Twenty minutes later, we are standing at the front door of 12 Locust Street.
It took a little longer than expected. Even though Enzo took a quick shower, he then came downstairs in wrinkled jeans and a T-shirt, because of course he did. So I had to send him back upstairs to change into something a little more respectable. Now he’s wearing the button-up black dress shirt I bought him six months ago when I realized he had absolutely no dress shirts, and as expected, it perfectly complements his dark eyes and hair, and he looks achingly handsome. Also as expected, he looks very uncomfortable and like there’s a chance he might rip it off at some point during the evening. (Suzette would die.)
The apple pie is now warm, which helps it look more homemade. It’s also very hot to hold. It’s currently scalding my hands, and I can’t wait to put it down.
Nico is tugging at his own short-sleeved dress shirt, which has an even higher chance of being ripped off due to discomfort tonight than his father’s. “Do we have to go to a boring dinner?”
“Yes,” I say.
“But I want to play baseball with Dad.” “We won’t be there long.”
“What are they making for dinner?” “I don’t know.”
“Can I watch TV while we’re there?”
I turn my head to glare at my son. “No, you cannot.”
I look over at Enzo for support, although he looks like he’s trying not to laugh. He probably wishes he could watch TV too.
After a minute of my hands being scorched by the supermarket pie, an unfamiliar woman pulls open the front door. She is about sixty years old and built like a linebacker, with graying hair pulled back into a tight bun. She has the most perfect posture I’ve ever seen—like if you put a book on her head and checked on it two days later, it would still be there. She’s got on a flowered dress with a white apron over it. She stares at me with dull gray eyes that bore right into me.
“Um, hello ” I say uncertainly. I check the house number on the door, as if I might have somehow gone to the wrong house next door. “I’m Millie. We’re here for ”
“Millie!”
Behind the woman who greeted us, a voice floats out from within the depths of the house. A second later, Suzette descends the stairs, looking simultaneously slightly breathless and yet without a single hair out of place. She’s wearing a green dress that makes me realize her eyes are actually more green than blue, and whatever miraculous bra she’s wearing pushes her boobs practically up to her chin. Her butterscotch- colored hair is shiny, like she was just whisked out of the salon, and her skin almost seems like it’s glowing. She looks gorgeous.
I look over at Enzo to see if he’s noticing how she looks, but he’s busy fiddling with a button on his shirt. He really hates that shirt. Hopefully he can keep it on till we get home.
“Millie and Enzo!” she cries, clasping her hands together with more delight than anyone could possibly have over the neighbors coming to visit. “I’m so glad you could make it. And so fashionably late.”
Sheesh, we’re only five minutes late. “Hi, Suzette,” I say.
“I see you’ve already met Martha.” Suzette’s eyes twinkle as she puts a hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “She helps out here two days a week. Jonathan and I are just so busy, and Martha is a lifesaver.”
“Yes,” I murmur.
I have been many families’ Martha in the past. But I was never able to play the part as well as this woman clearly does. She looks like a
maid right from out of the fifties. All she needs is a little feather duster and one of those vacuums with the comically large engines.
Yet there’s something unnerving about her. Possibly because she’s still staring at me like she can’t rip her eyes away. I’m used to women staring at Enzo, but she’s not interested in him or my children. Her gaze is laser-beam focused on my face.
What is so interesting? Do I have spinach in my teeth? Is there a celebrity I resemble and she wants an autograph?
“Could Martha get you anything to drink?” Suzette asks me and Enzo, although she’s looking at him. “Water? A glass of wine? I believe we also have some lovely pomegranate juice.”
We both shake our heads. “No, thank you,” I say. “Are you sure?” she says. “It’s no trouble for Martha.”
I look over at the older woman, who is still standing there rigidly, waiting for the word to dash back in the kitchen and fetch us a beverage. “It’s no trouble,” she chimes in, her voice low and gravelly, like she’s not used to using it.
“We’re fine,” I assure her, hoping she’ll leave. She doesn’t.
Suzette finally notices Nico and Ada, who are patiently huddled in the doorway. “And these must be your two beautiful children. How completely precious.”
“Thank you,” I say. It always struck me as odd that when you compliment someone’s children, the parent says “thank you,” like they are the owner of the child. Yet here I am, saying thank you.
Suzette turns her attention back to Enzo. “They both look exactly like you.”
“Not exactly,” Enzo says, which is a bald-faced lie. “Ada has Millie’s mouth and lips.”
“Hmm, I don’t see it,” Suzette says.
She doesn’t see it because it’s not true. Neither of them look anything like me. And while we’re at it, neither of the kids shares my personality. Nico is a lot like Enzo, and I don’t know where on earth my intelligent, reserved daughter came from.
“By the way,” Suzette says. “I just found out some fantastic news. Another family that Martha works for has just moved away. I’ll bet she would be happy to clean for you too.”
“Oh.” Enzo and I exchange looks. Of course I love the idea of someone besides me cleaning my house, but we can’t afford it. “That’s so nice of you, really, but I don’t think ”
“I’m free Thursday mornings,” Martha tells me.
“Would Thursday mornings work for you?” Suzette asks me.
How do I explain to this woman whose house is twice the size of ours that we can’t afford a cleaning woman? And even if we could afford one, there’s something about Martha that makes me incredibly uncomfortable. “Um, the time is okay, but ”
Before I can come up with an excuse that doesn’t involve me admitting that we don’t want Martha’s services, Suzette’s eyes drop to the pie in my hands. She lets out a tinkling laugh. “Oh no, Millie, did you drop that on the way over?”
Ugh, I guess I made it too rustic.
