by Wendy Wax
“So?” Candace asked as Amanda stowed her things in the trunk and climbed gingerly into the car. Her body was one giant ache and the white polyester pantsuit, now stained and sweaty, stuck to her body.
“Did she have an unsightly bathtub ring? Did you find dust bunnies under Bitsy’s bed?”
Amanda rolled her neck from side to side, trying to work out the kinks, wishing that was all she’d found under the Menkowskis’ bed. “Not exactly.”
Candace, who was perfectly made-up, had the convertible top down on the car. Her hair stirred artfully in the wind. It was a gorgeous spring day, the flowers bulging with color, the sky a clear, perfect blue. Amanda had been so busy cleaning, she’d barely had time to glance out one of the Menkowskis’ forty-some windows.
“What does that mean?”
Amanda felt a smile curve her lips. “Let’s just say Bitsy’s not as boring and unimaginative as we thought.”
Candace pulled into her driveway and drove straight into the garage, where Amanda’s van waited. She closed the garage door behind them so no one would see them unloading, or Solange transforming into someone else. “Can you be more specific?”
“I don’t know.” Amanda shook her head and stole a look in the rearview mirror at the wig, now even bigger and wilder after the ride in the convertible. “I’m wondering if there’s some sort of cleaning woman’s code of ethics. Because I now know way more about Bitsy than I ever wanted to. And I’m kind of horrified to think what my cleaning people knew about me.”
“Oh, no you don’t.” Candace’s voice was edged with disbelief. “If you have juicy info about Bitsy Menkowski you’re definitely going to share it with Sister Candace.”
Pulling off the wig, Amanda massaged her scalp and shook her hair free. “OK,” she said as she spilled all. “But don’t say I didn’t try to spare you.”
In the stunned silence that followed Amanda found a Kleenex in her purse and used it to wipe off the remains of the red lipstick. She’d enjoyed being Solange, but she could hardly wait to get home and get into the shower to scrub off the rest of her disguise, not to mention the dirt and grime.
“If I’m going to do this on a regular basis, I’m going to have to work out a system,” Amanda said, climbing out of the car. “I wasted a huge amount of time today trying to figure out where to begin and what to do next.”
“I guess there has to be a learning curve just like with anything else.” Candace considered Amanda. “Are you OK with this? I mean it sounded completely logical the other night when we were brainstorming, but I’m sure the reality of cleaning other people’s houses is…”
“Eet’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do eet,” Amanda quipped in Solange’s accent. “I can’t afford to be squeamish right now. I’m keeping my eyes on the money.”
Amanda went to the trunk of the car to retrieve her cleaning supplies.
Candace’s cell phone rang.
“Hello?” Candace waved Amanda to wait.
“Hi, Bitsy. Oh, that’s great.” Candace gave Amanda a thumbs-up. “What time next Monday?” She cocked an eyebrow at Amanda and motioned her closer. “Just a sec.” Candace put her hand over the cell phone mouthpiece.
“Negotiate up,” Amanda said. “It’s going to take a jackhammer to get that place in shape and keep it that way. And she’ll like it better if she’s overpaying. Solange should be more expensive.”
“Bitsy?” Candace said into the phone. “She can do Mondays, but she needs one hundred and thirty-five dollars to do all the things we talked about weekly. If you drop to every other week, the price goes up because she’ll have to clean deeper.”
There was squawking on the other end.
“Yes, I know. But she’ll only take on a job if she can put in the time to do it right.” More squawking. “Yes, yes, I know.” Candace winked at Amanda. “Solange is definitely worth it. And you’ll be the first in your neighborhood to have a genuine French maid.”
Candace put her hand over the mouthpiece again. “Solange is a hit. Bitsy already told Susie Simmons about her and Susie wants to know if she’s, um, you’re available on Friday mornings.”
