Always knowing my feelings before I speak them, and sounding like the tallest and strongest and deepest-voiced man in the room that he is, Parker intones, “We will love this lasagna. And we will love it hard.”
I try not to look at him. I don’t want Parker to sense how fast my heart is beating. I set my expression to my best poker face.
Johan hums the tune, And I / will always love you.
We’ve barely sat down at the dinner table when the doorbell rings. KK runs to the door, expecting her sushi platter. But the newest guest is one we didn’t invite. It’s Madeleine Hogue, the seven-year-old daughter of the family next door, my favorite babysitting charge. She runs into the living room holding out a plate of cookies. “Here, Ilsa! Cook and I made your favorite cookies for your last party!” Maddy has a maid, a nanny from Paraguay to help her with her Spanish, a family chef, and a personal Pilates instructor at her disposal. She’s livin’ la buena vida here at the Stanwyck.
I take a whiff of the most sincerely sinful cookies in the history of the world. It’s a recipe I saw in People magazine once at the dentist’s office, and Dr. Segal would not approve of its ingredients (or maybe she would, in the interest of keeping her business afloat). They’re called Junk in da Trunk cookies, and they’re like chocolate chip cookies, but with butterscotch morsels, malted milk balls, peanuts, potato chips, and pretzels added in. If I were a scientist, I’d run a study to find out if there was ever a more delicious cookie recipe invented that could be worse for your health. Maddy knows they’re my favorites.
“Thank you, my darling Maddy,” I say. I place the cookies on the coffee table and return to my dining chair, and hold out my arms for Maddy to jump onto my lap.
She takes her usual seat and I introduce her to the gang that don’t already know her. “Everybody, this is Maddy. She lives next door. Her parents bought this apartment and they’re going to knock through those living room walls to combine their unit with this one. Maddy, this is everybody.”
In a few months, after the renovation, Maddy’s sweet, privileged life will be even better, because her nanny is going back to Paraguay, and I am going to take the nanny’s place. I am going to live in Czarina’s guest room when it becomes Maddy’s nanny’s room. It will be my own. Maddy knows not to tell our little secret, though. I wanted to wait until after the last dinner party, until a few weeks after Czarina has moved out, before announcing my new job to Sam and the rest of the family. We haven’t even begun sitting shiva for the apartment. The timing is still too delicate. They all still think I’m leaving for Quinnipiwherever at the end of the summer.
“Hi, Maddy,” everyone says, except KK, who snaps, “I thought you were the sushi, dummy.” Maddy giggles. She knows better than to be offended by KK.
Maddy tells Sam, “Your lasagna looks amazing, as always.” My sweetest liar. My best protégé. “And cook made an extra batch of cookies for you to bring home to your parents.” I look at Maddy proudly. My protégé learned these excellent cookie manners from me.
“They’re in Vegas for the weekend. LiberaceCon,” Parker jokes. “Can I take them home to mine?”
“Sure!” says Maddy.
“Those cookies will make you fat, Maddy,” snipes Caspian, which is totally unfair. Maddy is a little bit pudgy but so much less since her parents put the Pilates instructor on retainer.
“Don’t be a dick, Caspian,” Jason says to Caspian.
Maddy looks at Jason, then at me. “He said ‘dick,’ ” she whispers. Then she glances at Caspian, and takes in the situation. There’s a sock puppet at our dinner table. “Who’s he?” she asks.
“Your worst nightmare,” says Caspian, completely serious, and then, in a baby voice, he adds, “Widdle Maddy poo-poo.”
Johan stands up. “I’ve had it with you.” Before Freddie can realize his intent, Johan grabs the sock off Freddie’s hand. “You’re excused for the evening, Caspian.”
Johan heads to the back of the apartment. “Where are you going?” Freddie cries out, with all the anguish of his arm just having been amputated without anesthetic.
Freddie rushes behind Johan, who takes off in a sprint, calling out, “This domkop is going down the privaat.”
I don’t speak Afrikaans, but I’m pretty sure poor Caspian is about to meet his end in Czarina’s toilet.
What a clog that will be.
Poor Caspian.
eight
SAM
As much as you obsess about all the things that can go wrong, it is inevitably something you can’t imagine that ends up going wrong. Which justifies worrying about everything, just to make sure it’s all covered.
Johan’s disadvantaged because he has no idea where the bathroom is. That momentary pause—looking at the doors, trying to figure out which one holds the porcelain throne—gives Frederyk enough time to go for the tackle. I am about five steps behind as he lunges—Johan tries to dodge, but he’s not quick enough. They both go tumbling down.
“Stop it, guys!” I yell. “Seriously, stop it.”
I expect Frederyk to grab for Caspian, but instead he’s trying to get Johan’s wrist in a choke hold, so Johan will let go. Then I realize this makes sense—in any tug of war, Caspian’s going to lose.
“STOP!” I say, louder. But no one is listening to me. I switch tactics and yell, “JOHAN!”
Now he hears me. He looks in my direction, and Frederyk takes this moment to get in a blow to Johan’s stomach.
“No!” I call out, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m standing over both of them, pulling them apart. Frederyk regains his senses and recoils. Johan remains sweaty and disheveled
