“Oooma. Okay? You happy now?”
Right. Thrilled.
Without answering, Uma allowed herself the tiniest of smiles as she turned on the faucet and tested the temperature before rinsing her boss’s hair.
Happy? No. Not even close. But satisfied? Certainly. And maybe a little bit hopeful that things could get better.
She’d just have to wait to see how it played out.
10
After what Uma came to think of as “The Standoff,” Ms. Lloyd was surprisingly agreeable. In fact, she was in superfine fettle the next day. Probably because Uma let her win at cards. Their truce was friendly, and after all was said and done, she might one day grow to like the old bird. Stranger things had happened.
After a morning spent shopping, Uma went to the kitchen to prepare what she had dubbed their “Leftover Lunch.” Today, it was tuna melts, using what remained from last night’s tuna casserole. At the store, she’d realized that her culinary upbringing may have had more of an influence on her than she liked to admit, prompting her to make slight changes to the menu.
From her bag, she pulled ingredients probably fresher than anything this kitchen had ever seen and got to prepping.
“What’s that you’re washing?” Ms. Lloyd asked distrustfully from a spot close behind her. Her large breast nudged Uma’s elbow in a way that felt oddly familiar, strangely comforting, almost maternal.
Of course the woman wouldn’t recognize lettuce if it wasn’t iceberg. “Lettuce. I thought I’d make a salad today with our sandwiches.”
“And that. What’s that?” She pointed.
“That?”For the love of God.“It’s bread.”
“Bread? Doesn’t look like it. What kind of bread is that?”
“Whole grain, I think. I got it at the bakery in town this morning.” Uma kept her voice light.
“Where’s my Wonder?” Ms. Lloyd whined.
“This is healthier.”
“Well, I won’t eat it. Looks like cardboard.”
“Dr. Oz says we have to eat grains. And greens too. You heard him.”
“White bread’s a grain.”
“White bread is sugar. Just try it. One time, and if you don’t like it, I’ll leave it alone.”
Ms. Lloyd was quiet for a moment, then came out with a grumpy “hmph,” a sound perfected through years of overuse.
After setting the table, Uma ran out back and picked a few big branches of rosemary from the herb garden beside Ivan’s house. It might not be floral, but it smelled good. She placed them on the table in the only vase she could find that didn’t already contain a dried flower arrangement. Porcelain, with a crying clown, diamonds on its tights. She turned its face to the wall.
The table looked as nice as it was going to. Her photographer’s eye enjoyed the bright greens dotted with red splashes of radicchio, tuna, and crusty bread topped with white cheddar instead of the artificial yellow cheese her boss favored. Overall, it was an enormous improvement upon every other meal they’d shared.
The women sat and ate quietly. Well, Uma ate quietly—the Black Widow huffed and puffed and whined, poking at her food, but eventually ended up eating every single crumb on her plate. Uma held back a smile of satisfaction.
“So,” she said, clearing the dishes from the table, “did you enjoy your lunch?”
“Disgusting. Next time I ask for groceries, you’d better get memygroceries, or I’m docking your pay. Oooma.” She moved off to the living room to watch her stories.
Uma smiled.
* * *
That evening, Uma was washing up after dinner when someone knocked at the door.
