Free Watching Amanda by Janelle Taylor

It’s me, Amanda Sedgwick.” She well remembered Clara from their summers at the house in Maine. It was many years since she’d last seen the woman, and Clara had aged, but the most dramatic change was in her manner.
    â€œYou remember me, don’t you?” Amanda asked.
    No response.
    â€œWilliam Sedgwick’s daughter,” Amanda added, confused by Clara’s coldness.
    â€œI know who you are,” the woman said, her hazel eyes stopping on Amanda for just a moment. A disapproving moment.
    â€œI have been retained by the estate of Mr. Sedgwick to continue cleaning the brownstone on a twice-weekly basis. Wednesdays and Saturdays.”
    Amanda waited for Clara to say something, anything, about her father’s death, but the housekeeper said nothing else. Her eyes shifted from Amanda to the bucket in her hand.
    â€œWednesdays and Saturdays,” Amanda repeated, nodding. “This is my son, Tommy,” she added, nuzzling the baby’s head.
    â€œI have a lot of work to do,” Clara said, her eyes roving over the baby for just a moment. She set down the bucket. “I’d rather not use harsh cleaning products while in the same room with the child,” she added, eyes on her sponge.
    Yes ma’am , Amanda thought. Dismissed.
    Perhaps Clara was simply mourning the loss of her long-time employer. Or perhaps she was simply worried about the loss of her job now that William was gone.
    â€œThat’s very thoughtful,” Amanda said, careful to be polite. She well knew the truth behind the old cliché of catching more flies with honey, and perhaps Clara would be willing to answer some questions about William if Amanda remained civil.
    â€œThe staircase to the main level is there,” Clara said, pointing across the marble foyer, which was bigger than the living room of Amanda’s old apartment. “I’ll get your suitcases.”
    â€œThank you,” Amanda said, and Clara stepped out, returning with both suitcases, one in each hand. For a woman in her fifties, she certainly was strong. Clara set the suitcases by the staircase, then immediately set to work, removing the many small antique figures from atop a beautiful antique wooden console table.
    Clara did good work. The black-and-white marble floor gleamed, and overhead was a stunning chandelier with hundreds of tiny lights—not a dust mote in sight.
    There were three closed doors and a staircase leading upstairs. Amanda glanced around to see what might be a danger to Tommy, determined there was nothing, and set down the baby on the long Persian runner, where he alternately crawled and cooed. She pulled a talking teddy bear from her diaper bag and handed it to him, then pulled out the letter of instruction from Mr. Harris.
    From her father, really.

    There are four floors in the brownstone. The lower level, a few steps down from street level, has a bathroom, spare bedroom, a laundry room, a small storage room, plus an entrance to the back patio. The main level has a kitchen, dining room, a formal living room, and a powder room. The upper level has a master bedroom and bath, two bedrooms, and a second full bathroom. The top level was originally maids’ quarters but are not currently in use.
    Amanda is to sleep in the red bedroom. Tommy is to sleep in the blue nursery next door. Amanda is never to enter the master bedroom—the white room. She’s never to use the powder room on the main level—not even to look in the mirror. She’s never to open the window next to the cactus in the living room. She’s never to open the cabinet above the oven ...

    Why in the world can’t I open a kitchen cabinet? she wondered. These rules seemed silly.
    Amanda felt eyes on her. She turned around, but Clara was busy polishing the legs of the console.
    Are you the spy? Amanda wondered of Clara. No, how could she possibly know if Amanda followed the rules if she only came twice a week for a few