Every Little Thing. Pamela Klaffke

      More looks and awkward silence before Candice finally speaks. “You just seem very different from Janet.”

      “Really?” It’s my turn to choose the game.

      “Candice doesn’t mean that in a negative way, Mason.”

       “Really?”

      “No, no, of course not,” Candice says. I think I’ve shaken The Ladies.

      “I’ll have to tell Janet we’ve met,” I say. The Ladies look at each other and this time it’s an easy read: panic.

      “Oh, indeed, be sure to give her my best,” Candice says. Her voice is shallow and fast.

      “I certainly will,” I say. “And I’ll be sure to let her know how much you appreciate her whipping things up for you.”

      The Ladies laugh nervously. “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” says Amanda.

      “Oh, but I will.” They both shudder but neither correct me. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy the feedback.” How Janet can deal with these people every day is beyond me. They may have money and be her clients, but my God, is it worth it?

      “Oh, look!” Amanda says as she tilts her head toward the giant kitchen window with the view of rolling hills and the appearance of three men and their horses riding toward the stable.

      “The boys are back!” Candice claps her hands.

      “They’re probably starved,” Amanda says.

      “I’ll call Kate,” Candice says, pulling a glittery pink phone from the pocket of her slim khaki pants. “We should get some snacks going.” Candice looks at her gold watch and shakes her head. “She should have been here by now to start with the dinner prep.”

      Kate cooks and cleans and is a general slave to Candice. It’s hard to watch, especially because Kate is all smiles and so genuine and friendly as she serves us home-baked multigrain crackers with goat cheese and orange-fig jelly. I want to take her into a corner and tell her it doesn’t have to be like this, that it isn’t right and she doesn’t have to put up with abuse from anyone, no matter how rich. She could get another job. I’d maybe even be willing to help her escape.

      My thoughts of freeing the slave are interrupted by Joseph of Amanda-and-Joseph. He’s standing over me, reaching his hand out. I’m unsure whether to shake it or hold it or if he’s asking me to dance to the terrible pop-country music Candice asked Kate to put on. I tentatively reach up. He places his other hand atop mine and I’m sandwiched in a mysterious handhold. Jesus, these people had better not be swingers. There is no way I am fucking this guy.

      “I just wanted to express my condolences—your mother will be missed by many.”

      Oh. “Thanks, Joe.”

      He smiles, almost laughs. At least he has a sense of humor. “Indeed, I always enjoyed her column.”

       “Really?”

      “Indeed, Amanda and I often remarked at how amusing and witty she was—such an outrageous character.”

      Amanda used to read my mother’s column? I’ll bet she filled Candice in on all the gruesome details if she didn’t have them already. I suppose they must know all about me: Britt Castleman’s disappointment of a daughter. No wonder they’ve been so awful. They think I’m some sort of loser, a joke. I’m a thirty-four-year-old woman who once racked up a three-thousand-dollar bill on the emergency credit card paid by her mother, having a torrid month-long relationship on a virtual reality website with a character called “Rage,” who turned out to be two teenage girls having a laugh.

      “Thanks.” I force myself to smile at Joseph and he releases my hand. Then I stand up and walk out of the room without a word.