It is non-negotiable that the produce be perfect—the Sterling family insists on it. When I’m not pushing my fingers into ripe peaches at Whole Foods or elbowing my way to the just unpacked English cucumbers, I am staining my hands with the sun-ripened raspberries from their Hamptons weekend home’s backyard garden.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. 

Desserts are naughty, worthy of excited whispers, and important to the Sterlings—to Mr. Sterling, Mrs. Sterling, and little Lily and Wolfson. But the ingredients are to be minimal, whole, and Goop-levels of healthy.

In a medium bowl, add 1 cup creamy peanut butter and ½ cup maple syrup. Mix the wet ingredients together until fully combined.

Eighteen-hour days and tucked into a clean twin-sized bed in the back at night, well after the spritzes are drained and the firefly let out from their Mason jars, I am their intimate co-conspirator.

While I keep them well-fed with in-season must-haves, I hear everything around me. From the sweet whispers to Lily as the nanny tugs her hair into pigtails, to the secrets that swirl through families like honey dripped into fresh mint tea.

Add ½ cup oat flour to the peanut butter mixture and stir until mixed together. 

I know Mrs. Sterling hates her sister, and only invites her to Thanksgiving because she serves both the best wine and as a buffer between the punctuated moments of tension when Mr. Sterling comments on the tackiness of the tablecloth. Mrs. Sterling dislikes, however, the way her sister sneaks the children Jolly Ranchers—all of that Red Dye 40.

Using a small cookie scoop or spoon, roll the cookie dough into 1-inch balls. Place on the prepared baking sheet with space between each cookie. You’ll end up with about 10 cookies. 

I know that the Sterlings paid a little something extra to get Wolfson into Dalton, and how they may have fudged the children’s proof of vaccination last August. They need to know every molecule that enters their children’s bodies, from shots to shellfish. My interview process had been exhaustive, the questions drowning in minutia. Did I know the correct temperature duck breast must be? Was I aware that agave syrup was a cancer? Somehow a background check evaded them. So much they never found because they didn’t peek into the proper corners. And so I collect their shiny secrets, magpie-style.

Using your thumb or the back of a small spoon, make a small indent on the balls of dough. Add 1 teaspoon of raspberry preserves to the center of each cookie. 

I know that two February’s ago, in a pristine blizzard, Mr. Sterling offered me double my rate to rent a car and leave two plates of skirt steak, fingerling potatoes, and asparagus in the chef’s fridge. I was to then drive back. A casual glance at Mrs. Sterling’s Instagram feed showed her skiing with the kids in Aspen.

Bake for 10-12 minutes, or until the edges of the peanut butter cookie are set. 

But maybe that’s all okay. Because Lily looks nothing like her father.

Leave the cookies on the baking sheet to cool for 5 minutes, then transfer to the cooling rack. 

Parts of me are everywhere in this house. My thumbprints are just the beginning. Sweat from my forehead I wipe with my hand, my tinted sunscreen streaks dishcloths I throw into the washer at the end of each day. Blood from microplaning fennel audaciously, the jammy drops that ruined my favorite jeans and colored their Italian tile.

I’m everywhere and nowhere—a closed mouth and emailed menus 4-5 days before my bright-faced arrival. A ghost who keeps them fed, changes their mind about cilantro and who knows everything. I’m paid well. I wait to bring out their shiny things. They’re nice.

They’re nice because they know I know.

Once cookies are cool, enjoy.

Arranging all ten thumbprint cookies on a stoneware ceramic plate (tasteful, austere), I serve them next to iced glasses of basil lemonade out by the pool.

I smile.

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