Thankfully, I at least manage to put down the pie on the coffee table in their living room while Martha disappears to the kitchen. The living room is much larger than ours. Every part of their house is twice as large as ours or possibly three times. The outside is just as old as ours— the house was built in the late 1800s and not much has been altered— but unlike ours, the inside of their house has been fully renovated. Enzo has promised to renovate our house the same way, but I suspect it will take the better part of the next decade.
“The house is gorgeous,” I comment. “And you have so much space.”
Suzette rests her hand on a large piece of furniture that I guess you would call an armoire. I wonder if we could get an armoire for our house. (Who am I kidding? We’re lucky we can afford chairs and tables.) “All three of these houses used to be farmhouses originally,” she says. “This house was the main house where the owners lived. And 13 Locust was the servant quarters.”
“And what about our house?” I ask.
“I believe that was the shelter for the animals.”
What?
“Cool!” Nico says. “I bet my room was the pigs’ room!”
Okay, she has got to be messing with us. I mean, if it were a house for animals, it wouldn’t have stairs, right? Or maybe the stairs were put in later. I have noticed sort of a smell that
“Jonathan!” Suzette cries.
Suzette’s blue-green eyes are on the twisting stairwell leading to the second floor of their house, where a man is descending to the first floor. He’s wearing a white dress shirt paired with a navy-blue tie, and unlike my husband, he seems very comfortable dressing up. Also unlike my husband, his looks are otherwise completely unassuming. His facial features are blandly pleasing, his light brown hair is neatly trimmed, and he’s clean-shaven. He’s only a couple of inches taller than I am, with a slight build. He seems like the sort of man who could disappear into any crowd.
“Hello,” he says with an easy smile. “You must be Millie and Enzo.” He turns to address the kids. “And company.”
After Suzette’s pretentiousness, Jonathan feels like a breath of fresh air. “Yes, I’m Millie,” I say. “You must be Jonathan.”
“That’s right.” He reaches out to take my hand, and unlike Suzette’s death grip, his palm is smooth and he doesn’t make any attempt to break even one of the bones in my hand. “So good to finally meet you.”
Jonathan shakes Enzo’s hand next, and if he is at all threatened by my husband—some insecure men are—he certainly doesn’t show it.
I instinctively like Jonathan. I can’t say why, but it’s just a vibe I get. I’ve worked in a lot of households in my lifetime, and I’ve gotten pretty damned good at reading people.
Especially reading couples.
You can tell a lot from body language. There are certain gestures I’ve seen husbands make that suggest they are exerting their power in the relationship. For example, a kiss on the forehead rather than on the lips. A hand on the small of the back while they walk. It’s subtle but I’ve come to notice it. However, Jonathan isn’t doing any of that with Suzette. There’s nothing to make me think that they are anything more than what they seem—a happily married couple.
“So how are you enjoying the new house?” he asks us.
“I love it,” I blurt out, having forgotten my shame about my house possibly having previously served as a shed for barn animals. “I know it’s small, but—”
“Small?” Jonathan laughs. “I think it’s a perfect size. I would have grabbed that house if it were available. This one is so ostentatious,
especially for just the two of us.” Score another point for Jonathan.
“So you have no children?” Enzo asks them.
Before Jonathan can answer, Suzette blurts out, “Oh no. We’re not children type of people. They’re so loud and messy and constantly need attention—no offense. People who want to make that sacrifice are absolute saints.” She laughs as she says the words, as if it’s hilarious that anyone would want to give up their life to be a parent. “But it’s just not for us. We are absolutely in agreement about that. Right, Jonathan?”
“Right, yes,” he says amicably. “Suzette and I have always agreed on that.”
“It’s not for everyone,” I say.
Although I couldn’t help but notice that while Suzette was gushing about how wonderful it is to be childfree, Jonathan had a morose look on his face. It makes me wonder if they really are “absolutely in agreement” on the issue of parenthood. I wouldn’t judge anyone for not wanting to be a parent, but it’s sad when one person in a couple has to give up their dream to suit the other.
“I was telling Millie that I love how cozy and quaint their house is,” Suzette says. “I agree, this house is just so sprawling and extravagant. Honestly, we just don’t know what to do with all this space. Especially our massive backyard.”
At the mention of the word “backyard,” Enzo perks up. “I have a landscaping business if you are looking for help with your yard.”
Suzette arches an eyebrow. “Do you?”
He nods eagerly. “I have clients in the Bronx, but I am now trying to move out here. Such a big drive to the city.”
“The Long Island Expressway is murder,” Suzette agrees.
Yes, especially the way Enzo drives. Every time he merges onto 495, I’m certain he will die a fiery death. He had a very decent business back in the Bronx, but he’s making an effort to get more clients out on the island so he doesn’t have to keep making that long drive every day. The goal is to transition his business to the surrounding neighborhoods within the next few years. And there are enough wealthy families around here that there’s good potential for the business to grow and expand.
“I am excellent at landscaping,” Enzo adds. “Whatever you want me to do with your yard, I do it.”
“Anything?” Suzette asks in a voice dripping with suggestion. “All landscape services, yes.”
She rests a hand on his biceps. “I just might take you up on that.”
And then? She just leaves her hand there. On my husband’s arm muscles. For way, way too long. I mean, there’s got to be a limit to how long you’re allowed to keep your hand on the muscles of a man who is not your husband, right?
But it’s harmless. Her own husband is right there after all. And Jonathan doesn’t seem the slightest bit upset over it. He probably knows that Suzette is a flirt and he’s learned to ignore it.
I tell myself I have nothing to worry about. And I almost convince myself too.
