctors and even future presidents. You will be exposed to the best education and riches that you never thought you would ever see. You must take this chance and use it to make your lives better. We were born poor but that doesn’t mean you have to stay that way. Do you understand?”
“Sí, mamá,” they chorused. Yet Cara had a feeling more was coming.
“I want you both to embrace that life like it is your own. You must tell everyone that you are from Mexico but also come from a rich family. We will say that your parents are in oil.” The twins stared at her with matching emerald eyes of confusion.
“What do you mean, mamá?” Jaime had asked, his black brows furrowing into a v shape. Andréa lowered her eyes and paused.
“You must pretend not to know your father and I when you see us,” she said quietly. Cara shook her head vehemently.
“No, mamá! You always tell us to be proud of where we come from! I won’t do it!” she yelled. The senior Castillo gently placed her hand on her daughter’s arm and smiled sadly.
Romance: The Campus Player: A College Romance Page 21