Virtually Perfect

by Paige Roberts

  Before they reached the steps, Renata veered to the right and approached a keypad, into which she punched a code that opened a disguised garage door.

  Lizzie sighed in relief. “For a second, I thought we were going to have to climb those stairs.”

  Renata smiled. “No, we come in and out through the garage. The front stairway is for guests.”

  Lizzie nodded as if this made total sense, even though it struck her as ridiculous. What kind of dinner invitation was that? Please, join us, but first—behold!—the Feats of Strength. Did they make their guests walk on hot coals through the foyer? Were dinner parties like episodes of Survivor?

  Renata led Lizzie through the garage door and into a small reception area that, in a normal house, might be considered a mudroom but here looked like a waiting area to meet a member of the royal family. Sandy-beige marble covered the floors from end to end, glistening in the light of the oval wrought-iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A series of wrought-iron hooks dotted the walls, serving as resting places for a variety of beach-related accoutrements: a white metal beach bucket with a rope handle, a brass shovel, a wicker beach hat. Like many of the objects in the Silvesters’ Gladwyne kitchen, these items seemed more ornamental than functional, and if Lizzie had to guess, neither the bucket nor the shovel had ever made it to the beach. Kathryn didn’t seem like the type of woman who built sand castles, unless it was one she could live in.

  “The laundry room is back there,” Renata said, pointing to the closed door at the end of the room. “I wash on Mondays and Thursdays, and whenever Mr. and Mrs. Silvester ask. If you need something washed on another day, I will try my best, but it may need to wait.”

  “Don’t worry about me—I can do my own laundry.”

  Renata looked surprised. “Oh. Well, that’s fine too, I guess. I’ll need to show you how the machines work.”

  Lizzie wondered if she looked like the kind of person who didn’t know how to operate a washer and dryer. She’d been doing laundry since high school, when she’d come back from a party smelling like smoke and booze and would change her clothes in the car and throw the smelly ones in the washer as soon as she got inside. She was never the one doing the smoking or drinking, but somehow the odors from other people’s cigarettes, pot, and alcohol wove themselves into the fabric of her clothing, and she knew her mom would have a meltdown if she suspected Lizzie had driven while drunk or high.

  “Drunk driving kills,” her mom would repeat again and again, often apropos of nothing while they were doing something random, like cleaning out Lizzie’s closet. “It’s reckless and irresponsible. You could die.”

  Losing Lizzie was her mom’s greatest fear, and not one Lizzie took lightly. News flash: Dying isn’t on my To Do list, Lizzie always wanted to say—and did once when her mom laid out the dangers of drunk driving for what felt like the five thousandth time. Her mother blanched, and in the tearful tirade that followed, Lizzie realized she should have kept her mouth shut and nodded like she always did. She should have known that after losing Ryan as a baby, her mom wouldn’t find much humor in the death of a child.

  Renata led Lizzie down a long hallway lined with closed doors. It looked like maids’ quarters, which, if Lizzie had to guess, was exactly what it was. They stopped when they reached the last doorway on the right.

  “This will be your room,” Renata said as she rested her hand on the knob. She twisted it and led Lizzie inside. The floors, like the rest of the house Lizzie had seen so far, were covered by beige marble tiles, on top of which sat a twin bed, a nightstand, and a dresser. The furniture was all very simple—dark walnut, simple brass handles and knobs—and the curtains and bedspread were an understated cream linen. The walls were white and mostly bare, with the exception of two small paintings, both beach scenes wreathed by distressed gold frames.

  “Who sleeps in the other rooms on this hall?” Lizzie asked.

  “Me. And when the Silvesters have parties or visitors, the support staff sleep down here as well.”

  “Support staff?”

  “Maids, waiters—that kind of thing. We will be fully staffed for the party this weekend.”

  “Speaking of . . .” Lizzie had almost forgotten about the party. She was supposed to sit down with Kathryn at some point today to finalize the menu. “Is Kathryn upstairs?”

  Renata shook her head. “She’s at the beach with Jim. He arrived late this morning.”

