The Fundamentals of the Wealthy

Spoiler: Boston Cream Pies Aren't From France

The minute I clocked out of the office, my cell phone buzzed, flashing 'Mrs. Raleigh' on the caller ID.

I mentally prepared myself for a barrage of sobbing and wine glasses breaking, then picked up. "Hello?"

"Piper, honey, I know it's not your working hours, but the housewives are throwing another party, and you have to -"

"I'll be right over," I sighed.

It wasn't like I had any plans on Friday anyway. I mean, I had friends, like Hana from the office, but my close friends had gotten tired of me working all the time, and one by one, they stopped calling to ask me to hang out. I needed the working experience with a high brand company, so this job was too important for me to let go. That, and Mrs. Raleigh paid me separately.

I headed through Central Park and to the penthouse, kicking dry leaves and almost getting mowed down by honking taxis in the process.

I passed into the quieter outskirts of the city, and passed a warm-smelling bakery when the quiet panting behind me began becoming apparent. Quickening my pace, I skimmed over the cobblestone sidewalks and hurried towards the wealthy houses, but the panting only grew louder and more aggressive.

I twisted quickly to lash at the stalker before it let out a whiny yip.

"What the f -"

A corgi bounced to my feet, sniffing at my shoes and walking around me in eager circles. I watched it tentatively, even if by its size it looked to be a puppy. It was a scruffy brown, though certain patches of fur suggested it used to be a pale orange.

It sat down in front of me and panted, lolling its tongue out of its mouth.

It doesn't look like it has rabies...

I shook the thought from my mind. My landlord hated dogs. If I showed up at her door with any sort of animal in my hands, she would evict me before I could even say a word.

I turned and hurried on my way.

Just as I arrived at the giant Victorian gate, wheezing, just as the middle aged woman sashayed out the open door and clopped onto the steps in three inch heels.

"Oh, Piper, I'm so glad you made it! I -" She pushed one side of her curled blond hair over her shoulder, squinting besides me, "I never knew you had a dog! It's filthy! Richard, take Piper's dog and wash it." She clapped her hands sharply.

"Let's get baking!"

"Dog - ?" I looked behind me to see the ruffled corgi sitting on the sidewalk, panting heavily. Mrs. Raleigh's butler hustled out and scooped it up like a struggling sack of flour before rushing back inside.

"Baking...?" I murmured. From my experience with Mrs Raleigh, I wasn't sure if she even knew how to boil water. Right after Mr. Raleigh had hired me a year ago, I was looking for another side job to make more money after the landlord had increased the rent. I literally ran into Mrs. Raleigh when she kicked out her last butler for trying to steal silverware.

She offered me a job. To that day, I still didn't know what my title was.

Probably "assistant" as well.

I walked through two of the living rooms an into the Martha Stewart kitchen where Mrs Raleigh stood proudly, admiring her work. Which was a pan oozing with an overflow of burnt cake batter - probably chocolate.

Mrs. Raleigh, on the other hand, was trying very hard to be positive.

"Well," She huffed through her smile, "I guess we'll just try again. You do know how to bake, don't you, Piper?"

She took the cake pan, which cost around $50, (I was the one who had to buy it), and threw it into the trash.

"Maybe we should look through a cookbook. What's the occasion?"

Mrs. Raleigh sighed and slumped into a $150 chair.

"The housewives are having their monthly party again."

I perked up, "Oh, so you're invited?"

Mrs. Raleigh had been trying to get into the monthly gossip parties with other wealthy housewives in the neighborhood; she had been trying for years, and yet the ladies never included her. 

I sensed that it had something to do with Mrs. Raleigh apparently 'stealing' one of the head housewives' husband. Mrs. Raleigh insisted on repeatedly trying to infiltrate their group, so I guessed she didn't know. 

I was just waiting for the right time to tell her.

"Well, I'm not invited," She sighed before pouring a glass of wine from the bottle she stored in a secret compartment under the kitchen island, "Finn is. I have no idea why they'd invite my son before myself, but I'm sure they'll warm up to me eventually."

I held my tongue against my cheek.

They've been "warming" up to you for five years now. Maybe it's time to accept the fact that they're just mean?

But I would never say it aloud.

My job meant too much to me. Besides, if Mr. Raleigh was going to be there, it wasn't going to be easy for me either.

"Anyway!" She threw back the wine and tossed the glass into the sink, "I heard Fiona Bradford is coming back to town, and I'll get into the group for sure if I impress her."

Finn Raleigh. Fiona Bradford. Victoria Bradford. That makes sense. There's no way Mr. Raleigh would attend any social gathering if it didn't benefit him in some sort of way.

"That's a good idea. What dessert does she like?"

"Boston cream pie. The entire party is themed just for her."

"The theme is Boston cream pie?" That would be interesting.

"No, it's a France theme," She said and opened a cabinet and pulled out a volume labelled Desserts from a French Prodigy.

I took little time to wonder about Mrs. Raleigh's geological veracity and leapt to her side.

"So I guess we're making a Boston cream pie?" I mused.

Mrs. Raleigh gasped theatrically, pressing a hand against her neck, "And be like everyone else? How would I stand out then?"

"But you said -"

The elder woman grabbed a random stack of pages and flipped it.

"Macarons! They're expensive, hard to make, and they'll outshine even Sharon's dumb Boston cream pie!"

"They're pretty difficult to make," I warned, "I tried it when I was 14, and I used up like $30 worth of almond flour."

Mrs. Raleigh blinked at me with owlish eyes, confused. I had forgotten that $30 was like half a cent to Mrs. Raleigh.

My temple was beginning to throb. After an eight hour work shift with Mr. Raleigh, I had a feeling it would be better to just go along with it.

I nodded, "Whatever. Fine."

She beamed brightly before tugging out a cabinet bursting with hundreds of varieties of flours.

"Then let us get baking!"

hOnEsTlY? 

I think I'm having a pretty good inspiration for this book. I hope I can continue it.

I love comments, so if you like it? Comment. 

Hate it? Comment. 

Hate me? Comment. 

Hate the story so much and you wanna fight?

Meet me at the Arby's parking lot in ten minutes.

-Anna