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“Well, I don’t think it is,” she says.
Why is she such a tough nut to crack? Fine, I’ll pick another maid. There has to be someone else who is a bit less cautious. I don’t have the time to crack her.
“I’ll be out changing the sheets,” she says.
I nod. “Can I get a glass of water before you do that?” I ask.
She looks at me quizzically, and I smile.
“I am sure you realize what Antonio and I were up to. It’s normal to be dehydrated after that,” I reply.
Contrary to my expectations, Mary cracks a grin.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” she says.
I wait to hear the click of the closing door, then I dash into the room. I lift the sheets and pull out a small flip phone that I tucked under the edge of the bed right before Antonio entered. Giovanni had given it to me as one means of connecting with him.
My eyes scan the room quickly for a place to hide the flip phone. They settle on the side table with a drawer that has a key hanging from it. I hear footsteps in the hallway, and I reach over quickly to slide the phone into the drawer section. I lock the drawer and slide the key into my robe just as the door opens.
Mary walks in with a cup of water on a tray and hands it to me. I smile and take the cup from the tray.
“Thank you,” I say.
This time, she returns my smile.
I come out of the bath refreshed and free from every trace of his touch. As Mary waits for me to dress, I slide the key into the sheets at the edge of the bed. She has brought me a long, flowery dress with silky fabric that caresses my skin. She whips out lotions and oils and begins to rub them into my freshly washed hair.
Her hands are gentle and experienced, and she massages my scalp with unexpected kindness.
My thoughts stray to what it would feel like to be gently touched by a man. My first two experiences brought me pleasure as well as pain, but Antonio was not a gentle lover. Maybe I wouldn’t even like being handled with gentleness.
I banish those thoughts and allow myself to relax into the tender movement of her hands.
“You can ask your questions,” she says suddenly, interrupting my enjoyment of the massage. “I see from your eyes that you want to ask questions. Ask away,” she says.
I smile at her. “First, how long have you worked here?”
She walks over and squats by my legs, taking them into her hands.
“Are you certain that’s the first question you want answered?” she asks, rubbing my legs. I nod.
“Twenty-five years,” she replies shortly.
I inhale sharply, nodding. That was a long time. It could also mean she knows a lot about this place.
“Have there been women like me here?” I ask.
She reapplies lotion to her hands and takes my other foot.
“Working here for twenty-five years means that you have to be ready to mop up blood and people’s guts off the floor without questions,” she says, rubbing my foot. “It’s a tough job, but it makes it possible for two of my special-needs sons to be in good care homes and to ensure that my first daughter was educated abroad and is living a good life,” she says finally, looking up.
“She should take care of you now. You shouldn’t be working all your life,” I say softly.
She smiles. “Oh, I tried. Master Antonio let my Marissa have me for a week, but it was too peaceful at her home. It bored me. Her boys were gentle and well-mannered, and her husband was so polite. I was back here after that first week,” she says, smiling at the memory. “I am afraid I have grown too used to the dysfunction that I cannot live without it,” she says.
I purse my lips, and she chuckles.
“You remind me of Marissa a lot. She has eyes like yours,” she says.
