The Anatomy of Jane (7 page)

Reaching up, I smacked myself across the face because I need to wake up from whatever daydream or fantasy I was falling into.

I am not marrying Maxwell Emerson.
The very fact that I had even considered his proposition proved just how desperate I was. However, I had worked every day of my life, and the number one lesson I had learned was that the only person I could count on was me. There was no saving grace or easy path. Cinderella was a good fairytale.

“But I’m a maid.” I nodded to myself. I pulled back my wet hair into a ponytail, deciding I’d dry it when I got back home.

Moving back into the bedroom, I didn’t bother to dry off. Instead, I grabbed my clothes, put them on, and rolled up my sleeves. Peeking at my phone, I stared at the time: 12:47 a.m. It was officially Saturday morning. I had to clean, and after that, I’d go back home. If I didn’t vacuum and did my best to be quiet, I wouldn’t disturb them. Plus, they were otherwise occupied.

Grabbing the towel I had dropped, I moved to the laundry room. The blue basket was filled with socks, underwear, T-shirts, and a few towels. Separating the colors and whites, I sorted them out to wash before taking the red basket for dry cleaning then closed the washing machine door. I was for grateful they had one of those silent machines.

Cracking my neck to the left and then to the right, I took a deep breath before I got to work and slid on my cleaning gloves. If I was lucky, I’d be done before they woke up in the morning.

“Mr. Window…we meet again.” I smiled to myself, staring up at the large window overlooking Boston.

“Wes!” Max grumbled at me when my phone alarm went off and rolled away from me, but I was far too tired to get up. “Turn it off before I throw it out the goddamn window!”

He could be such a twat sometimes. Rolling my eyes, I sat up and rubbed my eyes as I reached for it.

6:10 a.m.

The thought of going to the market this morning exhausted me, but I got up anyway and stretched.

“What do you want for breakfast?” I asked him, knowing he never stayed in bed long after I got up. He wasn’t a morning person, but once he was up, there was no hope he’d get back to sleep. Four years of this and you’d think he’d be used to it already.

“Anything.” He was lying on his stomach, the sheets barely covering his ass.

“Risotto with leeks, shiitake mushrooms, and truffles fine then?” I asked, reaching for my jeans.

He rolled over, opening only one eye to see if I was serious. The last time he’d said ‘anything’, I’d made him just that and he had to force him to eat it on my behalf.

“On second thought, bacon and eggs are fine.” He yawned.

Nodding, I opened the door, remembering why it was closed in the first place, and saw a pile of shirts, towels, socks, and underwear folded neatly at my feet. There was a note on top.

“Your fiancée is up,” I said and he groaned, most likely remembering the impromptu proposal he’d given last night.

“You mean our own penthouse Peeping Tom,” he grumbled. Getting up out of bed, he winced and gripped his back. I grinned proudly. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I shrugged. He put on his boxers, finally noticing the folded laundry. I let him pick up the message.
Sorry, I wasn’t able to clean your room. It will be given a twice-over next time
.

I paused before glancing back down at the time. Stepping over the laundry, I looked around the penthouse. It was spotless.

“She made breakfast?” Max came up beside me, nodding toward the kitchen, where two trays were left out. There was plastic wrap over the plates along with another Post-it note.

“It’s six in the morning. When the bloody hell did she does this?” I asked, walking down the stairs. I could see that the room she was supposed to be sleeping in was now empty. From the temperature of the plate of scrambled eggs, strawberry pancakes, bacon, and toast, she had left only minutes before. This time I read the note.

I know this is probably not up to par with the great Wesley Uhler’s cooking, but I made breakfast, first to apologize for last night (again), and secondly because I didn’t want a lot of dishes left in the sink.
She had tried to write small but still needed to use the back of the Post-it. Maxwell just stared at his plate.

“If the maid thing doesn’t work, she should try a career in burglary,” he stated, and I understood what he meant. How could we have slept through all of this? Sitting down on the stool, he pulled back the plastic wrap to eat.

“Well?” I waited.

“Too much salt,” he replied, but kept eating.

Reaching for my fork, I cut into the pancakes and scooped the eggs with it before taking a bite. The moment I did, I smirked. He had lied. It was good. Not better than me, but good. He just couldn’t admit it.

“You’re right, too much salt,” I lied along with him.

“I’m guessing this means she’s rejecting my proposal?” he asked, still eating.

“Are you disappointed?”

His glanced up at me and was luckily saved when my phone rang.

“What?” I answered.

“Chef, we only got two truffles—”

“Two? I asked for two dozen!”

“Well—”

“I’ll be there in twenty.” Hanging up, I took another bite before getting up. “I have to go.”

He just nodded and I licked the syrup from the corner of his lips before rushing up the stairs. When I got to the top, I paused to glance at the spare bedroom. I wondered what was going on in her mind…

“Jane you begged me for this job,” Mary reminded me as I sat in her office on Monday morning. I had slept all of Sunday, missing six of her calls. I hadn’t realized how exhausted I was until I’d laid down. I didn’t even eat; I just slept.

