Love, Chloe (10 page)

“Oh, I have a date,” I babbled. “We’re going to eat. Dinner, I mean. We have reservations.” My mouth wouldn’t stop moving, my brain feeding it information too slowly, my panicked attempt to shut up only causing more words. “We’re very happy.”

Yes. Me and my imaginary boyfriend are positively ecstatic.

His eyebrows half-hitched, and his odd look deepened. “That’s great to hear, Chloe.” He said the words slowly, the way you might speak to a small child. I didn’t blame him. I sounded ridiculous. My attempt to cover up my confusion at his non-invitation had only pushed me further into the pathetic pool, my risk of drowning imminent. And turning down free food? I immediately regretted every part of the slip.

I took the cash and stood, my hand grabbing at his order, desperate to get away.

Funny that after four months of working, I still hadn’t processed my role as The Help. I still saw myself on some sort of equal platitude with Clarke, where my mind would jump to a dinner invite rather than an order of food. I was out the door and four blocks down the street, wheezing against a streetlamp, before I realized I should have had Dante drive me.

I was so focused on my own life, my own issues, that I forgot everything else. I wasn’t thinking that Nicole Brantley, with her gilded world of perfection, would have her own struggles and a pile of secrets. And I certainly wasn’t planning on those secrets changing everything for me.

The city was a seductress. It dragged you through slushy, freezing hell, and then gave you a brief window of sunshine and made you fall in love with it all over again. It was one of those days, rays of sun warming the huge windows of the Brantley home, my eyes continually pulled back, moment after moment, bits of the outside beckoning. Finally, after organizing Nicole’s scarf drawer and syncing her Spotify playlist with her iTunes account, I decided to take Chanel on a walk. We didn’t go on a lot of walks. She had a pee pad on an upstairs balcony and did her miniscule bathroom breaks out there. Her exercise was taken care of by running around five stories and six thousand square feet.

I dressed her in a leopard print jacket, one with a fur-lined hood and put her booties on. The booties she hated, but Nicole had a tantrum if she stepped on the “dirty street” without foot protection, so I made Chanel suffer the indignity, whispering apologies to her the entire time. Last week, I had wasted a good fifteen minutes counting her shoes. The dog has seventy-three pairs. Too bad I can’t wear her size.

Chanel didn’t really want to go out. She lay down when I put on her harness, the diamond-studded piece making her transition to hooker dog complete. I laughed and pulled on the leash, causing her bejeweled body to slide along the wood floor. She ignored my tough voice, only jumping to her feet when I reached for the treats.

I glanced at my watch as I stepped off the last step, the house behind me too quiet. When Nicole was home, you heard it. Her television, her phone, her music, her voice. She lived in a constant state of interaction, fed on it. I checked the time, wondering where she’d gone and, more importantly, when she’d be back. The prior week, I’d been out getting creamer for her coffee, and walked into a full-blown hissy fit, her fury at my absence
way
overdone. This stroll outside was the first time I’d left the house since, my fear of her too great to risk. But on a rare sunny day in winter, I felt bold, certain that she’d want Chanel taken out.

I stepped down the sidewalk, Chanel skittering ahead, her enthusiasm mounting now that she was out in the fresh air. “Easy,” I said, holding her leash tightly. On the street, a black hearse passed, the rumble of its engine catching her attention for a brief moment.

Looking back, there were so many signs, so many omens. I should have known that something bad was coming.

One block over and back from the Brantleys, I dodged a puddle and tugged at Chanel’s leash. She was distracted by a discarded Starbucks cup, growling fiercely at it when I glanced down the street and came to a stop.

There was a stranger, leaning against a streetlight. Not an odd sight in this city, but it was the woman in his arms that held me in place. Nicole. He said something to her and his voice floated innocently through the air, like he had no worries, certainly not little ol’ me fifteen feet away. I was close enough to see Nicole’s breath frost in the air as she leaned in and smiled up at him. Close enough that, when his hand reached down and palmed her ass, I could see the crease in her leather pants. Close enough that I noticed her grip on the top of his jeans, the top of her fingers slipping in between material and skin. Close enough that I worried, when I gagged a little in my mouth, that they heard me.

