“I manage just fine,” Mrs. Finnamore says. There’s a distinctly stubborn edge to her voice.
My shoulders sag. “Then I can’t take your daughter’s money. No, I mean it. It wouldn’t be right. She paid me to be a caregiver.”
Mrs. Finnamore watches me for a long moment. So long, in fact, that I sneak a glance at her wall clock to make sure I’m not going to be late for work. I don’t rush her, though. I’ve found that some older people need a little time to gather their thoughts. I think that’s why a lot of young people get so impatient with them. But I don’t mind waiting. I take a few sips of my tea and take another chocolate biscuit.
“I suppose you could get the groceries,” Mrs. Finnamore says finally. “They keep that store far too cold.”
I nod. “I can do that.” I hesitate, then add, “What about setting out your medicines? Debra seemed pretty worried about them.”
Mrs. Finnamore lets out a harsh breath through her nose. “Debra’s worried about everything. But if it’ll stop her fussing, I suppose.”
I nod. “Anything else? Laundry, maybe?”
She eyes me. “Do you know how to do laundry properly?”
“Er... yes.” She looks so doubtful that I glance down at my clothes, suddenly worried I have a huge stain or something.
“I’ve got a new machine,” she says. “It’s very complicated to use.”
“I’m sure I can sort it out. I mean, if it would be helpful.”
She hesitates and then nods. “Fine.”
“What about meals? And dishes?”
I realize right away I’ve pushed too far. Mrs. Finnamore’s mouth tightens at the edges. “For goodness’ sake, I’m not aninvalid. I’m perfectly capable of making my own meals. And I’ve seen what you young girls think meals are, all that microwaveable nonsense and pasta from a box. No, thank you.”
I hide a smile. “Fair enough.” I look around her pristine house again. I wonder how much time it takes her to keep everything clean like this, and how often she gets out of the house. “We should go out once a week, too,” I add determinedly, “to do something fun in town.”
She looks skeptical. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. There’s a museum on Main Street I’ve been meaning to go to since I moved here.”
Mrs. Finnamore raises an eyebrow. “What on earth could they make a museum about in Waldon?”
“Oh, c’mon,” I say encouragingly. “It’ll be fun. A girls’ outing on Debra’s dime. It’s supposed to be rainy tomorrow, we could go then. Rainy days are the best for museums.”
She looks at me—a bit pityingly, I might add—and then grudgingly relents. “If you really want to. I think my old friend Jim works there.”
“There you go,” I say brightly, then rise to my feet. “I should get to work. Thanks for the tea.”
I sing along with the radio as I drive to the shop. I can’t believe I’m going to make two hundred and fifty dollars a week just to help out a cool old lady. Think of all the interesting stories I’ll hear! I make a mental note to ask Mrs. Finnamore if she remembers where she was during the moon landing. In fact, maybe today I’ll do a little research about the fifties and sixties, when Mrs. Finnamore would have been around my age, and make a list of interesting questions to ask her. I want to make sure she has a good time on our outing, and like I said on my date with Arjun, there’s nothing people like more than talking about themselves. Whether they’re thirty years old or ninety years old, the rule still holds true.
When I arrive at the shop, John is at the front desk talking on the cordless phone. He’s frowning heavily, like he’s annoyed with whatever he’s hearing. He wanders off as soon as I come in without so much as a nod of acknowledgment—thanks, John—and I sneak a glance at the number on the phone dock. He’s talking to the shop owner, Fred.
Huh.
I’ve never seen Fred and John interact, but I have occasionally wondered if they don’t get along. I’ve heard John complain about the state of some of the garage equipment, and when Fred popped into the shop the other day he made a few weirdly defensive comments when he was checking the books, like, “See? Plenty of business. If it’s not broke, don’t fix it, Emily. That’s what I always say.”
I hesitate for a few moments, then surreptitiously rise to my feet and drift toward the hallway. Just to stretch my legs, you know.
Coincidentally, it allows me to hear a few snippets of John’s conversation.
“I really think—no, but—” An impatient sigh. “No, I realize that, I’m just saying—”
Man, I haven’t heard John sound this angry since that time a customer asked him to paint their Volkswagen Beetle bright pink. (I believe his exact words were “You want to pay me to make your stupid car look even stupider?”)
“Fine. No, fine,” John snaps.
