Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Alas, I promised Tillie she’d enter her double-digits era in style.
I am a woman who keeps her word.
The fact I’m working as a maid announces this tenfold.
My parents aren’t wealthy, but they could purchase an apartment in the Chrysler building if they were willing to sit across from a bank manager.
I can barely afford a bus fare to this side of town. I shouldn’t complain. Wealth comes with a heap of conditions most consenting adults wouldn’t agree to.
I walked away from my family to ensure my daughter would never have to consider their terms, much less follow them to the wire as I was forced to when I was a child.
Although it isn’t close to glamorous, we have a good, stable life.
After shaking off haunted memories that will cause more than my vocal cords to shake, I replace my nonslip shoes with heels, stuff my uniform into my oversized purse, and then spin to face the exit.
Partway around, the truth hits me. I forgot to replenish the aftershave in the primary bedroom of the west wing apartment. The grandeur that takes up almost every floor on the west side of the building was serviced first thing this morning.
Although most apartments are stocked with high-end department store cologne, Mrs. Whitten was adamant that this tenant required a special order. She promised to deliver her selected purchase to my service trolley within the hour so I could unbox it and display it before her VIP tenant arrived late this evening.
That was over eight hours ago.
“Shit,” I murmur to myself, glancing at the time.
If I don’t leave now, I risk missing the 7:15 bus. The next one won’t arrive until after the time I agreed to meet Tillie and Mrs. Lichard.
I consider ignoring Mrs. Whitten’s determination to make this owner’s stay as comfortable as possible. The thought doesn’t linger for long. I need this job. I can’t risk it for anything. I just need to move fast so I can purchase my daughter’s birthday cake and eat it too.
“Mara.” My supervisor leaps to her feet, shocked when I barge into her office at the speed of a bullet leaving a gun. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“I do,” I reply, nodding.
Val isn’t as stiff and rule-abiding as Mrs. Whitten. Her head is the first on the chopping block when her staff step out of line, so although she hates it, she must pull us into line when necessary.
“But I forgot this.”
While flashing Val an apologetic grin, I snatch up a bottle of cologne from her desk and exit her office as fast as I entered it.
Technically, this isn’t either of our faults. Mrs. Whitten said she would have the cologne delivered to me. I would have collected it before wrangling an ancient vacuum cleaner into submission if I’d known she wasn’t a woman of her word.
As I dart through the door of an office too small to be considered anything more than a broom closet, Val shouts something. I miss what she says, but assuming it is an offer to drive me to the bowling alley to make sure I’m not late for Tillie’s party, I shout back, “I won’t miss it, but thanks!”
I wave goodbye and sprint down the servants’ corridor. My pace isn’t graceful, and I’m sweating more than when I wrestle fitted sheets onto mattresses too large for one person to handle, but it’s effective. I make it to the west wing in record time.
A second cuss for the evening escapes my lips when I realize I forgot to check the owner’s register, leaving me unable to announce my request for access to their apartment.
When you knock on one door in the service corridor, almost all the tenants on the same floor answer. We’re supposed to greet the tenants by surname to avoid confusion.
“Hello… h-housekeeping.”
I press my ear to the door and wait.
I’m reasonably sure no one is home, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. It took months for me to enter an apartment in this building and not quiver like a bag of nerves. I don’t want anything to push my progress back. Even with the profession of over half the residents here scaring the living daylights out of me, I need this job.
Dentists aren’t on my list of childhood fears.
Doctors, though, are at the top.
When I don’t receive a verbal response, I shake off memories that will make more than my vocals shudder, before testing the latch.
The door is unlocked, saving me from a long walk back to Val’s office for the master key that opens every apartment in the building, including the glitzy penthouse.
“S-sir… Housekeeping.”
My stutter frustrates me, but it’s expected. I can’t recall a time I haven’t stuttered when speaking with a member of the opposite sex. It’s a neurosis I’ve had since childhood, and it worsened when I was robbed at gunpoint six months ago.