There it is again. That unnatural snort-chuckle sound.

"Oh" Elly says between breaths, "Oh, Hope, you're just too funny---"

She slams her hand on the quartz counter, a bit of her wine (which perfectly matches the color of her face) splashing out of her glass as she stabilizes her laugh.

She sounds like a suffocating monkey.

Her eyes glance down at the maroon spill on the floor and gasps.

"Oh, I am so sorry---"

Hope smiles. "No, you're alright! I'll take care of it."

She reaches forward on the island and grabs a paper towel, watching ne as I do so. "Watch your fingers, sweetheart!"

I look down and sure enough, my hands are dangerously close to the knife. I shuffle them and continue slicing the carrots.

The paper towel grazes Hope's stomach, which seems to be Elly's reminder to put her pushover attitude on again.

"No, let me! You should be careful you know."

Hope rolls her eyes playfully. "Yeah, yeah..."

"Did you know that too much exercise for a pregnant woman can cause premature birth?" Her voice strains and unstrains as she dramatically leans down to wipe the floor an comes back up. "I learned that the other day."

Hope clenches her bump, eyebrow twisting nervously. "Oh..."

That's Elly for you. Would you believe that this witch-like, physically and mentally, is Hope's cousin?

I first met her at last year's Thanksgiving, the same year I was first hired. Fresh out of culinary school with many Top Chef rejection emails, I eagerly grabbed the private chef deal in the shiny OC.

Hope is a golden-mained mare with a sort of glow to her. She and her husband, Dylan, are the richest people I've ever met, yet ten times nicer than what they say rich people are.

But the rest of Hope's family? Even richer and even more like how you'd expect.

Thanksgiving brought a slight chill that could only slightly beat SoCal's usual heat, and also the rest of the Fosters to Hope's house. As the only cook in the house, I was tasked with feeding 25 adults and 8 children all by myself. Easily the most stressful thing I've ever done, but I got it done.

The dinner begins and everyone walks single file in and out of the kitchen, filling their plates and then sitting down in the backyard. Most people don't acknowledge me, not even when I offer to put food on their plates for them.

When it is Elly's turn, she stops for a bit and watches me put the pie in the oven. I turn around and see her psycho eyes stare me down. Everyone behind her is pissed.

"Excuse me, do you speak English?"

"...Yes. What can I help you with."

"Oh," her naisly voice rings out. She looks shocked. Why would she be?

"Well I was wondering when the pie would be ready?" A pale, bony finger points to the oven, giving me a glance at her poorly done manicure.

"About another 45 to 50 minutes, ma'am, now please move up the line."

"Oh," she said again, this time sound offended. Why would she be offened?

While the pie is cooking and everyone is sat down, I scan the crowd to look for that woman, trying to find out what gave her the audacity to say something like that.

It's easy to find her. Her yellow teeth are accentuated by the string lights outdoors. They seem to be tilting in different directions and have a smear of lipstick on them, like ketchup on mustard. Her hair is dry, dead, and could easily be mistaken for buried with its mud-like color, and the outrageous amount of hairspray can't hide that.

She gets too physical with people, who lean away with her touch. She'll say something and people will cringe. Some people even whisper and point at her.

I realize then: I shouldn't care about what this woman says, because no one does.

Everyone except Hope Foster.

When she told me her cousin, who "really isn't all that bad" and "lovely once you get to know her", was moving in as her doula, I laughed. Genuinely. She did not like it.

All of that to say, it's been 4 months and I'm sick of seeing Elly's pig-whale-witch face.

But at least there's Hope.