Page 21 of The Muse
She hands me the mug. “Smooth Move tea has senna. Do you know what senna does?”
“No.” I take the mug.
Callie returns a tight-lipped smile, and I wait. But that’s all she offers, so I guess I’ll look it up.
“Want me to get another tea? Not steeped in coffee?”
She slowly nods.
With a controlled sigh, I turn and head downstairs.
“How’d you do, son?” Rupert says, now dressed in black joggers and a crisp white tee, drinking a glass of something green while staring at his phone, back against the fridge. It smells like Pop-Tarts.
“I steeped senna tea in coffee and added honey and lemon.”
He snickers while I pour the concoction into the sink. “There’s a glass electric kettle in the pantry,” he says. “Use it to heat the water. On the shelf above the kettle, there’s a copper-colored tin with peppermint tea bags. Senna is an herbal laxative.”
“Shit. You know, you could have told me all of this earlier.” I open the pantry door that matches the cabinets. It’s basically a second kitchen with another fridge, a counter, stove, sink, and a floor-to-ceiling wine rack behind a glass door.Fucking rich people.I wonder if they ever lose sleep thinking about people living on the street with cardboard for a bed and a sandwich from a dumpster that will serve as their only meal for the day.
“I didn’t tell you earlier,” he says, “because I wanted to see how savvy you were.”
“And?” I call from the pantry.
“And what? I think we know the answer. Do you really want me to say it?”
Something clicks to my left. It’s the toaster … and Pop-Tarts.
After I fill the kettle and plug it in, I return to the kitchen, pulling my phone and charging cord from my back pocket to charge it on the counter. “Say what? That you think I’m an idiot?”
“Doyouthink you’re an idiot?”
“Nope.” I pluck a new spoon from the drawer for the honey. “I think you’ve set me up to fail at this job, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“The only way you can fail is by not trying.”
“Try what? I don’t understand this job.” I head back into the pantry to fill the mug with water and grab a tea bag.
“You’ll figure it out,” he says when I come out of the pantry.
“Why can’t you be her muse? What’s wrong with you?” I ask. “Besides the obvious.”
“What’s the obvious?” He eyes me with distrust before drinking the rest of his green beverage.
“Your age and you wear pajamas with a robe and slippers. You’re not horribly out of shape. You’re acting healthy by drinking that green crap, but you have Pop-Tarts waiting for you in the toaster.” I bob the tea bag in the water. “Maybe thingsdown below aren’t working like they used to. I don’t know, and I don’t care. Maybe you shouldtrya little harder. And don’t people like you have servants or something to make tea?”
“Servants?” He laughs, passing me to retrieve his Pop-Tarts. “I don't believe that's a common term anymore.”
“You know what I mean.”
“We have employees, like yourself, who do things for us. A housekeeper. Someone who washes windows. But that’s about it. We cook our own food. Launder our own clothes. Now, my neighbor? The asshole who bought the house I wanted? He hired a homemaker. That was her title. She wore 1950s housedresses and heels. She gardened. Baked me a pie for my birthday, and did God only knows what else.” He returns, holding his Pop-Tarts by the edges.
“Yeah.” I toss the tea bag into the trash. “That’s weird shit. Unlike hiring amuse.”
“Touché, Flynn.” Rupert sets the Pop-Tarts on a plate, then rinses out his glass. “But I didn’t actively look for you. You sort of stumbled into this job.”
“Well, my life has been an endless series of stumbling into shitty situations.”
“Then stop stumbling. Keep your head up. Walk taller and with purpose.”
