Free Hunting Season by Erik Williams Page A

particular drawer sits well outside the triangle and therefore provides an exceptional place to keep the phonebooks.
    I flip to the CLEANERS section of the yellow pages and scan down the list.  Skipping the ones I've already fired or eliminated without calling because their ad looked cheap – cheap ads mean cheap quality – my eyes settle on one I never noticed in previous readings.
    MORNINGSTAR RESIDENTIAL & COMMERCIAL CLEANING.
    Cute name.  And the ad looks terrific.  Nice graphic design.  Straightforward.  Professional.  I don't know how I missed this company before.
    I start to pick up the phone but hesitate.  I look around my apartment, at the immaculate state of cleanliness and organization I maintain, and wonder if I should call any cleaner at all.  I mean, I've always loved keeping my dwellings at my high standards.  Why should I outsource such enjoyable work?
    Then I remind myself the schedule at the law firm for the next few months will not allow me to honor both my commitment to my client and my apartment.  Not until after the trial and that wouldn't be for another five months or so.
    I lift the phone and cradle it to my ear.
    Two rings and a gentle female voice answers on the other end.  "Morningstar Cleaners, how can we be of service today?"
     
    *  *  *  *  *
     
    The Spring catalog from Z Gallerie has the dining room table I've been searching for.  Perfectly colored a rich brown with slender legs, a long top, and sharp corners.  The only piece of furniture I'd failed to fit perfectly into my apartment now stared at me from page thirty-three.  I've found my table.  The one which will tie my dining room together at last.
    Excitement courses through me and I almost sprint to my computer to place my order online.  But the doorbell rings.  I tilt my head and wonder who it might be.
    The doorbell rings again and I remember the schedule I agreed to with Morningstar Cleaners.  It must be my new maid.
    I stand from my Corinthian Leather Sofa, straighten my khaki slacks, adjust my powder-blue Polo, and approach the front door.  My fingers wrap around the solid brass knob and twists.
    On the other side of the door stands the most magnificent maid I've ever seen.  Clean uniform, nicely pressed.  Soft white skin.  Long blond hair pulled back into a pony tail.  Full lips with a light pink lipstick coloring them.  Sharp blue eyes which focus on me.
    "Mr. Clark?" the Goddess of Maids says.
    It feels like something has lodged itself in my throat.  I didn't think maids could look this beautiful.  Not the most attractive woman I've ever seen but definitely the Miss America of Maids.
    "Mr. Clark?"
    I clear my throat and nod.  "You must be from Morningstar Cleaners."
    She smiles and her eyes look down, as if embarrassed.  "Yes.  I'm Lilith."
    "Lilith."  Her name tastes like a wonderful merlot on my tongue.  "Please, come in."
    Lilith, her eyes still down, moves passed me and into the foyer.  Without any prompting from me, she removes her shoes and places them side-by-side on the travertine before walking onto the milk-white carpet of my living room.
    This act of awareness and good manners pierces my heart.  Lilith is a Goddess of Maids indeed.
    "You have a beautiful home, Mr. Clark."
    And she's courteous.  "Thank you."
    "Would you like me to start in the kitchen?"
    I nod.
    Lilith commences her duties.  She works like a skillful surgeon.  I cannot help but be impressed by her knowledge not only of cleaning and organizing, but of my preferences without any prompting by myself.  It's as if she knows my soul.  The way she sweeps, mops, and dusts almost mimic my technique perfectly.  She even cleans the granite countertops with a counterclockwise wiping motion the way I do.
    I try to ignore her but can't.  I follow her into the master bathroom.  Then the bedroom.  I'm sure she thinks I'm just observing her, grading her work since it's her first time here, so I try to maintain a neutral