“Where is Richard?” she asked.
“He’s not home at the moment,” I told her.
She sighed with visible impatience.
“When will he be back? I don’t have the whole afternoon.”
I looked at her carefully.
“May I ask who you are?”
She tilted her head with a small, entertained smile.
“I’m Alexis,” she said. “Richard’s girlfriend.”
She let the word settle in the air between us.
Then she looked me over once, quickly, and her smile widened.
“You must be the housekeeper.”
She laughed softly, pleased with herself.
“That makes sense,” she continued. “Though Richard usually prefers his staff to dress a little more professionally. Are you new here?”
I looked down at my jeans and the soft gray sweatshirt I had worn that morning simply because Saturdays were the one day I allowed myself to rest after a full week.
Apparently that made me invisible.
“I have been here for twelve years,” I said calmly.
She waved her hand.
“Housekeepers always exaggerate,” she replied. “Just let Richard know I’m in the living room.”
She settled onto the sofa.
Then she placed her feet on the coffee table that Richard and I had spent an entire weekend refinishing by hand during our first year of marriage because we could not yet afford to replace it.
“Could you bring me water?” she called toward the kitchen. “With lemon. Not too much ice.”
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