Page 1 of The Homemaker
Chapter One
Alice
We’re all here to play a part. Play it well.
“Do not suckmy husband’s dick. It’s an old dick that doesn’t need to be sucked, so let’s just get that out in the open.”
I nod with a genuine smile. Wealthy people are the most fascinating creatures with lavish requests and baffling assumptions. The duties of my new position include everything except a blow job.
Got it. That’s not on my CV anyway.
Vera Morrison needs a “homemaker” for her husband. And I need a place to live since my rent just went up, and I lost my job as a personal assistant because my boss died. He was kind enough to add me to a “special list” before he passed.
In Minneapolis, the one percenters have a privatenetwork where they share staff recommendations. Everything from drivers and groundskeepers to nannies and sex surrogates.
This position pays twice what I was making, and it includes a well-appointed,rent-freeguesthouse that’s nicer than any place I have ever lived.
“More tea?” Mrs. Morrison offers in a raspy tone like she’s losing her voice or perhaps, very Demi Moore. She curls her long black hair behind one ear, exposing a large diamond hoop earring as we politely discuss the duties of the position.
We’re surrounded by flawless white furniture in the glass ceiling sunroom that feels more like a cathedral than a place to discuss the age of anyone’s dick.
“No, thank you.” I clear my throat to hide my impending giggle. I didn’t expect the blow job discussion, but it’s the highlight of my day.
Last week, I met Mr. Morrison at my first interview. He isn’t the guy who needs to pay anyone for sexual favors. If Vera refuses, he’s a fifty-seven-year-old real estate developer turned day trader who works out every morning and lives in a fifteen million-dollar home in the Lake of the Isles, Minnesota, and there’s a long list of women (and probably a few men) who would happily open wide.
“If you decide to entertain, please ask your guests to park on the street. And if we’re not here, you’re welcome to use the pool, but don’t let anyone in our house.”
“Of course. And I won’t be entertaining anyone. Well, there’s this guy I’ve been seeing. But it’s just casual.”
She eyes me with a twinkle of curiosity.
“Sex.” I clarify with unwavering confidence.If she can bring up blow jobs, surely I can mention casual sex. “We get together when he doesn’t have his kids.”
“Sounds like a lovely arrangement.” She offers a wry grin before sipping her tea, maintaining perfect posture and an air of dignity. “This weekend, my daughter, Blair, and her fiancé are arriving from San Francisco. Their wedding is this fall, right before she opens her art studio in SoHo. She’s a ceramic artist. Anyway, they’ll be staying with us this summer. We have lots of details to iron out for the wedding.” Vera sets her cup and saucer on the coffee table. “And come to think of it, if she asks about you, let’s call your position something like ‘house manager.’ My daughter won’t understand why her father wants a homemaker. She’s a feminist and, much to her father’s chagrin, very liberal.”
I playfully tsk while shaking my head. I’m apolitical. Blissfully ignorant. Just trying to keep my own shit together. And I have no idea what the current definition of feminism is, but I’m sure someone who needs a wifeanda homemaker might not embrace feminism.
However, I’m not sure changing my title will hide the obvious, which is I’m being hired to do things Vera doesn’t care to do, or maybe she thinks they are beneath her.
Canning.
Gardening.
Ironing.
Polishing silverware that belonged to Mr. Morrison’s grandmother.
I’m notmanaginganything.
“All you need to know is I’m the queen.” She smirks. “And I don’t allow any political discussion when my daughter and husband are in the same house.”
I nod several times. That’s an excellent rule.
“I’ll get you a credit card, but for now, you can use mine to pick out some uniform options. Let me show you.” Vera taps her phone screen and angles it toward me. She smells like a bold perfume, probably something with a French name in a fancy bottle.
Just when I assume my day can’t get any better, she proves me wrong.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says.