Amanda smiled, pleased. She took off the uniform jacket and hung it over her arm then peeled off the beauty mark and stashed it in her pocket. “Tell her I’m going to have to check my calendar. Ask if you can get back to her tomorrow. The harder Solange is to get, the more they’re going to want her.”
Amanda took the cleaning supplies out of Candace’s trunk and stored them in an empty corner of the garage. When Candace hung up, Amanda presented her strategy. “Give Susie Friday morning, but try to convince her not to be there. Maybe you can tell her that Solange works better uninterrupted, or something. She’s more observant than Bitsy, and I don’t want Solange exposed before I have a chance to build a client base.”
“Got it.”
“Are you really OK driving me? I hate to ask it, but…”
Candace put up a hand to silence her. “Don’t even think about it. I’m glad to do it.”
“Thanks. Thanks for everything.” Amanda leaned against the passenger door. Peeling off a twenty from the roll of bills Bitsy had given her, she leaned over the door and handed it to Candace.
“What’s this for?”
“It’s your fifteen percent.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t want…” Candace got out of the car and walked around it to Amanda.
“Look, if you’re going to be Solange’s agent and chauffeur—at least for the time being—you’re going to have to let me pay you.”
“But I don’t need…”
“I know you don’t.” Amanda spoke quietly but firmly. Candace’s help and support meant more to her than she could say, but she was NOT going to be a charity case. “I don’t want to hear another word about it. You may not need the money, but I most definitely need to give it to you, Candee ass.” She said the name in the heavily accented English she’d adopted and smiled at Candace’s instant irritation. “And so does Solange.”
Brooke stood in Macy’s lingerie department trying to decide between a black silk teddy and a white lace thong with matching bustier. The black silk was sleek and slippery beneath her fingers and would accentuate the deep highlights she’d had put in her auburn hair. But the lace bustier pushed her breasts up and made them swell enticingly above the garment and the thong would leave her buttocks bare—all the better for encouraging Hap to go ahead and explore. With a heady little rush of pleasure, she bought them both.
But as she left the lingerie department and worked her way through the store, she thought about Amanda who would be getting home from cleaning Bitsy Menkowski’s right about now. This led to thoughts of her mother, who was probably still making beds and swishing toilets at the Betwixt Holiday Inn.
Brooke’s glow of pleasure faded. How could she waste an entire afternoon shopping for things she didn’t really need while Amanda and her mother were performing hard manual labor, and only too glad to get it?
In the sportswear department she picked through a sale table of brightly colored long-sleeved T-shirts. At the bottom of the pile she found one in the very pale pink that her mother had always referred to as her signature color. Brooke held it up, imagining how excited her mother would be to own a brand-new garment like this; one that was in the height of fashion and newly purchased, not a hand-me-down gathered for the church jumble sale.
Not sure why, she took it up to the register and paid for it. Then she chose a pair of pink and white striped capris to go with it. And she paid for those too.
It was odd, she thought, as she rode the escalator up to customer service for a box to ship the outfit in. She’d sent gifts for Christmas and her mother’s birthday—very generous monetary gifts that her mother could use for whatever she most needed. But this was the first time since she’d hotfooted it out of Betwixt that Brooke had thought to send her mother clothing for no other reason than because it was pretty.
chapter 12
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sp; O n Friday morning Amanda crouched in front of Susie Simmons’s front door, stuck a hand under the welcome mat, and felt around for the house key. It wasn’t there.
Still crouched, she peered through the sidelights, searching for a sign of movement, but the foyer and the kitchen beyond were dark.
Swiping at one of Solange’s curls, Amanda straightened and pressed a finger to the doorbell. A light went on in the kitchen and a moment later Susie Simmons, dressed in exercise clothes, her face already made-up, pulled open the door. “Solange?”
Amanda smiled, as if with delight. “Oui, madame. I am Solange de Papillon.” God, she loved saying that. “I have heard so very much about you.”
