“Adam?” Lyle and Ethan said in unison.

 “Yes, Adam—and you have to keep him a secret, too. It started out that he was a very nice and helpful friend. You know, a little glass of wine, a cell number in case I needed a hand with anything, lunch at a vineyard bistro, then...”

 They were leaning toward her. “Then...?”

 “It got a little...you know...romantic.”

 “OMG, she’s doing Adam, the love of my life,” Ethan said, swooning into Lyle.

 “Get a grip,” Lyle said. “He’s straighter than my hair.”

 “He actually is,” Emma said. “Could you get on my page here? I’m reuniting with June tonight and I need a centerpiece. A lovely centerpiece. One that says I’m grateful for everything, for accepting me without questioning about Richard’s crimes, for missing me, for welcoming me back, for still loving me.”

 “I’ve had a crush on Adam since the first day I met him,” Ethan said.

 She looked at Lyle. “What’s going on here? Is Adam his hall pass?”

 “It’s completely meaningless,” Lyle said. “Adam couldn’t be less interested in Ethan. Come on back to the playroom, Emmie. You can supervise my creation.”

 “I’d love that,” she said.

 “And why are we keeping Adam and June secret?” Lyle asked.

 “Riley is my boss and until Riley invites me to join her and the family, I’m staying back. She’s keeping me at arm’s length. Maybe someday, but not someday soon. But I so miss June.”

 “Understandable. Take your time. And tell me all about the job,” he said.

 “I told you,” she said, finding a seat on a stool.

 “Not really,” he said, digging around for the tools of his profession—clippers, tape, scissors, foam, wire. “You did some groaning and whining about how exhausted you were but no details.”

 “We’re not supposed to talk about details—the client, I am told, has an expectation of privacy.”

 “You aren’t supposed to name them, Emmie, but you can tell tales to a person you can trust. That’s me.” He grinned. Then he stepped into the refrigerator and gathered up some stems, fern and baby’s breath. “What’s it like?”

 “It’s the hardest work I’ve ever done—and remember, I helped decorate a seventy-thousand square foot department store for holidays, on my feet, lifting and hauling and climbing for sixteen hours a day. I was a lot younger then, too. It’s the hardest I’ve worked and I’m learning that to work for Riley is to get the best pay available for cleaners. Apparently clients cancel their contracts all the time and get cheaper cleaners but, because Riley and her two bulldogs, Makenna and Nick, keep everyone’s standards really high, they end up returning and paying the money to get the good work. We do good work,” she said, giving her head a shake. “Wow, do we do good work. And fast. I am appalled to note that there are so many jobs that pay better and have far less impact on the quality of life for a family. Families,” she added. “You get a feeling for what family life is like in a house right away, which homes are run by the kids who have every possession imaginable and others don’t even have family games. There are houses we clean where the wife hovers and inspects and says, ‘My husband likes it this way or that way,’ and houses I’ve cleaned four times and have yet to meet a home owner. You can pick out their nesting spot right away, the places that are used—a favorite chair, desk in the office, bathroom counter. We have one client who lies on the sofa watching TV until we get to that room, then she shifts to the bedroom. She eats all day and I’ve never seen her dressed in anything but loungewear. Some kids’ rooms have awards and pennants and group pictures, some show no sign of any siblings or friendships or group activities. Some children’s rooms are very, very sad.”

 “What makes a sad room?” he asked while he laid out a sheet of paper, placing baby’s breath on it. The little ball inside the spray paint can bounced when Lyle shook it and with a quick, deft hand, he painted the baby’s breath red.

 “That’s amazing, what you just did there,” she said.

 “Christmas colors. What’s a sad room?”

 “Well, there’s a teenager’s room that’s so pristine it hurts. It’s like a ghost room, but someone lives in it—there’s evidence of living—trash in the bin, books moved, linens slept in, laundry in the hamper, towels in the bath have been used. When I moved the desk blotter to dust I saw something carved in the wood, something her mother would never see because her mother works long hours and doesn’t clean or look at her daughter’s things. She carved, I miss her every day. I assume she carved it. They’re rich. They wouldn’t have purchased a damaged piece of furniture.”

 “Wow,” Lyle said, stopping his arranging. “Who do you think?”

 “I don’t know,” Emma said. “Could be a sibling. There are no other children’s rooms or family pictures anywhere. Maybe a friend? Grandmother? I have no idea. And you know what else, Lyle? I never realized this when I had help of my own but I realize it now. We’re invisible. I always thought of myself as very tidy but now I wonder if I prepared for the cleaning staff—did I wipe the bathroom mirror? Clean the sink? Flush? Because now I see that some people don’t.”

 “Ew,” he said. “I certainly know I do those things.”

 “I think I did. I hope I did. But a hard truth for me is—I don’t know the names of the ladies who cleaned our apartment. They changed regularly. But still...”

 “My God, you’re learning volumes about yourself. About people you don’t know.”