When I'm Gone
Page 39
Reese
I had been very careful to stay downstairs and be quiet while cleaning. I didn’t want to wake up the woman all of Rosemary Beach had taught me to fear. But today I actually had something to clean; she was messy.
I spent more than an hour cleaning up what looked like a bottle of wine that had exploded all over the kitchen floor. Shards of glass littered the floor, and dry, sticky drink was all over the place. The cabinets, floors, counters—everywhere. Once I managed to get that mess cleaned up, I was able to clean the dishes and glasses I found littered around the downstairs.
Then I found piles of clothes on the laundry-room floor. Most of them looked clean, and I was sure most of them needed to be dry-cleaned. It looked like she had just dumped the contents of her luggage onto the floor. It took me another hour to sort the dry-cleaning from the regular laundry, and then I began washing a load of whites.
Once the downstairs was sparkling and I had the washing under control, it was past noon. I decided I could keep quiet and work on the rooms farthest from hers on the second floor. She would be asleep on the third floor. I knew which room was hers.
The bedrooms that had remained untouched were easy. I just had to dust and sweep and mop. Same routine. When I got to the game room, I cringed, thinking of the mirror I would have to tell her about. There were empty glasses in here, too. It looked like she might already know her mirror was missing. She must have had people in here. Scraps of food were scattered on plates, and the dregs of different alcoholic drinks were left in glasses. Garbage littered the floor.
The worst was the used condom in the corner beside the leather sofa. Gross. I put on the gloves I had bought when I had stitches and got a large wad of toilet paper before picking it up and disposing of the condom. At least the user had tied it off.
Once I finished in the game room, it was almost three. I was normally done by three, but I still had the upstairs to do. And she was still sleeping.
I went back downstairs, walked all the trash out, and put the recycling in the correct bins, then came back inside and was considering reorganizing her pantry when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Finally.
I straightened my clothes and tucked my loose hair behind my ears. When Nannette walked into the kitchen, she saw me and scowled, then tossed her hair over her shoulder. As I’d predicted, she was stunning. Long strawberry-blond hair hung down her back. She was barely covered up, in a short, silky black nightgown that showcased her perfect pale skin.
“You the housecleaner?” she asked, sounding pissed.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
“Why are you still here? It’s after three. It always take you this fucking long?”
“I’m finished with everything but upstairs. I was waiting for you to wake up.”
She scrunched her nose at me. “Well, go clean it. I’m awake. Stop standing there gawking at me.”
I needed to tell her about the mirror, but she didn’t look like she wanted to chat just yet. So I hurried upstairs quickly and focused on cleaning everything I could. I didn’t want her to have one complaint. Other than the mirror.
It took me two more hours upstairs. She had left a wake of disaster in her room. It made the rest of her house look positively spotless.
When I was satisfied, I headed back downstairs to see her curled up on the sofa with the remote in her hand and a cup of coffee on the table beside her. She looked more awake now.
“Took you long enough. You’re slow. Speed it up, or you’re gone,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry. I will,” I replied, thinking it was unfair that she thought I could go any faster.
She rolled her eyes and dismissed me with a flick of her hand. I had to tell her about the mirror, though. It would keep me up nights worrying until I did.
“While you were gone, there was an accident when I was cleaning the windows in the game room. I fell, and the mirror beside the window overlooking the Gulf came down with me. It shattered, and the frame broke. I will pay for it out of my paycheck until it’s completely covered. I’m really sorry—”
“The hell you will. You’ll pay me right now. That mirror cost more than five thousand dollars. It came from Paris, as did most of the furnishings in this house.”
I didn’t have five thousand dollars. I had two thousand saved up right now, but that was it. How did one mirror cost so much? I hadn’t expected this. “I’m sorry. I don’t have that. I can give you two thousand right now and then work until it’s paid for. That’s the best I can do,” I explained, hoping this woman had some form of empathy in her.
She glared at me; those green eyes were taking no prisoners. I was in trouble. Serious trouble. “No, you won’t. I’ll contact the agency and have them pay me back. They sent me a moron, so they can pay for it.”
I had to sign a consent form when I started working for them that any damage that occurred was my responsibility. I just never imagined I would break a five-thousand-dollar mirror. “They won’t cover it. They’ll make me do it. It’s my responsibility. All I have is—”
“Not even half. I heard you the first time. Go whine to someone else. I want my money, so figure it out, or I’ll call the police and let them deal with your thieving ass.”
The police. Oh, God, I was going to go to jail over this. “I didn’t steal it. It broke,” I started to explain.
“Shut up! Get out of my house. There is no proof that it was broken. It’s not here. I want my five thousand for it, or you can tell the cops you didn’t steal it. Now, get out of my house.”
