Convenience

Chapter One

It's crazy how the biggest houses often have the smallest traces of love in them. That thought has crossed my mind every Christmas Eve since I was eight. I give the gigantic mahogany dining table one last polish and grab the Thomas Goode china, antique sterling silverware, monogrammed linen placemats, and freshly-pressed monogrammed linen napkins from their place in the imposing cabinet adjacent to the rectangular twenty-seat table. There is nothing personal at this table—no cute Christmas decorations, no festive centerpiece, no salt and pepper shakers that look like happy little snowmen—just stiffness and formality that some people consider to be elegant, I guess.

While my mom runs the vacuum over the Persian rug in the foyer, I fetch the crystal glasses and butter dishes and light the candles that sit in silver antique holders from some cathedral in Europe. I miss spending Christmas Eve at home. Before my dad died, my parents used to snuggle up on the couch with my younger brother, Aaron, and me, and we would watch those silly little claymation Christmas movies together every year. We never got a lot of gifts, but that didn't really matter to us. When I close my eyes I can still smell those wonderful scents of cinnamon and pine that would fill our little house at Christmas.

We haven't had a Christmas at home in five years. Our entire lives revolve around the Ellis family; they were generous enough to give us jobs after my dad passed away, but we've known them forever. I used to play with their youngest son, Tripp, when we were really little, but now I can't stand him. At eighteen, my brother, Aaron, who is two years younger than I am, is the senior groundskeeper of the Ellis' estate. My mom is the head housekeeper, and I help her.

As soon as I finish setting the table, Mrs. Ellis sweeps into the house with her petite ninety-two-year-old mother, a little pistol of a lady everyone refers to as Granny. As usual, they both look immaculate. Mrs. Ellis is wearing a black cashmere sweater, a red, black and gold silk Hermès scarf, black dress pants, and black suede Manolo Blahnik stiletto booties. Granny is decked out in a red Dior suit with red Chanel ballet flats and a red and gold Hermès scarf. Her massive three-carat emerald-cut diamond engagement ring sparkles so brightly that it nearly blinds me. Her skin is virtually wrinkle-free, but her lips barely move when she speaks because of all of the Botox injections she gets every few months. Her chin-length white hair is perfectly coiffed and rolled into curls today. Despite her small height—four feet, eleven inches—and her thin frame, she is still imposing, and gives off the air of one who knows how to get what she wants and is never to be messed with. She is the kindest member of the Ellis family.

"Merry Christmas, ladies," Granny chirps, the strong scent of Chanel No. 5 engulfing me as she approaches. I smile. I love Granny; I've always thought of her and her husband, Herb, who I call Papaw, as the grandparents I never had, since all four of my grandparents passed away when I was really little and I can't remember them. When I was a kid, Granny always slipped me Lindt chocolate truffles from her purse with a wink and a twinkle in her hazel eyes.

"Merry Christmas, Granny," I reply, kissing her soft cheek. Granny wraps me in a warm hug, then steps back to look at me.

"You look pretty as a peony, Kayla Cat," she says, affectionately stroking my hair. Her use of the nickname she gave me so many years ago makes me smile. "And look at how beautiful the house is!" she adds. "You and your sweet mother always make this home look absolutely gorgeous, especially at Christmas."

"Thank you." I turn back to the table and start folding the napkins into fans, and that's when it happens: My mom's phone rings. After she answers, her eyes widen and her hand flies to her mouth, as if she's trying to stifle a scream. I've only seen this expression on her face once before, five years ago when the police officer came to our door and told us that my dad had been killed on his way home from work by a drunk driver. After she hangs up the phone, she squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath.

"That was the bank," she explains, her voice trembling ever so slightly. "They've put our house in foreclosure and evicted us. We've lost everything."