  By helicopter? Lizzie wondered. Because otherwise, she couldn’t fathom how he had arrived so early. Frankly, given the size of the house, she wouldn’t be surprised to learn there was a helipad on the roof.

  “Okay. I just want to talk to her about Sunday’s barbecue. She hadn’t decided on the food last time we talked.”

  “She’ll be back soon. They’ve been down there awhile. And she will want to discuss tonight’s dinner anyway.” Renata glanced quickly over her shoulder. “Ah, here comes Manuel with your bags.”

  A stocky man scooted past Renata into the room, Lizzie’s luggage slung over every free limb and body part. Had he really managed it all in one trip? Lizzie had never seen anything like it. He looked like a circus performer. She half-expected him to leap in the air and land on a beach ball to raucous applause.

  He extracted himself from the assortment of duffels and totes and stashed them in the far corner. He then gave both Renata and Lizzie a quick nod and left without uttering a word.

  “Gracias,” Renata called after him. She clasped her hands together. “I have to talk to the gardener about the hydrangea by the front steps, so unless you have any questions for me . . .”

  Only about a million, Lizzie thought. “None that I can think of right now. I’m sure I’ll have plenty once I talk to Kathryn.”

  “Great. I will leave you to settle in, then. If you need me for any reason, just press this button and page me.” She pointed to an intercom to the left of the door. “In the meantime . . . make yourself at home.”

  Renata turned and left, and moments later Lizzie heard an eruption of rapid-fire Spanish at the end of the hall, none of which she could understand. She took a deep breath and reached for one of her suitcases, determined to make the room feel like her own, even though, at the moment, she felt farther from home than ever.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Lizzie—welcome!”

  Lizzie jumped up from the bed as Kathryn appeared in her doorway, dressed in a black gauzy cover-up and a huge floppy black beach hat. Kathryn somehow already looked tan, which made the blond hair framing her face and peeking from beneath the hat look even more sparkly. Lizzie had started unpacking her things but at some point decided to test out the mattress and pillow, and apparently that test had morphed into a nap of indeterminate length.

  “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep. That drive took it out of me.”

  “It’s the absolute worst. That’s why Jim always books a chopper for holiday weekends. There’s no other way.”

  There was another way, and that way was driving, which Lizzie had spent the bulk of her day doing. But more to the point, Jim had taken a helicopter. Lizzie felt both vindicated and amazed. Was she also right about the helipad on the roof? She didn’t have the nerve to ask.

  “So, dinner,” Kathryn continued, her hand clasped around a pair of Jackie O–style sunglasses. “I’m thinking scallops.”

  “Scallops. Right. Okay.” Lizzie tried to bring her mind into focus. She was still groggy and was having trouble processing her whereabouts, much less a dinner menu. “Where do you tend to buy them around here? I haven’t had a chance to scope out the town yet.”

  “I think our cook last year used Avalon Seafood. Or maybe Sylvester’s? No relation, by the way.” She smiled. “I don’t know. Ask Renata. She’ll know. She knows everything about everything when it comes to keeping this house afloat.”

  “Okay. Any preference on what to serve with the scallops?”

  “Jim will want corn, but I shouldn’t have it because of the Paleo thing.
It’s a little early for corn anyway. Tomatoes won’t be in yet, but they may still have decent asparagus. Or maybe some peas or spinach—whatever looks good. Again, ask Renata where to go. She’ll know.”

  “And what about the barbecue Sunday?”

  “Ah, right.” She tapped her sunglasses against her lips, which looked smooth and plump in a way that made Lizzie question their authenticity. “I like the idea of grilled chicken—only could you leave out the garlic? Jim can’t do garlic. He’ll want potato salad for sure. Make the French kind, though. No mayonnaise. I’d love some grilled shrimp, too. Jim can take or leave shrimp, so you can go crazy with the garlic on those. And then just do a bunch of veggie salads—green beans, asparagus, beets. You get the idea. I shouldn’t have dairy because of my diet, but not everyone has gone Paleo—at least not yet!”

  The suggestions came out at rapid speed, and Lizzie started making mental lists before she forgot everything Kathryn had said.

  “And for dessert? What did you think about mini strawberry shortcakes?”

