“Everything Girl.”
Her days hardly veered from the routine: arrive at Mr. Vanderzee’s at precisely six a.m., start his coffee (he’d given her a limitless allowance to spend in his kitchen, and after a rather exciting month of experimenting, she’d mastered a coffee brew so perfect Mr. Vanderzee said it should take over every coffee chain in America), lay out his clothes, make him breakfast, drive him to the office in a Rolls-Royce far too exquisite for her taste, return to Vanderzee Mansion, clean, clean, and clean some more, be at his beck and call in case certain errands needed running or impossible things needed to be asked of her, return to the office at the end of the day to drive him home, and finally, cook his dinner.
Sometimes he would even let her eat with him. It wasn’t until after he finished and the dishes washed that she was free to go home. When she had been in nursing school, her days would end after picking him up from the office, but to Mr. Vanderzee’s dismay and delight, she’d needed more money to pay for Willem’s rehab. Mr. Vanderzee was always opposed to the way she came to Willem’s rescue, but he also loved her cooking, more than anything else she did, and couldn’t deny her request to work through the evening if it meant another meal cooked by his Everything Girl. Her days were long and exhausting, and at every moment she felt pulled in every direction; but being on Mr. Vanderzee’s payroll made taking care of Willem possible.
The peculiar old man had a curved spine and liver spots atop his bald head. He was welcoming and at the same time cold. He loved her and at the same time despised her. He kept a watchful eye as though she might turn on him at any moment, yet he not only trusted her in his kitchen— her kitchen, as he now called it—he trusted her with his most personal and favored of all assets: his bank accounts.
He was the founder and CEO of a global accounting firm, as well as an entrepreneur who, in his younger years, began many companies he still held shares in today. Or so the rumors went. He was known as one of the wealthiest businessmen in the western United States, and highly respected—or feared—by most. But there was one thing Elizabeth had always found odd in his trust of her. He had a countless supply of experienced and ingenious accountants readily available at the tips of his fingers, yet Elizabeth managed his money. Elizabeth, who knew nothing of money and had never cared to. She had told him this in the beginning, but he insisted. He gave her strict directions about what went where and when, but that was all he’d ever said on the matter, other than, “I trust you, Elizabeth.” And she was the only one he trusted. No one touched his accounts, most of the time not even him. With someone like her, he said—someone naïve on the matter—he didn’t need to worry about scandals and misdeeds.
And here she was, sitting at his oversized dining table that looked more like a conference table, imagining how simple it would be to do as her brother asked: steal from her trusting employer, Mr. Vanderzee.
Really, it would be simple. He had three accounts, one of which had always struck her as odd. It never served a purpose she could see. He never wanted anything withdrawn and never spoke a word of its function. Like a second savings account, it only accumulated money. It was his smallest, barely 1.2 million—chump change in comparison to his other accounts, which themselves were chump change to the wealth he had invested. And never did he keep tabs on it; never did he give it a second thought. Her instructions were simple, and as long as she kept adding to it, he never laid eyes on it. Even the bank trusted her with Mr. Vanderzee’s money—with his life. It was her they associated with Mr. Vanderzee’s accounts, her they let make every decision. If money needed to be withdrawn or transferred, no one would ask.
She’d never stolen a cent in her
Her days hardly veered from the routine: arrive at Mr. Vanderzee’s at precisely six a.m., start his coffee (he’d given her a limitless allowance to spend in his kitchen, and after a rather exciting month of experimenting, she’d mastered a coffee brew so perfect Mr. Vanderzee said it should take over every coffee chain in America), lay out his clothes, make him breakfast, drive him to the office in a Rolls-Royce far too exquisite for her taste, return to Vanderzee Mansion, clean, clean, and clean some more, be at his beck and call in case certain errands needed running or impossible things needed to be asked of her, return to the office at the end of the day to drive him home, and finally, cook his dinner.
Sometimes he would even let her eat with him. It wasn’t until after he finished and the dishes washed that she was free to go home. When she had been in nursing school, her days would end after picking him up from the office, but to Mr. Vanderzee’s dismay and delight, she’d needed more money to pay for Willem’s rehab. Mr. Vanderzee was always opposed to the way she came to Willem’s rescue, but he also loved her cooking, more than anything else she did, and couldn’t deny her request to work through the evening if it meant another meal cooked by his Everything Girl. Her days were long and exhausting, and at every moment she felt pulled in every direction; but being on Mr. Vanderzee’s payroll made taking care of Willem possible.
The peculiar old man had a curved spine and liver spots atop his bald head. He was welcoming and at the same time cold. He loved her and at the same time despised her. He kept a watchful eye as though she might turn on him at any moment, yet he not only trusted her in his kitchen— her kitchen, as he now called it—he trusted her with his most personal and favored of all assets: his bank accounts.
He was the founder and CEO of a global accounting firm, as well as an entrepreneur who, in his younger years, began many companies he still held shares in today. Or so the rumors went. He was known as one of the wealthiest businessmen in the western United States, and highly respected—or feared—by most. But there was one thing Elizabeth had always found odd in his trust of her. He had a countless supply of experienced and ingenious accountants readily available at the tips of his fingers, yet Elizabeth managed his money. Elizabeth, who knew nothing of money and had never cared to. She had told him this in the beginning, but he insisted. He gave her strict directions about what went where and when, but that was all he’d ever said on the matter, other than, “I trust you, Elizabeth.” And she was the only one he trusted. No one touched his accounts, most of the time not even him. With someone like her, he said—someone naïve on the matter—he didn’t need to worry about scandals and misdeeds.
And here she was, sitting at his oversized dining table that looked more like a conference table, imagining how simple it would be to do as her brother asked: steal from her trusting employer, Mr. Vanderzee.
Really, it would be simple. He had three accounts, one of which had always struck her as odd. It never served a purpose she could see. He never wanted anything withdrawn and never spoke a word of its function. Like a second savings account, it only accumulated money. It was his smallest, barely 1.2 million—chump change in comparison to his other accounts, which themselves were chump change to the wealth he had invested. And never did he keep tabs on it; never did he give it a second thought. Her instructions were simple, and as long as she kept adding to it, he never laid eyes on it. Even the bank trusted her with Mr. Vanderzee’s money—with his life. It was her they associated with Mr. Vanderzee’s accounts, her they let make every decision. If money needed to be withdrawn or transferred, no one would ask.
She’d never stolen a cent in her
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