“I take my breakfast at 7:30.” He glanced back once. “Not 7:25. Not 7:40. 7:30.”
“7:30,” Rebecca said.
He nodded and went inside.
Rebecca stood in the garden for just a moment, looking up at the big white house in the early morning light. She breathed in slowly through her nose.
All right, she thought. Let’s begin.
The first day was about learning.
She moved through the house quietly and carefully, the way you move in a place that is not yet yours, touching only what needed to be touched, opening only what needed to be opened. She read Grace’s folder at the kitchen table while the kettle heated. It was 3 pages of neat handwriting, organized exactly the way the kitchen cabinets were organized, everything in its right place.
She prepared Mr. Caleb’s breakfast exactly as Grace had described: scrambled eggs, 2 minutes after turning down the heat, then off; brown toast; orange juice in a glass. She carried it to the dining table at 7:29 and set it down without a sound.
At 7:30, Mr. Caleb walked in, sat down, unfolded his napkin, and looked at the plate. He said nothing, but he picked up his fork and began eating.
That, Rebecca decided, was good enough.
She went back to the kitchen, washed what needed washing, and began the morning’s cleaning.
Grace had been right about the house. Every room had its order. Every surface had its arrangement. Rebecca, who had always been careful and observant, quickly understood the logic of it, not because she was told, but because she paid attention. The paintings in the hallway were hung at exactly the same height. The books on the shelves were not only arranged by size, but loosely by subject. The kitchen towels were folded in thirds, not halves. The mat at the front door was always centered; she could tell by the marks on the floor where it had sat for years.
She cleaned and tidied and replaced everything exactly as she found it.
By midday, the ground floor was done. She had made lunch, a simple plate of rice and stew, which she left on the dining table at exactly 1:00, as the folder had instructed, and was working quietly through the upstairs hallway.
She moved past the guest bedrooms, past the linen cupboard, and stopped at the end of the hall, where a window looked down over the back garden. Below, she could see the mango tree Grace had mentioned. It was large and old, its branches spreading wide and low. A wooden bench sat beneath it in the shade.
It was the 1 part of the garden that looked slightly less controlled than the rest, slightly more natural, as if it had been allowed to simply be. She wondered if Mr. Caleb ever sat there.
Then she went back to her cleaning.
The days settled into a rhythm.
