“Treacher,” I said, naming a small town on the coast.
“That’s not far at all from Bestford, just a kilometer or two.” She finished writing and handed me the paper. “Vandal and company are at a big old house. It’s supposed to be very scenic, even if the house has seen better days.”
I tucked away the paper, shaking my head a little as I did so. “I’m sure it’s charming, but like I said, I can’t quit a job when the woman hiring me is expecting me to show up. But I’ll keep it in case everything goes pear-shaped.”
“You do that.” She looked up as the train slowed as it pulled into a suburb station, and tapped quickly on her phone. “If you don’t mind, I’ll text Vandal about you. What’s your phone number?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Ah. Do you have any way to be contacted?”
I thought for a moment. “I suppose via my employer.” I gave her the name and phone number.
“Excellent.” She jumped up and grabbed her luggage, her purse, and the magazine she’d had with her. “I’ll text Vandal that you’re a possibility, but that you have to see how your other job goes first.”
“You’re really going to Ibiza?” I asked, following her to the aisle.
“I am.” She hurried down the worn aisle, stopping to look back at me, her face alight. “Sometimes, you just have to do what feels right. Good luck, Mercy.”
“Have a happy life with Geoff,” I answered, waving when she dashed down the stairs to the platform.
I reclaimed my seat, smiling when a gaggle of schoolgirls filled my compartment, chattering inanely about some pop star or other. I bit my lip during the ride to Cornwall, wondering, as the miles slipped past us, whether I couldn’t just call Mrs. Innes from the station and tell her I’d had a change of mind.
No,I told myself.You don’t want to be that person. Give the job a chance. It might lead to other things, better things, and make everything worthwhile.
I didn’t really believe the job would do anything but get me through the summer with enough money to return home to California, where I’d be in exactly the same straits I was in England, but that was the future, and if there was one thing I’d mastered, it was not to worry about what might be.
Mrs. Innes wasn’t waiting for me at the station. I stood watching the handful of people toddle off to their houses, wondering if this was a portent of things to come, or just a matter of Mrs. Innes being delayed.
After half an hour of sitting around the tiny station by myself, I went into the town, and begged a lady at a small grocery shop to let me use her phone, calling my employer to find out what I should be doing.
A woman with a distinct Eastern European accent answered. “Hallo?”
“Hi, this is Mercy Starling. Mrs. Innes was supposed to pick me up at the train station a little bit ago, but I haven’t seen any sign of her. Can you tell me if she’s on her way?”
“Mrs. Ince no here. She in Greece.”
“She’s what?” I shook my head. “She can’t be. She hired me to take care of her kids.”
“Mrs. Ince in Greece,” the woman insisted.
“But... what about the children? Jocelyn and Natalia? Are they there?” I had a wild thought that Mrs. Innes had run off to have a vacation and left her kids behind—she struck me as exactly that type of person. “I’m supposed to be tutoring them this summer.”
“Oh. Tutor.” There was a rustling of paper. “Have message for tutor. Message say no needed for three weeks. Come back then. Childrens in Greece with mama and papa.”
Anger filled me then, anger at being so unimportant to Mrs. Innes when I had just talked myself out of dumping her because she didn’t deserve to be treated that way. “Well, that solves that little dilemma,” I said aloud. I’d just drop Mrs. Innes a note saying that I appreciated the job, but couldn’t wait three weeks.
“Eh?” the shop woman said, turning from where she was helping a customer.
“Sorry, just talking aloud.” I dug out a few more coins, and laid them on the counter. “Would you mind terribly if I made another call?”
“Not at all, luv.” She scooped the coins up with a deft hand, and turned back to gossip with the lady who was waiting.
It took me a minute to dig out of my bag the scrap of paper with the number that Janna had written on it, but I dialed the number with only a minimum of grumbling under my breath.
“—to think I went to all the trouble, not to mention expense, of coming all the way to Cornwall—oh, hello. Is this Vandal?”
The voice that answered me was muffled, drowned out by the fuzzy white noise familiar to people on a busy motorway. “It is indeed. And you are?”
