Page 10 of The Only One Left

The room’s stuffiness is leavened by the rows of floor-to-ceiling windows along two walls. One row of windows faces the lawn, through which I can see Carter in the distance, back to raking leaves. The other set of windows looks out onto an empty terrace. A short marble railing, not even waist high, runs the length of the terrace. I can’t see anything past the railing because there’s literally nothing else to see. Just an endless expanse of cerulean sky that makes it seem like the mansion is literally floating in midair.

Mrs. Baker grants me a few more seconds of gawking before gesturing to a red velvet love seat. “Please, sit.”

I lower myself onto the edge of the love seat, as if I’m afraid of breaking it. Which I am. Everything at Hope’s End seems so old and so expensive that I assume nothing here can be replaced. Mrs. Baker shows no such hesitation as she drops onto the love seat across fromme. The motion produces a small plume of dust that rises from the fabric in a miniature mushroom cloud.

“Now, Miss McDeere,” she says, “tell me a little about yourself.”

Before I can speak, someone else bursts into the room with a clomp and a rattle. A young woman carrying a metal pail in one hand and using the other to drag a vacuum cleaner behind her. She freezes when she sees us, giving me a few seconds to take in the sheer spectacle of her appearance. About twenty, if that, she wears a formal maid’s uniform that wouldn’t have been out of place in a black-and-white movie. Black, knee-length dress. Starched white collar with pinpoint tips. White apron bearing a smeared print where she presumably wiped her hands.

The rest of her, though, is pure Technicolor. Her hair, dyed a garish shade of red, also contains two streaks of neon blue that trail down both sides of her face, dangling like octopus tentacles. A similar shade of blue streaks across her eyelids before fading at her temples. Her lipstick is bubblegum pink. Rouge colored a darker shade of pink cuts over her cheekbones.

“Oops, sorry!” she says, doing a double take when she sees me, clearly surprised by the presence of a stranger at Hope’s End. I suspect it doesn’t happen often. “I thought the room was empty.”

She turns to leave, producing another rattle that I realize is coming from the half-dozen plastic bracelets in rainbow hues that ride up each of her wrists.

“It’s my fault, Jessica,” Mrs. Baker says. “I should have informed you I’d be needing the room this afternoon. This is Miss McDeere, Miss Hope’s new caregiver.”

“Hi,” I say with a little wave.

The girl waves back, her bracelets clattering. “Hey. Welcome aboard.”

“The two of us were about to get better acquainted,” Mrs. Baker says. “Perhaps you can continue cleaning in the foyer. It’s looking a little neglected.”

“But I cleaned there yesterday.”

“Are you suggesting my eyes have deceived me?” Mrs. Baker says, displaying a smile so clenched it borders on the vicious.

The girl shakes her head, setting her hoop earrings in motion. “No, Mrs. Baker.”

The young maid curtsies, an act of sarcasm Mrs. Baker seems to mistake for sincerity. Then she leaves, giving me another curious glance before hauling her pail, vacuum, and rattling jewelry out of the sunroom.

“Please forgive Jessica,” Mrs. Baker says. “It’s so hard to find good help these days.”

“Oh” is all I can say in return. Aren’t I also considered the help? Isn’t Mrs. Baker?

She puts on her glasses, adjusting them atop the bridge of her nose before peering at me through the thick lenses. “Now, Miss McDeere—”

“You can call me Kit.”

“Kit,” Mrs. Baker says, flinging my name off her tongue like it’s a bad taste. “I assume that’s short for something.”

“Yes. Kittredge.”

“A bit fancy for a first name.”

I understand her meaning. Fancy for someone like me.

“It was my maternal grandmother’s maiden name.”

Mrs. Baker makes a noise. Not quite ahmmm, but close. “And your people? Where are they from?”

“Here,” I say.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

Again, I understand. There’s more than onehere. There are the mansions clinging to the Cliffs, home to the moneyed ranks the Hope family used to tower over. Then there’s everyone else.

“Town,” I say.

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