  “Perfect. I mean, I’ll only have the berries, but other people will love them, and they will look fabulous. And that’s really the point, isn’t it?”

  Lizzie wasn’t sure if Kathryn was referring to other people loving them or the shortcakes looking fabulous, so she just nodded politely.

  Kathryn clapped her hands. “Right. So that’s that. Oh, and for tomorrow—Jim and I tend to get up early and go for a long walk, and when we get back we’ll have breakfast. My juice shipment came in this morning, so I’m set, but Jim will want bagels and cream cheese and fruit, so just make sure the refrigerator is stocked. A nice salad for lunch should do it. And then we’re going out for dinner, so you can have the evening to prepare for Sunday.”

  “Got it.” Lizzie wished she had a pen and paper, but she was pretty sure she hadn’t missed anything. Kathryn’s requests weren’t particularly obscure or strange. Compared to some of the clients Lizzie had worked for in New York, Kathryn was relatively easygoing and tame. When it came to conversing with Kathryn, it was more an issue of volume than content.

  Kathryn glanced at her watch. “I should let you get to it. But like I said, any questions, ask Renata. And in the meantime, I hope you’re settling in okay.”

  “I am. Your house is really lovely.”

  “Thanks.” She rested her hand on the door frame and took a deep breath as she scanned Lizzie’s room. “If you even knew half the drama that went into building it . . . Nightmare.”

  Lizzie wondered if Kathryn truly didn’t know that her shore drama had been splashed across the pages of the Philadelphia Inquirer and Philadelphia magazine, along with numerous local shore papers, or if she was saying this merely for effect. Lizzie also didn’t know whether this was a cue for her to ask for details so that Kathryn could tell the full tale in all its messy, unabridged glory. Lizzie decided mute acknowledgment and sympathy was the best way to avoid a thirty-minute story time.

  “Anyway, I’ll stop holding you up. I always do this . . . go on and on with the staff and then wonder why nothing gets done. Jim always tells me, if I weren’t such a talker . . . But it just gets lonely in this big house, and you’re all here, and there are so many details to discuss to make sure everything is the way he likes it.” She shook her head. “Here I go again! I’m leaving now. For real. We can talk later! Or not. If I’m ever keeping you, just tell me, Kathryn, I have work to do. I won’t be offended. Or if I am, remind me of this conversation. All right? Okay. I’m going. For real this time!”

  She backed out of the doorway and scampered down the hall, and Lizzie wondered if she was in for a summer of Kathryn’s endless chatter and, if so, whether and how she would survive.

  * * *

  Before Lizzie left to do her shopping, she met Renata at the bottom of the stairway at the far end of the hall. She noticed the rooms on the front side of the house had windows that looked on to the driveway or, in one case, the pool equipment, whereas the rooms like hers that technically faced the ocean had no windows or views at all. She hadn’t seen more than the bottom floor, but she guessed that the steep slope of the dunes accounted for her room’s cave-like quality. Her room was probably built into the sand, whereas the room directly above her was probably level with the ground.

  “So where am I going?” Lizzie asked. It was already six o’clock and the Silvesters wanted to eat at eight, so Lizzie needed to hustle if she had any hope of serving dinner on time.

  “Avalon Seafood. Twenty-ninth and Ocean Drive. There’s a small market next door that sells vegetables and other odds and ends you can use to get started.”

  Lizzie tried to do the math in her head. “That’s . . . what, twenty blocks or so from here? Could I walk?”

  “Not if you want to make it back before the sun goes down. It would take you a half hour each way. You should drive.” She glanced at her watch. “Do you want to take a quick look at the kitchen before you leave?”

  “That would be great.”

  She followed Renata up the stairs, her knife bag and purse slung over her shoulder. She was dying to see what the whole house looked like, but she knew they wouldn’t have time today to tour a house bigger than Monticello. She would need days to explore the Silvesters’ palace, or whatever parts of it she was allowed to trespass in, but in the meantime she was content to size up the room where she’d be spending the bulk of her time.

