Finally it’s the weekend. It’s Saturday morning and I am optimistic. Vanessa didn’t show up for work yesterday, so I didn’t have a chance to pry in her mind to check how her little row with James is proceeding, or if he has told her about seeing me on Thursday. Instead, I’ve developed a plan to peek in her home—or her daddy’s mansion, to be precise.
Mom has invited me to lunch today, and since my parents live in Lake Forest, forty-five minutes north of Chicago, I’ve decided to do a tiny detour on my way back to the city and make a brief stop to check out the Van Horn palace…at least from the outside.
Megan has sent me a scanned copy of the wedding invitation with the address, and I’ve input it into three separate electronic devices to be sure not to lose it.
“Do you want to taste an original homemade American meal?” I ask the genie.
“I would love to,” he replies, enthusiastic.
“There’s a catch, though.”
“As always in life. Pray tell me what it is.”
“You’ll have to be a girl again. I wouldn’t hear the end of it if I brought home a man,” I explain. “Plus I wouldn’t want my parents to get the wrong idea, have any false hopes…you know?”
He fiercely protests for half an hour, but when he sees that I am immovable, his curiosity for the world gets the best of him.
“Would you have me wear that hideous pink rag again?” he finally asks, resigned.
“Oh no,” I reassure him. “You can choose whatever clothes you like from my wardrobe, and you can be as covered up as you can bear in this sultry weather.”
He browses through my closet unwillingly, his expression becoming grimmer and grimmer with every passing item. In the end, after having scrutinized every possible article, he settles for a pair of beige, loose linen pants, white sneakers, and a white t-shirt, and goes resentfully into the bathroom to put them on. When he reemerges changed, I don’t have the slightest idea how he looks, as I keep seeing him like a man dressed in feminine clothes.
Having him come along simplifies my plan a great deal. I texted Mom saying I was bringing a friend over and that we planned on going to the beach in Evanston afterwards, which is a perfect excuse to leave early and get a head start on my spying mission.
The lunch goes smoothly. Mom prepared one of her famous pasta salads, tasty but refreshing; in short, the perfect meal for this weather. We all enjoy it while sitting in the shadows in my parents’ garden among one of the vastest flower displays I have ever seen.
In one corner loaded with vases, I spot the little rack Mom bought at the flea market and find myself wondering what would have happened without it. Was I really destined to find the coffer? Or was that day a mere coincidence? It’s impossible to say. What I do know is that without the magic help of my little coffer, I’d be lost.
Melissa, the genie’s female alter ego, now has a strong background story. It’s been embellished and enriched since the basic one we gave Bruce, and I am pleased to say my parents like “her” very much.
“You can tell she’s European,” my mom comments at one point while we’re alone in the kitchen. “Such good manners.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “She almost seems to be from another time,” I add, suppressing a smile.
At two-thirty, lunch has been over for a while and I am impatient to go, so I use my ready-made beach excuse to leave without opposition. We say our goodbyes and speed away in my new car, which, by the way, impressed my parents a lot. Of course, I had to lie about it. I told them that I’ve been promoted at work and decided to reward myself with it, which gave their parental pride an extra boost.
I follow the driving directions the built-in navigator is kindly providing me, and twenty minutes later I’m pulling up in front of the Van Horn mansion. I decide to park after a bend in the road, in a small parking lot out of sight from the house.
“Where are we?” the genie asks, perplexed as we stop.
“Vanessa’s parents’ house.”
“And why exactly are we here?”
“I’m curious,” I answer. “I want to have a look at it.”
“What are you doing?” he asks, shocked, staring at my nose as it pops about half an inch forward.
“Camouflage. I can’t risk being recognized; I’d be ashamed for the rest of my life.”
I make my hair a light reddish blonde color, change my haircut to a short bob with bangs, turn my eyes green, cover my face in cute little freckles, and shape my nose thinner and more pointed, sort of like Jenna Dewan before and after. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, satisfied. Nobody should be able to recognize me.
“Is the house open to visitors?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What is your plan then, if I may ask?”
“Just to walk past the main gate and see if we can get a peek at the house.”
“It seems a waste of time to me. What shall we do afterwards?”
“Nothing, we go home. I just want to see what it looks like.”
We walk along the side of the fenced garden to try to find an opening. Unfortunately, a dense hedge, impenetrable to the eye, lines the whole perimeter. Once we arrive at the gate, the situation doesn’t improve much. All we can see is a long driveway lined with tall cypress trees whose end gets lost in the horizon. I try to walk a bit forward along the perimeter, but I can’t see anything apart from impeccably pruned shrubberies. I head back to the gate, linger there a little longer, and finally pronounce myself defeated and ready to go home with nothing accomplished. I’m already moving away when I hear someone calling rather desperately.
“Hey, young lady. Where do you think you’re going?”
I turn back to see a rather plump lady dismounting an electric golf cart driven by a young man wearing a uniform.
“Me?” I ask, surprised.
“Yes, you and you,” she confirms, pointing at the genie and me. “You’re already late—what were you doing walking up and down? Enjoying the nice weather?”
