by Kara Jones
But, he didn’t say anything more about the food. He simply said, “Very well.”
I took that as my queue to leave, but he placed a staying hand on my arm. “Please, sit. I don’t like to dine alone.”
I wasn’t sure what I was meant to say to him, but I followed his direction and sat in the same chair that I’d been interviewed in. I watched him tensely as he cut into his first piece of steak.
He inspected it, saying, “In the future, I like my steak medium-rare.”
“Right,” I said. “My apologies; that piece is obviously…”
He watched me as I looked at the piece of meat on his fork. It was mostly grey, but there was a little bit of pink in the middle. Wasn’t that medium-rare?
“This is medium,” he supplied.
“Right,” I nodded furiously; “of course.”
If I didn’t know any better, I might have thought I saw the corners of his lips twitch in amusement.
Richard
She was an awful cook. The cauliflower was mushy, the cheese went horribly with the teriyaki, and the steak had only been seared on one side. It was hands down one of the worst meals I’d ever had.
But, the hopeful look in her eyes as she watched me carve into it and the anxious way she bit her lip made it worth it. I knew then that even if she was a horrible cook, she would try to learn for me if I let her. Besides, I’d had plenty of delicious meals in my life. I could suffer a few bad ones if it meant not having to make do with an insufferable bore as a cook.
Anyway, this first test hadn’t been to ascertain her culinary skill-set. It was to see how well she handled pressure, and whether my flippant attitude would be too much for her to stomach. She was still in my home and she didn’t look anywhere close to tears, so she had passed.
“You will be given your own set of rooms in the house, consisting of a bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room,” I said between bites. “I expect all meals to be served in the dining room: breakfast at eight, lunch at noon, and dinner at six. Gaston is here in the late evenings and in the mornings, but during the day and overnight, you will be alone with me.”
She nodded attentively. Only her eyes showed her growing concern.
“As well as your designated rooms, you will be permitted use of the rest of the house as you see fit. The only exclusion to this is my own rooms and the basement. You are not permitted to enter either.” I gave her my hardest stare, “No matter what.” I leaned back in my chair, chewing a piece of the steak. “Do you have any questions?”
By the look on her face, I could tell she had many, but she only said, “Do you have any dietary restrictions?”
“You should have asked me that before cooking me this meal, Miss Cooper,” I said, “but luckily, the answer is no. I’ll eat most anything.”
She blushed and broke away from my gaze. “Sorry.”
I dug back into the steak. “You will be compensated at a rate of five hundred dollars per week, as well as receiving room and board. When you are not cooking, your hours are your own. The maid comes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays — but don’t make a mess.”
Her eyes bulged. “Five hundred a week?” she asked. “Are you sure?”
I took a stab at the cauliflower. “Would you rather I pay you less?”
She shook her head. "No, that's good."
"Good," I said. "You're dismissed."
Gaston, upon hearing my dismissal, came into the room to collect her. She followed him out of my study. I almost wished I could have been there to see her face when she first saw her rooms. She seemed to be so easily enthralled with the kind of lifestyle that I had taken for granted from a young age. It was refreshing.
Nevertheless, I would have traded it all to live a simple life like hers.
Mina
I couldn't believe it. I… could… not… believe… it. I was in the most beautiful bedroom I'd ever seen —and I'd been to Ikea.
The bed was massive, and had a thick curtain around the outside like something you would see in a period drama. Though the furnishings in the bedroom were elegant and old-fashioned, the bathroom was completely modern and clean looking. It was incredible.
Everything about this job, this house, my employer, was so fantastical that I had to wonder whether it was actually real. Surely, something like this couldn't be happening to Mina Cooper, whom two days ago, had worried about what to do for food when her ramen noodles ran out.
Now, here I was in the lap of luxury. Somehow, Richard had eaten my food and decided that I was good enough to stay. Surely, he'd received better applicants? Maybe not, I guessed. Maybe I was secretly a great cook, and even I didn't know it or maybe, there was something seriously wrong with him.
I decided I didn't care. So, what if I worked a few weeks and came to resent working here? Then, I could take my stupid amount of cash and hit the road... and if he didn't pay me? I'm sure I could get a decent amount for literally any of the beautiful paintings hung in my room and the surrounding hallways. I wouldn't even have to take the front door. I could just pick up a canvas and slide it out of the window holding a bed sheet rope. It would be fun.
Gaston gave me a brief tour of my rooms and the other rooms of the house that I was permitted in. We finished in the kitchen because he guessed — correctly — that I was starving.
For my own meal, I just snacked on the various dried meats and cheeses in the fridge. There wasn't really anything microwavable. After a brief look around, I realized that there also wasn't a microwave; awesome. Well, I supposed it didn't matter.
I was a professional chef now, after all.
Gaston had told me that there was a spare set of pajamas in the closet in my room, and that there were toiletries in the bathroom. I thought it was weird that I had to stay the night, but perhaps it was some sort of test. Whatever the case, I wasn't going to turn down a night in a bed that looked more comfortable than an actual cloud; honestly.