I’d known Nicole wasn’t perfect. The sweet bubble of kindness that I met the first day had popped. I’d seen her tempers. Her high maintenance ways. The insecurity that she tried desperately to hide. The woman had
everything
but wanted more. I knew that, but still … she was MARRIED. Not that I knew anything about being a wife, but monogamy seemed to be the number one rule of the union. And yet his mouth was coming down on hers, her hand digging into his hair. It wasn’t a first kiss; it was natural, like they’d done it a hundred times before. I wanted to pluck off one of Chanel’s booties and throw it at her, followed by that dirty Starbucks cup. She was married to
Clarke
, the beautiful man who worked nonstop and
still
got up an extra hour early to cook her breakfast. The man who massaged her shoulders when she bitched, brought her flowers, opened her car door, and looked gorgeous doing it all. She had all
that—
yet was in this stranger’s arms.

The guy wasn’t even drool-worthy. He wore a plaid cardigan (yuck) and had a beard, one of those flimsy ones that signified a late attempt to jump on the trend. He looked mid-thirties, with a thin build, his legs spread in black jeans, the hint of a light gray T-shirt peeking out from beneath the cardigan when he shifted toward me. He glanced in my direction, and I got a good look at his face. It wasn’t ugly. It wasn’t beautiful. It was normal.
Nothing
when you compared it to Clarke.

Our gazes met and I knew the judgment must have shown on my face. I knew I should turn away but didn’t. I’d forgotten how to function. In the world of fight or flight, I froze in place and got eaten.

Chanel stopped her interrogation of the empty Starbucks cup, the leash going slack, her leopard print body trotting forward. I pulled on the leash, tried to turn but she saw Nicole and lunged forward, yipping loudly.

Oh shit
. I pulled harder, my eyes flitting to Nicole and watched, in almost slow motion, as her head snapped my way. She raised a hand to her mouth, stepping back from the man. I scooped up Chanel’s rigid body, fighting her strain toward the pair, her yaps loud and harsh in the quiet cold. Shushing her, I turned away and blocked her view with my body, my flats quick on the street. I was running by the time I climbed the steps to their house, out of breath, Chanel’s body wiggling to be free, our fall through the front doors done with a fair amount of drama, despite my best attempt to be quiet. Nancy, one of the maids, rushed in, her hurry ceasing when she saw it was just me.

“You’re tracking snow in. Get those stupid shoes off the dog before she ruins the floors.” She snapped out the words, oblivious to my situation.

I wanted to tell her that I also thought the doggie shoes were stupid. I wanted to tell her that I just saw Nicole kissing a stranger and—Chanel darted out of my hands, her booties tip-tapping across the floor, leaving dots of water. I scrambled to my feet, going after her, apologizing to Nancy. She shouted at me to remove my shoes and I chucked them off, the action too enthusiastic, one flying up and hitting a large crystal dancer that sat on the entrance table, everyone but Chanel freezing as we watched it fall to the floor.

At any other time, it would have been a beautiful sound, a thousand tiny splinters of glass on marble. We stared at the damage, Nancy letting out a sharp gasp.

“Fuck,” I whispered. Between catching Nicole in the act and destroying this, I was most likely staring at unemployment in that pile of crystal.

What could I have done? What could I have said? I still didn’t know what the right action was to take on that Manhattan side street.

Should I have confronted her? Pointed a judgmental finger at Nicole and asked what in the hell she was doing?

Should I have looked away, pretended I didn’t see anything?

Waved cheerily as if cheating was an everyday activity?

I stared at the broken crystal and drew a complete blank.

“You broke this?” Clarke looked up at me, a question on his face.

“Yes. It was an accident. I was trying to catch Chanel … my shoe…” My voice faltered; my explanation weak as hell.

He looked down at the dustpan, the crystal remains inside, Nancy keeping the evidence and pointing it out the
minute
he’d walked in the door, as if I had planned to keep it a secret. He straightened and picked up his drink, taking a hefty swallow before glancing at his watch. “Where’s Nicki?”

“I … ahh … I don’t know.” My voice shook, no alibi created for Nicole, his eyebrows raised when he looked at me. “She left a few hours ago,” I managed.

“She’s gonna loose her shit over this, excuse my French.” He tipped back the heavy tumbler again, small cubes of ice falling against his mouth, and I watched the move of his throat when he swallowed the last of it.

“I’m sorry.” The words were rusty, the feeling of panic foreign, my hat not used to being in hand. I swallowed the last bit of my pride. “I really need this job, Mr. Brantley. Please don’t fire me.”

He raised a brow and said nothing. The silence pushed at my composure and I struggled to maintain it. “I can’t afford to replace it but I’ll work extra hours until it’s paid for.” A commitment that’d take five years to honor. I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t accept it.

He shook his head. “No. Just…” he let out an aggravated huff. “Don’t break anything else. Take your shoes off before you come in if you have to. I’ll deal with Nicole … tell her I did it.”