“I know and I still want to clean, but just not that penthouse. It would be better if I could switch jobs with another maid.”

“Did something happen?” She leaned toward me and I could tell she was scanning for any marks or bruises. “If something happened, I swear—”

“Nothing happened.” That wasn’t a lie. Nothing had happened in the way she was thinking. “I just…” I needed to think of something she’d believe. “I have crush on the owner and I act awkward, okay! I don’t want to be there. I need to focus.”

“You, Jane ‘the Warden’ Chapman, have a crush?”

“No please!” I groaned at that name. The girls at the Bunny Rabbit had given it to me as a joke, but it had stuck, and I hated it with a passion.

“Something smells fishy here,” she pressed. I just pointed to the angelfish she had in the corner of her office, which made her glare at me. “You aren’t funny.”

“It was a little funny.” I beamed. “Mary, you know me, and I always do my best to stay focused, so it’s weird for me, too. That’s why I want to get out before anything happens.”

“So there is a possibility of things
happening?
” Her red eyebrow rose. At this point she was just being nosy.

“Mary. Please.”

“I can’t just switch you out. Mr. Emerson made it very clear that he wanted one maid only. I have to let him know.”

“Fine, but in the meantime do you have anything else for me?”

She made a face, her lips stretching out into a thin line. “You are so lucky sometimes.”

Me, lucky! Ha! Luck and I didn’t even live in the same hemisphere.

“Irene Monrova—you worked for her on Friday—asked if you could fill in on Mondays, which is why I tried so hard to call yesterday.”

See? This was the type of ‘luck’ I got.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing. I’ll go there now. It’s only noon.” I grabbed my scarf and bag and stood up to go.

“Are you still able to work on Wednesdays at Mrs. Crofton’s and Thursdays at Mr. Wells’, or do you have a secret crush on one of them too?” she mocked with a fat grin on her face.

I pretended to think. “Now that you mention it, Mr. Wells sure knows how to rock a cane, and that receding hairline, those missing teeth and wrinkled old hands…it’s kind of hot.”

“Eww…Jane!” Her face bunched up and she even wiggled in her chair as if she was trying to shake the thought from her whole body.

“Bye, Mary and thank you.” I flashed her a smile before leaving, since she always told me to.

Just like that, I had washed my hands of Maxwell and Wesley. I wasn’t going to embarrass myself any more. The second rule of survival I’d learned growing up was that if it got messy or dangerous, then it was okay to run.

Running was good; anyone who said otherwise would be the first one to die in a horror movie.

Chapter Four

Why did I answer the phone?

“Hello, Mr. Emerson? Are you there?” said the voice on the line.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“This is Mary Turner from Mary’s Magnificent Maids. I wanted to ask you if you would be all right with a change of maids.”

Why did I answer the phone?
I saw the number on the screen. I knew who it was and to add to the discomfort, I was at work. I didn’t have time to worry about a damn maid. Yet I answered the fucking thing anyway.

“What is wrong with the maid I already have?” I questioned, signing off on the segment board in front of me.

“She was personally requested by another client,” she replied; I could feel my jaw clenching, but I had no idea why.

“Ms. Turner, is this how you do business?”

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe you aren’t aware, but I’m a private person. I do not do well with change. It has taken me over a month to get used to this new maid, and now you are telling me she has another client who wants their home cleaned at exactly same time as mine? Or maybe you do know and this just a ploy to get more money.”

“Mr. Emerson, no never—”

“Then I want the same goddamn maid on Tuesdays and Saturdays like always. Have a nice day, Ms. Turner.” Hanging up, I threw phone back on my desk and leaned back.

If I hadn’t been sure before, I was now. She’d rejected my offer and now she was trying to quit. Here was the same woman who had the goddamn nerve to lecture me on the value of working extra, no matter how hard it is, was now quitting a perfectly good paying job.

Hypocrite.

Great! Wes was going to blame me or at the very least think I got rid of her because I was jealous. I didn’t give a fuck. We never said we were exclusive. We hadn’t been with anyone else in years—or at least I hadn’t, but that still didn’t change the fact that there were no rules between us.

“She is just a maid,” I muttered to myself.
So why I am so damn pissed off!?

“Mr. Emerson?”

“What?” I snapped when my assistant poked her head into my office. She jumped back, pushing her glasses farther up her nose.

“Ahmm…I…you’re…the meeting is starting.”

Rubbing my eyes, I nodded. “I’m on my way.”

Rising, I took my phones before walking around my desk and stepping out of my office and into the pit. Over two dozen employees on this floor alone were glued to their computers, and on some nights they looked like zombies. Everyone in the media business started there until they found that one story that would help them climb up.

Walking around them, a few of them looked up and nodded to me. They were the ones who were going to sink, and soon. The ones who paid no attention to me, who were typing, on calls, sliding back and forth on their chairs as they shared information, were the workaholics who would make it far.