When I asked for the wifi password from Gaston, he gave me a bit of a sneer and told me where I could find the modem to look. Maybe he wasn't used to that kind of thing.
By the time the tour was finished, I had some food in my belly, had found the wifi password, and had texted all the relevant people to let them know where I was. It was getting late. I crawled into the plush bed, sighing as I sunk into the downy softness of it.
How I had ever gotten so lucky, I didn't know.
*****
Bang!
My eyes shot open.
Bang!
What the hell was that?
I looked around the room, but everything seemed quiet. Then, I heard the noise again.
Bang!
It sounded like it was coming from downstairs. Briefly, I wondered whether I should get up and investigate. What if someone was trying to break into the house? According to Richard, there was only him and I there at night. Whatever was going on, he might not even be aware of it, and then it would be up to me to save the day.
I hesitantly slid out from under the covers, tiptoeing across the carpet to the door. Cracking the door open, I took a look down the hallway; nothing.
I also didn't hear anything else, so I thought that maybe I'd been hearing things.
Bang!
Never mind.
I began slowly padding down the hallway to the stairs. If it was a burglar, what would I do? I didn't have any weapons and unless I got to the kitchen, I also didn't know where I could find any in the house.
I descended the staircase and listened intently, but heard nothing else.
"Hello?" I called out, as if a curious thief might introduce themselves and ask how my day was going.
As I had expected, my only reply was silence.
Bang!
The sound was more muffled now. Unmistakably; however, it was coming from beneath me… the basement.
Had Richard not wanted me to go down there because there was some sort of ghost that resided there? Gaston hadn't even shown me the basement door. I wouldn't have been
able to figure out how exactly a person got there. Perhaps that's what he intended.
Well, whatever was going on, it wasn't worth me getting all in a tizzy about it, I decided. Was I socially awkward; yes. Was I scared by random bumps in the night? Not something I was known for.
I retreated to my room, fancying that there was a poltergeist who lived in the basement named Casper. Maybe of him banging away down there was just his way of saying hello to the new person in the house.
Anyway, it wasn't any of my business.
When I got back up to bed, sleep came readily for me. It was one of the best sleeps of my life.
Richard
My morning brought me anything but rest. I was hungry — famished, really — and irritated. With such a calming sensation the girl had had on me, I expected to have an easy night.
I was wrong.
Internally, I must have still been thinking about her, and about all the little pieces of her that I hadn't taken time to understand.
It had driven the beast inside of me wild.
I was ready for breakfast; that much could be ascertained. After a brief shower, I headed to the dining room. It was 7:58 AM, and nothing was on the table. I wondered if maybe she had left during the night.
Then, at 8:00 AM on the dot, Mina burst through the dining room door.
"Good morning!" she said cheerfully. "I hope you're hungry."
"You have no idea."
She smiled brightly and put a plate down in front of me. It was loaded with pancakes.
"Pancakes?;" I said, raising an eyebrow at her.
She didn't miss a stride. "And strawberries!" A bowl of fresh strawberries was put in front of me. Well, she had sliced them; at least.
"I couldn't find your syrup," she said. "I can grab it when I go back to get butter if you tell me where it is."
I sighed. "I don't have any syrup," I explained. "Butter will be fine."
She came back with butter a few moments later, and turned red when she saw me staring dubiously at the stack of pancakes.
"Do you not like pancakes?"
"I told you, I like all foods."
It wasn't exactly a lie. I did like most foods. Burnt circles of flour and eggs? I tended to avoid those. Nevertheless, I was starving. I put a heaping amount of butter onto the flapjacks and dug in.
Mina was still standing there, waiting to be dismissed, no doubt.
"Did you make enough for yourself?" I asked.
She nodded. "I left them in the kitchen."
"Go grab them. Eat with me."
She left and came back a moment later with her own portion of pancakes. I smiled when I saw that she had given me the substantially less burnt ones of the batch.
"I think I turned the heat a little too high," she admitted, slicing down through the black heap. "I've never cooked on a gas stove before."
"Where did you learn to cook?"
I was curious to see what kind of lies she would think of to tell me. Her application hadn't boasted any sort of cooking school accolades or jobs in the restaurant industry, but she had apparently worked as the personal chef of Helena Gilbert for several years.
"My mother," she said, blushing and looking down at her breakfast.
The fact that she didn't lie surprised me. I was good at telling when people were lying.
"And, how did you get the job working for Helena Gilbert?"
The famous author was known to be a bit of a recluse. Most people claimed that's where she got her genius from. I thought it was all a bit of hogwash.
Mina swallowed. "I was the only person around who could do the job well."
That was a cryptic answer if I'd ever heard one, and I'd told lots of half-truths myself.
I decided to let the matter go for the time being. Something about her presence had drawn away all of the irritation I'd woken up with. I felt calm, which was something unusual for this early in the morning.
"How did you sleep?" Mina asked.
I snorted, "About as well as usual."
She frowned. "Not a good sleeper?" she asked.
"No. I toss and turn something fierce."
