The first thing I did was not pick up a broom.
I walked out onto the back deck. I turned on the ceiling fan. I sat down at the patio table in the shade, opened my laptop, and pulled up a search.
High-end residential cleaning services. Destin, Florida. Same-day availability.
The first company was booked solid. The second one picked up on the third ring.
“I’ve got a four-bedroom beach house,” I said. “About twenty-eight hundred square feet. It needs a full deep clean. Floors, kitchen, three bathrooms, bedrooms, laundry. It’s in very rough shape.”
“How rough?”
I looked through the sliding glass door at the frying pan balanced on the cereal bowl.
“Send your best people.”
She quoted me a four-person crew. Three to four hours. Four hundred and fifty dollars.
“Can they be here by one-thirty?”
“We can do two.”
“Perfect.”
Next, I called a catering company. The one with the best reviews in the area.
“I need a full dinner for ten,” I said. “Delivered, set up, and served on a back patio. Six o’clock sharp. Tonight.”
The event coordinator was quiet for a second. “Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
She walked me through the options. A coastal menu. Shrimp cocktail and crab-stuffed mushrooms to start. Sweet corn chowder. Grilled ribeye steaks. Fresh mahi-mahi with mango salsa. Roasted seasonal vegetables. Buttered pasta for the kids. Key lime pie for dessert. Two servers. Linens. Real plates.
“Total comes to six hundred and fifty dollars,” she said.
“Perfect,” I said again.
I want to be clear about something. I’m not a reckless person. I don’t spend money I’m not authorized to spend.
So before I booked anything, I covered myself. I sent Rodrigo a text.
The cleaning and dinner for everyone are going to be expensive. Are you confirming I should use your card to get this handled?
His reply came three minutes later.
Yes. Whatever it takes. We’re getting on the boat. Stop asking me about every little thing.
I took a screenshot. I saved it to my cloud drive. Then I saved it again to my email.
Then I booked both services using his credit card.
At two o’clock, a white commercial van pulled into the driveway. Four women got out with industrial vacuums, steam mops, and big plastic caddies full of cleaning supplies.
The crew leader was a woman about fifty named Teresa. She walked into the kitchen, took one long look around, and raised her eyebrows.
“Two-week vacation here?” she asked.
“Not for me,” I said cheerfully.
She looked at me. She looked at the notebook on the counter with the chore schedule. She read it upside down.
Then she looked back at me and gave a slow nod. Like a woman who understood exactly what was going on.
“Honey,” she said, “go sit outside. We’ve got this.”
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
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