“Doing okay,” she answered. “How’s Liza? Baby Number Five make an appearance yet?”
“Any day now,” Paul said, handing her a stack of envelopes and catalogs. “Liza’s at that stage when she’s not talking to me. That usually means we’re close to a delivery.”
“Well, if she still hasn’t figured out what to call the new baby, I think Phylicia is a beautiful name.”
“That it is.” Paul laughed. “See you later, Phil.”
She waved as she turned and headed back toward the house, thumbing through the mail. There were two credit card offers—her current financial state must not have reached those companies yet—the bill for her auto insurance, and an advertisement for the grand opening of a dry cleaner in Maplesville.
The fifth envelope caused her heart to sputter and her breathing to escalate. Phil stared at the return address, dread suffusing her bones. A weight settled in her stomach as she reentered the house and went into the kitchen. Stalling, she tossed the mail on the bar and refilled her coffee cup.
Leaning a hip against the counter, Phil eyed the envelope from Mossy Oaks Care Facility. She already knew what it contained. She’d received an envelope just like it about a month ago, with a letter stating that the rising cost of health care was forcing the facility to increase its rates across the board. Even with the money from her dad’s life insurance policy, Phil was still paying nearly a thousand dollars out of her own pocket every month for her mother’s care. She couldn’t afford several hundred more.
But she couldn’t afford not to pay it, either.
It was nothing short of a miracle that one of the South’s most renowned care facilities for dementia patients was located just twenty miles southeast, in Slidell. It was ludicrous to even consider moving her mom from Mossy Oaks.
Phil swallowed the lump of worry that lodged in her throat as she set the cup on the counter and reached for the envelope. She opened it, finding exactly what she knew would be there. The increase had been approved by the facility’s board of directors and would take effect next month.
Where was she going to find this money?
Her cell phone trilled. Phil picked it up and recognized the number of the caretaker of the house on St. Charles Avenue.
She glanced up at the ceiling and whispered, “Thank you, Lord,” as she answered it.
But instead of answered prayers, Phil had her heart broken into bite-size chunks. The caretaker’s apologetic tone was nearly as hard to stomach as the words she spoke.
“I’m sorry, Miss Phillips, but Marshall Restoration’s bid was significantly less than yours, even with the cost of shipping the furniture to their California warehouse.”
“But aren’t you afraid the furniture will get damaged in transit?” Phil asked.
“The furniture is insured,” was the woman’s response.
As if that mattered!
It wasn’t about the money, Phil wanted to shout. It was about potentially endangering irreplaceable, centuries-old furniture. There shouldn’t be a price tag on that. But apparently there was, and it was lower than the eight thousand dollars Phil had bid on the work.
Before ending the call, she asked that she be kept in mind for other work they might need in the future. Phil slouched over the bar, her head landing with a thump on her forearm. The disappointment was almost too much to bear.
As much as she loved her work, she wished she could count on a steady paycheck. When she did get paid, it was usually enough to live on for several months, depending on the size of the job. But her last big project had been back in the spring, and repairing an old radio or the occasional antique headboard was not going to cut it. She needed a long-term project, something that would provide enough income to last her until one of the other bids hopefully came through.
She knew of one job that would fit the bill, but Lord knew she did not want to take it.
“No, no,no,” she whispered, her whine muffled by her arm.
There had to be another option.
Phil glanced toward the hallway, thinking of the Hepplewhite furniture in her guest bedroom. The set had been passed down in her family for generations. She knew if she had it appraised by one of the antique dealers in New Orleans it would fetch a hefty sum, but after losing Belle Maison she couldn’t stomach parting with the few pieces of furniture she’d managed to retain. With her mother’s mind slowly slipping away, they were the only ties she had left to her past.
“Oh, God,” Phil moaned. She would have to accept Jamal’s job offer. She was in no position to turn down work.
She pushed herself up and drained the rest of the coffee from her mug. If it were not still midmorning, she would have been tempted to refill the mug with whiskey. But alcohol wouldn’t solve anything. She’d allowed herself to fall into this hole. She would have to be the one to claw herself out.
Phil quickly changed into a pair of jeans. In her never-ending quest to hold fast to her femininity, she donned a pair of tiny, butterfly-shaped earrings before scooping her hair into a ponytail. Filling her dad’s old thermos with the remaining coffee, she grabbed her keys and headed out the door.
Fingers of dread crept further up her spine with every mile her tires ate up on the road. By the time she arrived at the stately yellow-and-white Victorian where she grew up, Phil was on the verge of losing her breakfast.
This was going to be torture. Plain and simple.