I reached across and grabbed more butter for my pancakes. I would slather them in the whole stick of it if it would get rid of the bitter taste on my tongue. Mina watched me, but didn't say anything.
"How did you sleep, Mina?" I asked, skewering another bite. "I expect it was better than any sleep you've had before."
"How did you know that?"
I smiled, "Because you're poor. Poor people always sleep poorly."
She sniffed. "You didn't sleep well."
I leveled my gaze at her. "I'm an exception to the rule."
I could see after I finished my plate that Mina wanted to ask me if I liked the meal. She was smart enough not to.
"Between now and lunch, would it be okay if I went back to my hotel and checked out?" she asked as she began to clear the plates away.
I stood and pushed my chair in. "Yes."
She might have said thank you as I left the room, but I was gone as soon as the words left my mouth.
Mina
Richard was a very strange character. Impeccably polite in many ways, yet in some ways, he lacked social grace in a way that I hadn't even known a person could. I felt like I was in a period drama, and he was walking around like a taller, meaner Mr. Darcy.
Well, maybe not that much meaner.
Anyway, I was no Liz Bennett. If he wanted to be curt with me, then whatever; that was his jam. He paid the bills and that's all that mattered to me.
But damn, if he wasn't something to look at.
There were times when I was making breakfast that I pictured what he would look like fresh out of bed. I couldn't decide whether he would be more the classic unkempt sleepy hunk or would show up looking exactly as he did the night before.
He was a little bit in the middle; sleepy, but definitely not unkempt. I realized he was a whole new breed of man. I could tell just by looking at him that he waged a war for control in his life, but often lost. Maybe that's why he was cooped up in that mansion. Maybe he had some sort of vice that he battled every day. Maybe he had an addiction.
Whatever was going on with him, he certainly wasn't fooling me.
*****
It was pouring rain outside. I was tempted to just not go back to the hotel. There had been plenty of spare clothes in the chest of drawers in my room. They weren’t all my style, necessarily, but they would’ve done in a pinch. I would much rather spend the day indoors curled up in a blanket on the window-seat I had spied in Richard’s study.
I was allowed in his study, right? I mean, Gaston had shown me the rooms I wasn’t allowed in, and the study hadn’t been part of the tour; neither had the basement. If I were being honest though, I suspected that was so I didn’t even know where the door was.
Anyway, I would have rather been on that window-seat reading one of the many books that I had spied on his bookshelves. They weren’t all my style, much like the clothes, but since when has trying on something new been a bad idea?
But, I knew that if I didn’t go get my clothes now, I might never, and there was more there than just my clothes. My laptop and notebooks were significantly less replaceable.
It took me a couple hours to get all my stuff together, settle up at the hotel, and get back to Richard’s mansion.
When I got back, it was nearly time to start preparing lunch. I had meant to ask Gaston if he knew of a dish I could cook that would endear me to Richard, but had forgotten. Now, he was gone for the day and it was up to me to craft something delicious; more delicious than burnt pancakes, at least.
I branched out from the fridge and took some time to explore the cupboards. There was what seemed like a pretty standard collection of pantry staples, as well as a million different kinds of spices. At least, I thought it was a standard pantry collection. My pantry had never usually consisted of more than booze and Hamburger Helper.
I consulted the internet a
nd found a recipe for soup that I had all the ingredients for, and what better thing than soup on a rainy day? He even had some of those saltine crackers, which I hadn’t expected to find in such a dignified kitchen.
The soup went a lot better than the pancakes; in part, I’m sure because cutting things up and throwing them in a pot is fairly foolproof. Richard seemed impressed, anyway, or maybe, that expression on his face was just relief.
He asked me to dine with him again, so I brought my soup out into the dining room too. He watched me break up my crackers and stir them into my soup, and rolled his eyes.
“Must you eat like a child?” he asked impetuously.
In response, I loudly slurped on my spoon. “I like the texture.”
He made an expression that could either have been disbelief or amusement.
“What’s your favorite food?” I asked.
He shook his dark head as he swallowed a mouthful of soup. “I don’t have one.”
My forehead wrinkled. “How can you not have a favorite food?”
“I don’t like any one thing enough to give it the arbitrary designation of favorite,” he replied. “I’ve never seen the point.”
Shocked, I dropped my spoon. It drifted lazily around the rim of my bowl before the handle dipped into the broth.
“Do you not have a favorite of anything?”
His face was impassive. “No.”
“Not even a favorite color?”
He looked at me flatly and went back to eating his soup. I didn’t understand it. I had favorites of everything. My favorite color was orange, my favorite food was pizza, and my favorite Beatle was Ringo Starr.
“Why not?” I asked. “I figured it was just natural to have a favorite of something.
He shrugged; not an elegant gesture, but he somehow made it seem dignified, “Perhaps for some, but not for me.”
With that topic now completely shut down, I wasn’t sure what else to talk about. I wanted to ask him about the noises I had heard in the middle of the night, but felt uncomfortable doing so. Maybe I’d ask Gaston when he was back in the evening.