  They reached the top of the stairway, which emptied into a two-story great room unlike anything Lizzie had ever seen. The room was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows, providing unobstructed views of the ocean as it crashed into the shore. Lizzie noticed that one of the windows was actually a disguised door, which led to a patio outfitted with a pool, lounge chairs, cabanas, and a large dining table. Inside, the room featured a large glass coffee table surrounded by two couches, a love seat, and two armchairs, all covered by the same blue-and-white Ikat upholstery.

  “Wow,” Lizzie said. She looked at Renata, who simply nodded, as if to say, Yes. Wow.

  The room continued to her right, where there was a long glass dining table surrounded by—Lizzie counted them—twenty chairs, each with a high back made of woven reeds. A large metal bowl sat in the middle of the table, filled with sand dollars, starfish, shells, and sea glass. Running parallel to the table sat a long marble island, longer than any island Lizzie had ever encountered, outfitted with a double sink, a huge metal knife block, and a six-burner Viking range. The way the room was arranged, as one vast open space, cooking here would be like a performance, where the kitchen island was the stage and the dining and living rooms were the VIP seats.

  “The kitchen,” Renata announced, as if there were any question.

  Beyond the island, Lizzie counted two double ovens, two oversize refrigerators, a wok station, a second sink, two dishwashers, and too many cabinets to count. Above the second sink, Lizzie noticed a bookshelf with a few stacks of books, all carefully arranged, and a smattering of cooking tools and molds, all of which looked brand-new. As she got closer, she noticed the books were actually cookbooks, though none looked used. She slowed her step as she approached the shelf and scanned the titles. They were either classics such as The Art of French Cooking or weighty nouveau tomes such as Modernist Cuisine.

  “Martha Stewart’s Entertaining,” Lizzie said, running her finger down the spine. “The book that made her.”

  “It’s Kathryn’s favorite,” Renata said.

  “Kathryn’s?” Lizzie tried not to sound shocked, but Kathryn hadn’t indicated even the slightest interest in cooking.

  “She won it at an auction. It’s a signed first edition.”

  “Wow. Does she ever cook from it?”

  “Oh, no, no, no. It’s really just for display.”

  So, it seemed, was everything in the kitchen, Lizzie thought. Nothing looked used. It was all so clean.

  Renata gestured toward the door beside the bookshelf, and they walked through together into a room with yet
another island, sink, stove, refrigerator, and dishwasher.

  “You can use this area for prep,” Renata said.

  Lizzie nodded. This was the backstage area, where she’d do all the grunt work before the main event. The Silvesters and their guests wanted to see a chef in action, but they didn’t want to see the unpleasant tasks, like peeling shrimp or spatchcocking a chicken. They wanted the prettied-up performance of what they thought a chef’s job entailed, rather than the reality of what was involved.

  “This is where we keep groceries.” Renata pointed to the cupboards lining the walls. “Baking ingredients here. Canned goods there. Onions and garlic there. Pasta and grains here.”

  She walked to the end of the row of cabinets and pointed to the one at the very end. “This one is for Zoe’s things.”

  “She has her own cupboard?”

  “She is very particular about what she eats.”

  “So Kathryn says.”

  “I wouldn’t mess with her food, if I were you. Last year’s chef used a bit of her cider vinegar, and it didn’t end well.”

  “Got it. Her stuff is off-limits.”

  Renata nodded approvingly and clapped her hands together. “Right. Ready to shop?”

  Lizzie slid her knife bag onto the counter, clasped her purse in her hand, and followed Renata out of the room, giving Zoe’s cupboard one last look and wondering what inside could be so precious.

  CHAPTER 8

  The scallops were perfect: huge, sugary sweet, and bathed in nutty brown butter. Lizzie put the finishing touches on the plates—an extra asparagus spear here, a dash of flaky salt there—and brought them to the table.

  When she’d returned from the market, Kathryn was in the shower and Jim had yet to make an appearance, so Lizzie had begun prepping and cooking in the butler’s pantry. But now, as she entered the kitchen, she saw the two of them sitting across from each other at the end of the dining table. It looked odd, two people seated at a table for twenty, as if he were Louis XVI and she were Marie Antoinette. Lizzie half-expected to stumble into Kathryn’s ladies-in-waiting.