More inspection

Kasia

Dominik’s kitchen is gorgeous. The entire house is beautiful. Modern, sleek design with a lot of open space. It’s warm, a house I can imagine children running around playing. It’s a direct contrast to what I see when I look at him.

He’s large, forbidding, cold. Even with the change out of his suit to more casual shirt and slacks, he appears all business. And well rested. Did he sleep before coming to get me?

As soon as I sit at the built-in breakfast nook in the corner of the kitchen overlooking the backyard, his phone rings. He pulls it out of the back pocket of his pants and looks at it. With a frown he answers the call and steps further away from me. I can’t understand him, but I hear how fast he’s talking. He’s not happy.

“Oh, good, you’ve come down to eat,” a woman probably in her sixties says, popping out from what I think is a pantry. She smiles brightly at me and offers her hands. I reach out to her and she grasps both my hands in hers and shakes them. It’s more of a hug than a handshake, and she looks genuinely happy to see me, so I don’t pull away until she lets me go.

“Forgive me,” she says, swishing her hand through the air. “I’m Margaret. I’m Mr. Staszek’s housekeeper. There are two other women who also work the house, cleaning, laundry, that sort of thing, but if you ever need anything just come straight to me and I’ll see it done,” she tells me. “There’s pork chops, mashed potatoes, and green beans all set for you and Mr. Staszek.” She looks around the kitchen, maybe she expected him.

“He had a call,” I tell her, and she nods.

“I’ll fix you a plate then.”

“You don’t have to, I can-”

“No, no you sit. I’ll get it. You must have had quite the day,” she says and there’s a comfort with her acknowledgement. Quite a day is the understatement of the year, of my life.

I thank her when she places the plate she’s made up for me in front of me. It’s a heavy meal for the afternoon, but having slept all day, I’m starved.

Dominik is still in the other room. He’s keeping his voice down, but I see him pacing the living room.

Margaret puts a second place on the table for Dominik along with silverware and an opened bottle of beer. She offers me wine, but I only want water. I just want to eat and go back to my room.

“Do you live here too?” I ask. The house is so large, too large for just one man to live in.

She smiles. “No, but it feels like it some days.” She gestures to the plate. “Go on and eat. Sometimes his calls last a while. Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, no. Thank you.” I pick up my fork and knife, ready to dive into the pork chops. She’s breaded them and the smell makes my mouth water.

“I’m going to check a few things and then I’ll be heading home. But if you need me, my number is on the inside of the pantry door or let Mr. Staszek know and he’ll call me.” She adds the last part like she just remembered I’m not allowed communication with the outside world.

I thank her again and cut into the pork chop. A shadow behind the blinds startles me. I must have made a noise because Dominik hurries back into the kitchen.

He ends his call. Pressing one knee into the bench, he leans toward the window to check out what spooked me.

“It’s just my men,” he says to me, then knocks on the window and gestures for whoever it is to move. “Smoking,” he explains and sits down across from me, looking at my plate.

“You have men surrounding the house?” I ask. The estate is gated, and from what I saw of the neighborhood it’s not exactly slum living.

“More than your father, but you’ll get used to them,” he explains and cuts into his own meal.

He chews a bite of pork while staring at me across the table. It’s like he’s assessing me still. Maybe I’ll come up short and he’ll send me home.

I begin eating, not asking any more questions. It’s better I stay ignorant, I think. Let him have his life and I’ll find a way to have mine. This won’t be a real marriage, so we don’t need to pretend it is. Two separate people living in one house. It’s large enough, we probably won’t see each other very much anyway.

“You sleep like the dead,” he says after I put my fork and knife down.

“I was tired. And it’s not like there’s anything else to do up there.” I’ve always been a heavy sleeper. It takes two alarms to wake me up in the mornings.

“There’s a tv room downstairs in the basement,” he tells me and takes a pull of his beer.

“I’m not going to be locked away in my room?” I ask, surprised.

“Not unless you need to be,” he answers with narrowed eyes. “Do I need to lock you in your room? Are you going to be a naughty girl and try to run away?” He cocks his head to the side, studying me.

I force my expression to go blank. At least I hope I do. I can never tell if I’ve mastered the art or if I’m as transparent as I feel.

“When can I have my phone back?”

He takes another sip of his beer. “We’ll see.”

“We’ll see?” I can’t stop the anger boiling up. “You just said I’m not to be locked away.”

“You aren’t. You’re free to roam the house and even the grounds, but you aren’t to leave the property and you aren’t to speak to anyone until I say so.” He pushes his plate away and stands up from the table.