Page 84 of Velvet Cruelty

He’s halfway out the door when he turns. “If any of the bosses ask why you’re cleaning, make sure you tell them it was your idea.”

I frown. “I don’t think any of them care what I do.”

Schnee gives me a long look. “You’re wrong.”

Before I can ask what he means, he vanishes.

The kitchen is gross, but it’s also empty. There’s nothing on the shelves or in the industrial refrigerators except wine, condiments, and a six-pack of orange soda.

Glad I don’t have to throw anything out, I pile all the dishes from the kitchen and dining room next to the sink and fill it with hot soapy water. As I scrub, I run through my scales, up and down and back again. I like cleaning. I always tried to help Zia Teresa at home, but she didn’t want to look lazy in front of mom. And if I so much as took an empty carton to the recycling bin, mom would scold me.

Here I can take as long as I want and focus on getting the—peanut butter?—stains off the plates. When the dishes are done, I wipe down the stainless-steel counter tops, until they gleam silver again. I sing Dolly Parton as I go. I’m digging the ancient mop and bucket out of the closet when Harvey sticks his head through the door. “Are you hungry, Miss? I can run out and get you something? Anything you’d like.”

I wipe the hair out of my eyes with my bicep. “If it’s not too much trouble, could you please go to a grocery store for me?”

“Of course,” he says, surprised. “What would you like?”

“I was thinking I could cook you dinner to say thank you for being so kind to me.”

A flush spreads over his cheeks. “That’s not necessary.”

“But I’m cleaning up the kitchen. It would be a shame not to use it.”

Harvey’s expression is pained. “I’m sorry, Miss Whitehall, but Mr. Morelli is due back this evening and I’m worried he’ll think… well I don’t know what he’ll think. But I know he wouldn’t want you cooking for me.”

I remember the way Eli looked in the firelight, slowly rolling up his shirtsleeves. My pelvic muscles clench. If I belonged to Mr. Morelli, he probably wouldn’t want me cooking for another man. But I don’t. So why would it be a problem?

I smile at Harvey. “Mr. Morelli would love for me to cook for you. He told me to make myself useful.”

Harvey’s brow smooths. “Did he?”

Last night Eli told me to ‘be a good girl.’ Surely cooking and cleaning is being a good girl? I cross my fingers behind my back, just in case. “He did. And I can make enough food for everyone. You and Mr. Gretzky and Mr. Schnee and Dolmio and Sal…”

Harvey gives me a rueful smile. “It has been weeks since I’ve had a home-cooked meal…”

I try not to look too excited. “Wonderful. Could I maybe write you a list of ingredients?”

“Of course. What are you going to make?”

The food to cure all sadness. The one thing I feel like eating whenever I’m low. “An old family recipe.”

Harvey finds me a pen and paper and I note down everything I need. When he leaves, I mop the kitchen floors until they’re sparkling clean. As they dry, I move back into the dining room and stuff all the dirty containers and paper into trash bags. Everything that looks useful goes into a big box in the corner of the room. Once the junk is cleared, I polish the dining table and sideboards and push all the chairs back into place. The carpet is still dusty but everything else looks a hundred times better.

Feeling stupidly proud of myself, I go back into the kitchen and get an orange soda. I sit on the clean counter and drink it like I’m the queen of the world.

My whole life I’ve just been there, like a candy cane on a Christmas tree. Zia Teresa did my chores. My teachers and Bobby made excuses for my homework. I was good at singing and ballet, but I didn’t help anyone with it, just like I wouldn’t have helped anyone if I studied Fine Arts at Colombia. No one even needed me to marry Mr. Parker. Mom needed money and Mr. Parker needed a wife with an important last name, but no one needed January Whitehall.

Yet this kitchen used to be dirty and now it’s clean because of me. For the first time in my life, I’ve done something useful. Mom would be furious to see me acting like a servant but what’s so bad about cleaning? Everyone likes when things are clean. I look around at the sparkling surfaces. Maybe I could ask Eli if I could be his housemaid?

It sounds crazy, even in my own mind, but they definitely need somebody and I’d like being a housemaid a lot more than I’d like being shipped off to Italy. Plus, it might be safer if Eli and the others saw me as a servant. I don’t want to be their sugar babies or wives, their strippers or murder victims. I want to be too unimportant to proposition or kill. I want to melt into the walls of this beautiful house the way Zia Teresa did at my place. As a maid, I’d be nobody. And I could be happy being nobody.

“Afternoon!” Harvey bursts into the kitchen, arms laden with groceries. “Everything looks wonderful.”

“Thanks,” I say, sliding off the counter. “How did it go at the store?”

“It took a while, but I found it all.”

Harvey bought three times as many ingredients as I need. I decide to make everything at once, that way all the staff can eat and they can have leftovers. I’ve already found a big pot for the meat, so I set the chicken and beef to simmer in salted water as I carefully shred the skin off the carrot and potato.

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