To this, she says nothing. She doesn’t need to — her disapproval is so thick, it requires no words.
“Look,” I say trying to keep my voice free of exasperation. “I appreciate you driving all the way out here, but it seems there’s been a mistake. I’m not in need of a housekeeper at this time.”
Mrs. Agatha Weatherby Granger’s flat expression never so much as flickers. “With all due respect, I was not hired by you, Miss Valentine. Now, I would very much appreciate it if you would do me the dignity of admitting me inside, so we may discuss the particulars of this new arrangement in a more civilized manner.”
I sigh.
God damn my parents and their insufferable need to manage every facet of my life.
Recognizing this is a fight I’m not likely to win, I jam my finger against the access button to allow Mrs. Granger’s compact tan sedan through the outer gates. I rub my bleary eyes as I lean back against a nearby ceiling column. Only when the cool marble presses against my bare thighs do I remember that I’m not wearing pants — which is probably not the first impression I want to make on the frigidly proper housekeeper heading up the circular drive at alarming speed.
In a stroke of luck — or post-travel laziness — my suitcases are still sitting in the atrium where I left them. I quickly root through the topmost duffle, grabbing the first pair of jeans my hands land on. I barely have the waist buttoned when a knock sounds at the front door. Three sharp, no-nonsense raps in quick succession.
“Mrs. Granger,” I say breathlessly, yanking the heavy oak door inward with one hand, brushing frizzy blonde flyaways out of my face with the other. “Please come in.”
She steps inside — kitten heels clicking against the floor, purse held before her like a shield. Her lips are pursed in disapproval as her eyes sweep the space, lingering on the dusty piles of sheets I pulled off the furniture and summarily discarded last night. Her thin neck cranes to examine the crystal chandelier hanging overhead, its grandeur somewhat dimmed by millions of dust motes caught in sunbeams streaming through the overhead skylights.
After a heavy stretch of silence, those shrewd eyes make their way to me. My rumpled t-shirt, messy bed-head, and bare feet are all evaluated with the same stiff-upper-lip she showed the house.
“It seems you are, in fact, in need of a housekeeper, Miss Valentine,” Mrs. Granger says slowly, as though speaking to a child. “Your former help left things in quite a state.”
“No one has lived here in over a year. There was no need to keep full-time staff.”
“Mmm. Thankfully the exterior grounds are in much better shape than inside. Your parents hired a landscaping company to care for the lawn and flowerbeds in your absence. As I understand it, the pool, tennis courts, and docks are being maintained once per week by a local man from the boating community — at least, until a more permanent arrangement can be made.” The way she says boating community makes it sound like a backwater slum, unfit for association with Cormorant House.
“Great,” I say tiredly. My head is beginning to pound. Once again, Blair and Vincent have snapped their fingers and set my world to proper order. My voice drops to a low grumble. “God forbid I ever do anything myself.”
“What was that, Miss Valentine?”
“Nothing.” I pinch the bridge of my nose with two fingers, trying to pull my thoughts into focus. “Do you have any luggage?”
“Luggage?”
“I assumed you’d be staying on the property, in Gull Cottage…” I manage to keep my voice remarkably steady, considering the mere thought of someone besides the Reyes family living in the small staff house on the edge of our lot makes my throat constrict. “I’m happy to show you the way there, help get you settled in…”
“Ah.” Mrs. Granger makes to set her bag on a nearby table but, seeing the film of dust coating its surface, quickly reverses course. “The offer is appreciated but unnecessary, Miss Valentine. I will not be residing in the staff quarters during my tenure at Cormorant House — unless you are objectionable. My own home is only twenty minutes away, in Beverly Farms, should you ever need my assistance outside business hours.”
Relief floods me. “No objections here.”
“Excellent. I will be at your disposal from breakfast until dinnertime on weekdays. If you need me on weekends, you need merely inform me with three days’ notice.”
“I’m certain I won’t need you on weekends. In fact, I won’t need much help during the week, either.”
“Yet you shall have it.” Her eyes narrow — a pointed contradiction to her polite expression. “Given your proclivity for late-rising, I’m certain our paths will barely cross.”
I bite back a less-than-polite response. My smile feels rigid on my face, more grimace than grin, but I maintain it anyway. Blair and Vincent drilled the importance of good manners into me from the time I could hold my head upright.
Mrs. Granger walks in a slow orbit around the atrium, mentally indexing every dirty surface and streaked pane. When her path crosses back to mine, she pauses only long enough to wrinkle her nose at my messy attire. “Will you be wanting coffee once you’ve dressed?”
“More than likely.”
“I’ll put on a pot. One would assume the kitchen is in as thorough a need of scrubbing as the foyer…”
“One can only assume.”
“Then I won’t dally. There’s much to be done. But never fear, Miss Valentine, I will have Cormorant House restored to its former glory in no time at all.”
This house holds no glory, I want to tell her. Only pain.
I don’t bother. I merely smile my rigid smile as, gripping her purse tighter, she pivots on her kitten heels and walks out of the room with the confidence of someone who’s been here a thousand times. Clearly, she doesn’t need — or want — a tour of the house. I stand alone for a moment after her footsteps have faded out of range, as caught in my own thoughts as the dust motes suspended in sunbeams all around me.
Agatha Weatherby Granger is no Flora Reyes, that much is certain. Five minutes in her presence made it clear she’s about as maternal as a feral cat from the Gloucester fish docks. She will not fold me in her arms after a long day, or hum Spanish lullabies under her breath while she goes about her work, or make me my favorite chicken stew when I’m under the weather. She will not take one look at me and know, without words, how I’m feeling, what I’m thinking, and exactly how to fix it.
She will not be the mother I never had.
This feels intentional — a calculated move on Blair and Vincent’s part, overcorrecting for what I’m sure they perceive as a mistake. I can almost hear their conversation playing out inside my head.
Josephine was far too attached to our previous help. Make sure to get someone cold as ice this time around, dear. Proper decorum must be maintained at Cormorant House.
Blinking dust out of my eyes — not tears, surely, for I have no real reason to be crying — I turn and head upstairs to get dressed for the day.
Leaving Mrs. Granger to her tasks without interference, I meander down the lawn toward the ocean, my leather flip-flops smacking lightly against my soles with each step. My pace falters as I round the final bend and the boathouse comes into view. I stop dead in my tracks at the sight. It’s beautiful as ever — an architectural feat of stone hanging out over the water, housing my father’s Hinckley. But I can’t see the beauty in it anymore. All I can see are the ghosts of my past.