I had been very careful to stay downstairs and be quiet while cleaning. I didn’t want to wake up the woman all of Rosemary Beach had taught me to fear. But today I actually had something to clean; she was messy.
I spent more than an hour cleaning up what looked like a bottle of wine that had exploded all over the kitchen floor. Shards of glass littered the floor, and dry, sticky drink was all over the place. The cabinets, floors, counters—everywhere. Once I managed to get that mess cleaned up, I was able to clean the dishes and glasses I found littered around the downstairs.
Then I found piles of clothes on the laundry-room floor. Most of them looked clean, and I was sure most of them needed to be dry-cleaned. It looked like she had just dumped the contents of her luggage onto the floor. It took me another hour to sort the dry-cleaning from the regular laundry, and then I began washing a load of whites.
Once the downstairs was sparkling and I had the washing under control, it was past noon. I decided I could keep quiet and work on the rooms farthest from hers on the second floor. She would be asleep on the third floor. I knew which room was hers.
The bedrooms that had remained untouched were easy. I just had to dust and sweep and mop. Same routine. When I got to the game room, I cringed, thinking of the mirror I would have to tell her about. There were empty glasses in here, too. It looked like she might already know her mirror was missing. She must have had people in here. Scraps of food were scattered on plates, and the dregs of different alcoholic drinks were left in glasses. Garbage littered the floor.
The worst was the used condom in the corner beside the leather sofa. Gross. I put on the gloves I had bought when I had stitches and got a large wad of toilet paper before picking it up and disposing of the condom. At least the user had tied it off.
Once I finished in the game room, it was almost three. I was normally done by three, but I still had the upstairs to do. And she was still sleeping.
I went back downstairs, walked all the trash out, and put the recycling in the correct bins, then came back inside and was considering reorganizing her pantry when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Finally.
I straightened my clothes and tucked my loose hair behind my ears. When Nannette walked into the kitchen, she saw me and scowled, then tossed her hair over her shoulder. As I’d predicted, she was stunning. Long strawberry-blond hair hung down her back. She was barely covered up, in a short, silky black nightgown that showcased her perfect pale skin.
“You the housecleaner?” she asked, sounding pissed.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
“Why are you still here? It’s after three. It always take you this fucking long?”
“I’m finished with everything but upstairs. I was waiting for you to wake up.”
She scrunched her nose at me. “Well, go clean it. I’m awake. Stop standing there gawking at me.”
I needed to tell her about the mirror, but she didn’t look like she wanted to chat just yet. So I hurried upstairs quickly and focused on cleaning everything I could. I didn’t want her to have one complaint. Other than the mirror.
It took me two more hours upstairs. She had left a wake of disaster in her room. It made the rest of her house look positively spotless.
When I was satisfied, I headed back downstairs to see her curled up on the sofa with the remote in her hand and a cup of coffee on the table beside her. She looked more awake now.
“Took you long enough. You’re slow. Speed it up, or you’re gone,” she snapped.
“I’m sorry. I will,” I replied, thinking it was unfair that she thought I could go any faster.
She rolled her eyes and dismissed me with a flick of her hand. I had to tell her about the mirror, though. It would keep me up nights worrying until I did.
“While you were gone, there was an accident when I was cleaning the windows in the game room. I fell, and the mirror beside the window overlooking the Gulf came down with me. It shattered, and the frame broke. I will pay for it out of my paycheck until it’s completely covered. I’m really sorry—”
“The hell you will. You’ll pay me right now. That mirror cost more than five thousand dollars. It came from Paris, as did most of the furnishings in this house.”
I didn’t have five thousand dollars. I had two thousand saved up right now, but that was it. How did one mirror cost so much? I hadn’t expected this. “I’m sorry. I don’t have that. I can give you two thousand right now and then work until it’s paid for. That’s the best I can do,” I explained, hoping this woman had some form of empathy in her.
She glared at me; those green eyes were taking no prisoners. I was in trouble. Serious trouble. “No, you won’t. I’ll contact the agency and have them pay me back. They sent me a moron, so they can pay for it.”
I had to sign a consent form when I started working for them that any damage that occurred was my responsibility. I just never imagined I would break a five-thousand-dollar mirror. “They won’t cover it. They’ll make me do it. It’s my responsibility. All I have is—”
“Not even half. I heard you the first time. Go whine to someone else. I want my money, so figure it out, or I’ll call the police and let them deal with your thieving ass.”
The police. Oh, God, I was going to go to jail over this. “I didn’t steal it. It broke,” I started to explain.
“Shut up! Get out of my house. There is no proof that it was broken. It’s not here. I want my five thousand for it, or you can tell the cops you didn’t steal it. Now, get out of my house.”
