No pets.
Twelve bedrooms.
More bathrooms than I could count.
The first morning I arrived, I expected arrogance.
Instead, Richard found me scrubbing a silver coffee pot and said, “You’re going to ruin your hands doing that without gloves.”
I turned around.
He was tall even at seventy-two, though age had started pulling his shoulders forward.
White hair.
Gray eyes.
A navy cardigan buttoned incorrectly.
“You hired a housekeeper,” I said.
“Yes.”
“That means my hands are part of the arrangement.”
He stared at me for a moment.
Then he laughed.
That was our first conversation.
Richard was strange for a wealthy man.
He hated being waited on at the table.
He tipped delivery drivers too much.
He kept expensive wine but drank cheap coffee.