Susie’s face suffused with pleasure. When her gaze flicked over her, Amanda braced for the gasp of recognition. She’d prepared an incredibly lame explanation of a drama exercise she was developing just in case she was recognized, but Susie was already turning to lead her into the house, yakking away as if Solange was exactly who she appeared to be. Either her disguise was even better than she’d realized or being a maid was the equivalent of donning Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak.
In the kitchen, Susie moved toward the coffeemaker. A delicate china cup that looked like Limoges sat on the counter next to the creamer and sugar, its gold rimmed handle turned at a precise 90-degree angle to the coffeepot. Not a crumb marred the glossy sheen of the black granite countertop. Amanda could see Solange’s reflection in it.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Susie asked.
“Merci. That would be wonderful,” Amanda said in Solange’s heavily accented English. Susie poured, then with Solange’s direction, creamed and sugared the coffee while peppering Amanda with questions. Amanda was careful to answer in the same accented English. As she described the small town Solange had been born in and her years as head housekeeper for a famous French hotel chain, it occurred to her that she’d better write down the backstory she was creating so freely, so it didn’t come back to bite her on her not-exactly-French derriere.
Ready to get to work and aware that too much face time could increase the risk of exposure, Amanda set down her coffee cup and nodded her head in a curt, businesslike manner. “So,” she said. “You have seen me. I have seen you. Now I must begin.”
A crease appeared on Susie’s forehead. She didn’t look at all happy about being dismissed by a cleaning woman, even one with cachet. She didn’t move.
“I hope you are not going to stay here zee whole time,” Amanda said. “Eet makes eet much more difficult for me to become absorbed in my work.”
Susie’s look of irritation turned into one of incredulity. This was undoubtedly the first time a cleaning woman had asked her to get out of her own house.
Amanda was kind of amazed herself. But for some reason she didn’t fully understand, she could not back down. Cleaning homes might be her only option, but she was not going to hang her head while she did it. She raised a single eyebrow and pursed her heavily lipsticked lips. “If zees is going to be a problem for you, I will go.”
Susie’s eyes narrowed and Amanda realized she might have gone too far.
“But you look as if you are dressed to go somewhere anyway. Non?” Amanda smiled to take the sting out of her earlier words, but she didn’t break eye contact.
“Yes.” Susie folded first. “I am. If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late for my class.” She picked up a list from the counter. “I explained what I wanted to Candace,” she said, “but I took the liberty of preparing a list for you. In French.” Susie looked quite pleased at her accomplishment. “My daughter, Lucy, is in honors French at l’école.” She pronounced the French word for school so perfectly Amanda suspected she’d been practicing. If Susie Simmons needed to impress her maid, Susie Simmons needed to get a life.
“How clever zee girl must be.” Amanda smiled and took the paper. It was written in careful cursive, the accent marks lined up just so. It looked like Lucy was going to be a chip off her mother’s obsessive-compulsive block. “If you will just show me where you’d like me to start, I will commence with zee cleaning now.”
Susie showed her the laundry room then led her to the master bedroom. Two minutes later a door slammed and the sound of a car backing down the driveway reached her. Now Amanda stood in the master closet, her mouth open in amazement, any pretense of cleaning completely forgotten. Because if her closet was any indication, Susie Simmons needed more than a life. She needed serious help, though apparently not in the area of organization.
“Color coded, huh?” Amanda and Candace were in Candace’s car on the way home from the Simmons’s. Amanda was dreaming of a bath, Candace was waiting for details.
“Color coded doesn’t even begin to cover it. It was frightening. The woman had detected and allowed for shades of beige, Candace, beige. And everything was lined up with surgical precision. Susie’s always been a little bit…controlling…but I had no idea.”
“Was the whole house like that?”
“Pretty much. I mean have you ever seen underwear ironed and perfectly piled?”
“You looked in her underwear drawer?”
“Not on purpose. Something fell in and I had to get it out.”
“Right.” Candace sounded unconvinced.
“There was a pile of twenties on the dresser and I accidentally knocked one into the top drawer. I figured it was a test and that she probably knew exactly how much was there. I didn’t want her to be able to question Solange.”
