La Belle Dame Avec Regret, Part I

Is he ever, ever going to take out the trash? I wondered this for a week, and found that yes, eventually, he will, but only on Sunday. Apparently it doesn’t matter if refuse is spilling out overtop of the oversized, overused kitchen trash can, or that it smells like Monday’s marinated tilapia gone bad. Oh, he’ll do it all right, but on his own time and in his own way. Same as the mowing – he’ll get to it. I know he will, because he always does, but not until he’s damn well ready and the grass is halfway up to my knee. He’s never adjusted to the fact that we now have to take care of the house ourselves instead of being waited on hand and foot by Marcia and Chef Francois. Life just isn’t that easy anymore.

Marcia Divaccio was our housekeeper, back in the day of wine, roses and romance. She ruled the house behind the scenes and oversaw a troop of mostly Hispanic women that helped to ensure the smooth functioning of our home. Clean, fluffy white bath towels seemed to spontaneously multiply in a stack by the whirlpool tub in my giant, perpetually gleaming bathroom, due entirely to their labors. The delicate lingerie that I used to wear that would wind up torn on the floor every night magically appeared again in my bureau, mended, fresh and folded with honey dust between the layers. I never had to wonder whether the baseboards had been dusted, or if the bed had been made, or if the windows needed washing. It was a simple life.

Gourmet meals were available at all hours, served in the formal dining room with all the porcelain, silver and aplomb due our station, compliments of Chef Francois Jean-Pierre LeBorgne. His memory has become a legend, and his food has become something we will surely tell our grandchildren – assuming we ever have any. Breakfast, every day, would include several types of hard, crusty European rolls, a selection of fresh fish, cheeses, meats, chilled, fresh julienne vegetables, freshly made yogurt paired with homemade Indian ginger-quince and Cordova lime curd preserves, real hot chocolate and French press coffee with all, as we would say in my native Ohioan, the “fixins”. That was just breakfast. Lunch and dinner, if we planned to be eating the later meals of the day at home (which we did not do often unless planning a sexy aphrodisiac picnic), were even more elaborate and tempting. Chef Francois, whose name and title ran together to sound like “SHEFfronswah”, was a genius. I miss him even more than Marcia and her bunny-soft towels.

Their excellent service was rendered with a surprising amount of humanity. It was obvious they both took pride in their work, and it was easy to forget that they were paid very well to do so. Marcia and Chef Francois seemed more like part of the family than household employees, and it hurt to have to let them go even more than leaving our huge, pristine, luxurious home with its forty acres of manicured “lawn” (courtesy of Old Pedro and his sons Young Pedro, Juan Carlos and Hilario) and Olympic swimming pool.

Life sure has changed since Eric made that one little misstep in the stock market. His accountant tried to tell him that putting everything he had into tech stocks was risky (“What does he know about the market? He’s an accountant for crissake!”, but Eric, of course, bless his romantic, perilously stubborn heart, did not listen. And now there is no one to take out his trash, cut his grass, or polish his Cole Haans (that I suggested he try to sell on Ebay to pay for a new kitchen floor).

No one, that is, but me. My name is Rory, and I am a recovering romance heroine. My bodices have been mended, the question of my parentage has been resolved, and now I am living The Dream.