rest my head where she did, eat what she ate. But in time, he’ll get over her. Soon, the meals will be to my taste.
“Everything’s going to be perfect,” I say aloud, remembering Michael’s words as I rummage through the first box. “Perfect.”
* * *
After Dean leaves, I pad downstairs and nearly collide with a squat woman with short, mousy-brown hair. She’s wearing a midnight-blue polo, khakis, and a pair of blue Nikes that match the color of her shirt. This time, I’m better prepared for the unexpected intrusion on my privacy.
“Good morning,” I say, stopping with a smile. “I’m Colleen Roper, Michael’s—”
“I know who you are,” she interjects with a nod. “I’m Samara Graves, the housekeeper. Pleasure to finally meet you. We’ve been prepped for your arrival.”
“How so?”
She begins digging through her pockets. “We were instructed you were to have no stress and do nothing that will cause physical strain on your body. Here.” She hands over a ring with two silver keys attached. “Mr. Harris also asked that I give these to you. The keys to the castle. The one he gave you earlier opens every outer door. That one,” she says, pointing to the more jagged key, “opens most of the doors on the inside—at least to the rooms you’ll be using.”
She doesn’t mention what the second key on the ring opens, though I think I already know.
“Thank you,” I say. “That was sweet of Michael to make copies so quickly.”
“Those aren’t copies, miss.” She strides past me. “They were Joanna’s.”
“Oh, I—I don’t know what to say.” The key ring seems to burn into my palm. “Thanks.”
Why wouldn’t Michael have made me another set—one of my own? It’s not like it would’ve been incredibly difficult or expensive.
Samara turns back, a strange smirk lifting the corners of her thin lips. “Would you like me to give you a tour around Ravenwood? Or can you find your own way?”
I pocket the keys before replying. “A tour isn’t necessary. I’ll find my own way. Thank you, Samara.”
Without an acknowledgment, she continues her trek up the stairs. But when I hit the bottom, I swear I can hear her laughing from the top.
I perch on the edge of a black leather couch in the living room, amid rows of taped boxes, and strain to hear where Samara heads first. West wing. I wonder—no, I shouldn’t even be paying attention to such things. I should be focused on my own workload. There’s still so much I have to do to prepare for our baby. Shopping and decorating the nursery top the list. Unpacking. Hiding out every morning until Dean leaves isn’t going to work. Not if I want to be productive.
Outside, curtains of mist roll in over the waves, sweeping over the garden and right up to the house. The sunshine won’t last long at this rate, and from the look of the flat gray horizon, another storm is moving in on the heels of the last. Whether it’s the excitement of the morning, the decaf, or the earlier exchange with Dean, I’m bushed, and the day hasn’t even really begun.
Through the spotless glass of the living room window, I watch the parade of Point Reina’s royalty with morbid curiosity. The sidewalks are busy this morning. A forty-something brunette steers a stroller around a puddle and over a curb. Another, a blonde, strides across the street holding a bulging bag of groceries. I imagine them to be mothers and wives, nannies and mistresses. They’re late to yoga. Book club. Private tennis lessons. On their way to secret midday rendezvous in a dark corner of Starbucks. All important appointments that can’t be missed, of course.
A hatchback BMW passes slowly, curving around the bend leading toward the cypress grove. The woman inside waves at the others, and they all smile.
Michael didn’t tell me he lived in Stepford.
One woman in particular catches my eye. Waving enthusiastically at someone on the opposite side of the street,