A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

Mrs. Arnaud spoke with solemn pride as she recounted the history of the estate. The Horn family had called this fairytale place home since the early 1900 when Egon Horn purchased it from a destitute French industrialist. He was a descendent of something or other royalty, viscount or emperor of whatever––of Baden, I think. I didn’t pay much attention to the title. I grew up in a country ruled by communist ideology for nearly half a century. Ambition was now acceptable, blue bloods never would be.

The affection she had for the current monster-in-residence was reflected in her eyes as she explained that Sebastian Clayton Horn inherited the property from his late father, Heinrich Horn, four years ago, along with the bank that had been in the family for nearly a century. Who cares, I thought. The man has a filthy mouth and worse manners. But I nodded respectfully and pretended to be impressed at the appropriate moments.

“He’s American?”

“Oui, half American.”

“Is there…a wife, madame?”

The purse of her plump lips suggested the topic was an unpleasant one. “There was,” a pregnant pause, “she passed away three years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“She was barely thirty. A wonderful girl, very beautiful…there was a car accident.” Her voice trailed off, her fingers fluttered, unsure where to land. She seemed to want to say more but didn’t so I remained quiet as well. In silence, she led me to a large closet that contained the cleaning supplies and left me to do my job.

* * *

I’m an obsessive cleaner. Nothing relaxes me as quickly as giving a bathroom a good scrubbing or organizing a closet. Exercise always seemed pointless to me when I could be cleaning instead, accomplishing a necessary task and discharging the inexhaustible nervous energy I often carry around. This job suited me perfectly. I threw myself into cleaning with vigor, desperately wanting to prove my worth to Mrs. Arnaud.

When Charlotte came to fetch me for lunch, I declined and asked her to leave a plate for me in the kitchen.

“I was worried about this. You’re one of those overachiever types. Did you hyperventilate in grade school when you got anything less than an A on a test?”

“No,” I said with a half-smile. “I never got anything less than an A.”

“Figures, I’m warning you, don’t make the rest of us look bad,” she replied with a mischievous smirk, her curly ponytail bouncing as she walked out of the room.

I stripped the beds and dressed them in luxurious Pratesi thousand thread count sheets, making sure that the intricate scroll embroidered at the edges faced up. I aired out the quilted coverlet and fluffed the pillows, smoothed the edges of the shams as sharp as a knife blade. I coaxed a reluctant shine from the antique dressers, washed and waxed wood floors, and dusted every flat surface until a sweat stain ringed the armpit of my uniform. I was on a tall ladder, working on a faint streak on the floor to ceiling window, when I noticed Mrs. Arnaud standing in the doorway.

She looked around with a satisfied smile on her face. “Vera, it’s eight. You have missed déjeuner and diner.”

I wiped away the loose sweaty hair sticking to my neck. “I have a bit more to do, madame.”

“These rooms have not been this clean and tidy since the estate was built in 1872,” she said, a twitch of amusement on her lips. “We want our guests to be comfortable, although not enough to extend their stay. Come to the kitchen and eat.”

“I can prepare something myself. I don’t mind.”

“Silence, silence…allons-y,” she insisted, waving my reluctance away with her hand. And together we made our way to the kitchen.

I sat at the long counter in front of the La Cornue stove running the length of the wall. Completely engrossed, I watched as she placed the delicate handmade bowtie pasta in a dish, mixed in the broccoli rape, and drizzled it with olive oil. Somehow I managed to curb my impulse to dive head first into it. No small achievement, considering my raging appetite. My stomach had grown fond of having real food again.

We drifted into a comfortable silence while she watched me eat. Her pudgy elbows rested on the counter, her amiable face cradled in her hands. “Have you had this before?” she asked, twirling her finger at the pasta.

“Oui, madame,” I answered between bites. “In Italy, I worked for a family that owned a restaurant and it’s a popular dish there.”

“But you are not Italienne?”

“No madame, Albanian…though I lived there for six years.”

Her examining glance made me uneasy. I didn’t want to lie to this kind woman who had essentially rescued me. “How did you like Italie?” She sat on the stool across from me, and nudged over the plate with sliced heirloom tomatoes and fresh mozzarella cheese.