“Late?”
“Yes, almost two hours. I was beginning to lose hope,” she says, panting, apparently from the effort of sitting in the cart.
I have no clue what she’s talking about, so I enter her thoughts to get an idea.
This is the last time I call Monique’s agency. Joe keeps insisting I help her, but she’s so unprofessional and disorganized…I don’t care if she’s his sister! I hope these two can do a decent job… Mrs. Van Horn is so fussy about the house help.
She thinks we are substitute maids or something. We could play along and see the actual house from the inside! This is great!
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Monique gave us the wrong directions and we got lost.”
Typical, damn Monique. And damn you, Joe.
“Well, come in,” she says instead, “we don’t have any more time to waste.”
The genie is eyeing me, astonished, but has the good sense not to say anything. He follows me silently as I get in the cart.
I hope that sorry excuse of a sister-in-law didn’t send them over without the uniforms again, so that they can steal some others from here…the cheap vixen.
This lady is a wonderful source of information.
“I am sorry, madam. Monique didn’t give us any uniforms—she said you would provide them.”
“Of course.” From her polite reply, you’d never guess the stream of insults flowing through her head.
The ride on the golf cart takes at least ten minutes. On the way, we pass a large pond with a nearby gazebo, some of the most amazing flowerbeds and shrub sculptures I’ve ever seen, a couple of tennis courts, an Olympic-sized pool, and a riding area with adjoined stables. This place is a castle! When we finally reach the house, I am surprised we don’t find a moat and a drawbridge.
The building is a classic Victorian style with heavy stone walls, turrets, round towers with cone-shaped roofs, stone archways, and windows popping out from every direction. We are shown in from a side door, directly into what must be the servants’ quarters.
“Here are your uniforms. Change quickly, and remember to return them before you leave.” Plump Lady retrieves two perfectly folded black and white bundles from a cupboard. “You can use the service toilette to change.”
The uniform consists of a simple black dress with a white collar, a knee length skirt, three-quarter sleeves with white cuffs, a white apron, and a maid’s hatband. Very old-fashioned.
“Do you care to enlighten me on what is happening?” the genie whispers angrily as soon as he shuts the bathroom door.
“We’ve just been hired as replacement house help,” I explain nonchalantly.
“Now you want me to be a servant?” he asks, affronted.
“You’ve already played the whore,” I tease. “Being a maid won’t be much worse.”
“I will not do it.”
“Oh, come on. We are completely incognito. This is the perfect opportunity to see the house.”
“Again, I fail to see why.”
“For the hell of it,” I reply curtly. I’m fed up with his constant complaining. He’s too full of himself and has no sense of humor. “And you have to do as I say, like it or not. So shut up and get changed.”
When he’s done he storms out of the little bathroom with his usual frown, and I follow. Plump Lady is waiting for us exactly where we left her. She eyes us thoroughly, raising an inquisitive eyebrow, and finally gives us an almost imperceptible nod of approval.
“Mr. and Mrs. Van Horn will be arriving at six o’clock sharp.” She proceeds to give us our instructions for the night. She speaks like a military general giving his orders to his field troops before a battle. “We expect Miss Van Horn and her fiancé, Mr. Avery, to arrive shortly afterwards.”
Vanessa is coming here! And James too! My stomach does a double flip. What if they recognize me? No, it’s impossible. My own mother wouldn’t recognize me in my current disguise. Oh no, this is bad. Or good? I’m not sure. I’ll have a chance to study them closely without anyone knowing, which is good. But I’ll also have to endure their togetherness for a whole evening, which is bad. I guess that at this point there’s no going back…I hope they’re not too PDA-y. It would be too painful.
“By then their four bedrooms and en-suites must be prepared and cleaned to perfection,” Plump Lady continues.
Four bedrooms? Ah, ah. Vanessa’s parents must be really antiquated…I love them. At least Private Displays of Affection are ruled out.
“You,” she says bossily, pointing at the genie. “You will be in charge of Mr. and Mrs. Van Horn’s suites. And you,” she adds, pointing at me, “will be in charge of the guest rooms. I’ll give you freshly laundered sheets and bedspreads. Mrs. Van Horn needs an extra comforter because she’s always cold. Mr. Van Horn, on the contrary, doesn’t want any blankets, but requires extra pillows for his back. The floors need to be vacuumed and mopped. Dust thoroughly everywhere and open a window to let fresh air circulate. You’ll have to bring up a cold bottle of water in its glacette and a crystal glass to be placed on each nightstand. The gardener will provide you with a bouquet of fresh flowers for each room…” She goes on detailing every petty element of the homemaking we have to do. After she’s done with the rooms, she goes on and on and on about the baths, halls, and whatever other parts of the house the owners might be using.
While she’s talking, I zone out completely. Who cares if Vanessa gets the wrong scent of soap? The only information I register is that we will be serving dinner as well. Plump Lady kindly informs us that this means the cleaning chores will have to be completed by five in order to give us enough time to arrange the dining room for dinner.
It all sounds like so much fun!