“Was she there the whole time?”
“No, I got rid of her pretty quickly. But I think Solange may have pissed her off. Solange has a bit of an attitude.”
Candace laughed. “You act as if she’s someone else entirely.”
“Yeah.” Amanda thought about how easy it had been to speak up and get what she wanted as Solange; she could use a little bit more of that attitude in her everyday life. “I don’t even know why she needs a maid,” Amanda said. “There wasn’t a piece of lint out of place. Even her son Chas’s room looked completely unlived in.”
“Status,” Candace replied as she pulled into her garage. “I thought you were crazy when you decided to go with the whole French thing, but Solange is definitely unique. I’m sure this is the first time Susie has been ordered around by her maid.”
Amanda giggled. “I have to admit I enjoyed it, but I liked it a lot better when I could take these people at face value. I don’t want to know that Bitsy’s kinky and Susie is obsessive-compulsive. Can’t you find me some total strangers to work for whose neuroses I don’t care about?”
Candace smiled. “I’ll see what I can do. But right now Solange is the flavor of the month, and we should probably take advantage of that while we can.”
“I think you’re right, Candee ass, but I think maybe we should create a questionnaire for prospective clients with a place to mark off personal idiosyncrasies and fetishes.”
“Absolutely.” Candace laughed out loud. “I’ll get right on that. And while we’re on the subject, have I mentioned that I really don’t like to be called Candy?”
Showered and de-Solanged, Amanda drove to The House of Dance to pick up Meghan. Slipping through the front door, she followed the sound of music to the main studio where Meghan’s dance company was practicing for their upcoming recital.
Stopping in front of the plate glass window, she watched the eleven girls step into their positions on the scuffed wood floor. Long legged in pink tights and black leotards with lacy little camisoles over them, every one of them wore their hair in a bun and all of them moved with the grace that only came from long years of practice.
Meghan stood in the front, facing the mirrored wall, her arms gently rounded downward, her right leg extended behind her.
The instructor pressed a button on the CD player and the opening strains of Tchaikovsky’s Les Sylphides filled the room. All of the girls began to move, but Amanda’s eyes stayed on Meghan as her daughter’s willowy arms floated upward and she began the openi
ng movements of her solo.
Small delicate running steps, jeté, balancé, arabesque.
With fluid movements, Meghan danced through the line of other girls, her long limbs moving effortlessly, her chin high, her neck curved like a swan’s.
Holding her breath, Amanda watched her daughter bend and gather herself then press smoothly up on pointe. Her mind flashed on the memory of the chubby five-year-old who’d first stepped into this studio with her hand clutched so tightly in her mother’s and who had somehow metamorphosed into this graceful creature.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
The male voice so close beside her took her completely by surprise. The fact that she recognized the voice was even more disconcerting.
Turning, she looked into the green eyes of Hunter James, who seemed to be making a habit of showing up at the most unexpected moments and places.
He nodded toward the girls who had separated into two lines and were passing each other in a series of intricate steps. “That’s my daughter Samantha.” He pointed to the tall blonde three girls to the left of Meghan. “She’s addicted, can’t seem to get enough of it. And her younger sister is dancing right along in her footsteps.”
Amanda looked at the man in front of her. His shoulders were broad, his torso gently muscled, and he moved with a testosterone-fueled version of the grace their daughters were displaying on the dance floor.
Without thinking, she glanced down at his ring finger, something she’d forgotten to do the other day at the duck pond, and noticed he wore no ring. Nor was there a telltale white line.
He caught her at it, of course, and she blushed for what felt like the bazillionth time in his presence. But the absence of a wedding ring didn’t confirm the absence of a wife. The fact that he was attractive and friendly didn’t make him available.
Solange de Papillon would come right out and ask him his status and be prepared to act accordingly, but Amanda’s tongue and brain didn’t seem to be working in tandem.