I shake my head. I truly was starting to think Claire was the only employee working here.
She shrugs and says, “Probably because he’s usually late, and he works the night shift most of the time anyway.”
“Well, I ask because I’m thinking of checking out some of the restaurants around here and I’d rather not be the only total loser eating alone on a Friday night.” I’m lying. Dinner out wasn’t originally part of tonight’s plan, and I couldn’t care less about eating alone or what other people think of it. But it’s obvious the girl could use some company, and I have to admit I could really use it, too. “Think you’d be up for it?”
She perks up, her smile finally beginning to reach her eyes. “Really?”
I nod in answer. She sets her phone down and looks upward in thought. “Okay, let’s see. What do you like? If you’re willing to venture outside Ashwick a bit, we can find Italian, Chinese, Thai, Mexican . . .”
I can’t help but feel a bit better as I watch her bounce back to her sunny demeanor while she rattles off the various options. “I’m good with a burger and fries if you are.”
“Done.” She beams. “I’ll text Paul to make sure he gets here on time.”
Speaking of being on time, a quick glance at the clock reminds me to get going. I give her a smile and turn toward the door. “See you then.”
“Have a good first day!” She waves a wide, bubbly goodbye.
I don’t think I’ll ever grow fond of walking, but it’s not so bad today. Not so creepy at least, now that I’ve been inside the Blackwood house. It’s kind of hard to be terrified of a man whose only weapons are a cane, stale food, and notepads, and it certainly wasn’t what I’d expected to find when I stepped inside yesterday. I still don’t know if I’ll actually go through with accepting the job, though. Yes, I need the money, but my conversation with Mr. Blackwood seemed strange. One second he was telling me to get the hell out and the next he was hiring me as a housekeeper.
This time when I approach the heavy iron gates, I swing them open without pause and stroll down the winding path until I climb the few steps to his front door. I can hear the doorbell’s high-pitched ring from the outside. It doesn’t take long before the door swings open, and a familiar grunt sounds from inside.
I don’t know what his thing is for abandoning the door before I can see him, but it definitely ups the creepy factor a notch.
I step into the living room, close the door behind me, and watch Mr. Blackwood settle onto the sofa. He doesn’t bother to remove the crinkled sheets of newspaper littered over the cushions as he does so, and it makes for a loud and uncomfortable sight when he plops down, drink in hand. When he says nothing, I lower myself into the recliner before him, scooting a worn notepad aside before I crush it.
“Tallulah Adaire,” he grumbles, almost to himself. His grey hair somehow manages to look even stringier today than it did yesterday, and his wool sweatshirt smells of whiskey.
“Lou,” I remind him.
He ignores me and takes a swig. “Tell me something.Lou.” His wrinkled eyes are aimed downward, centered on the glass, his wrist rotating the drink so it sloshes around. “What year were you born?”
It’s an odd way to ask how old I am, but I answer smoothly. “Nineteen ninety-five.”
“Ninety-five . . . Christ, I’m old.” He stays focused on his drink, but the distant look on his tired face tells me his thoughts are elsewhere. After a pause long enough to make me shift in my seat, he finally looks up and mutters, “Three days a week. I don’t care which days you pick as long as you stay out of my way while I work.”
I glance around the room again, wondering what the man actually does for a living. No one’s mentioned it, but judging by the size of this property he’s done well for himself. “What is it that you do?”
He lets out another grunt. “Research. Now how much do you need to make?”
“Oh.” I wasn’t prepared for the blunt question. When Dr. Gregorian hired me at the chiropractic office in LA, they set my salary, no questions asked. “I’m not sure what the standard rate for housekeeping is.”
“That wasn’t my question,” he mutters before downing the remaining liquid and all but slamming the glass on the coffee table. “How much do you need to make?”
Why didn’t I prepare for this? I don’t know if he’s being patient or if he’s too wasted to care, but he doesn’t pressure me while I calculate the costs in my head. It’s a large property and a filthy one at that, so I’m assuming the days will be long. But I don’t need much, and this town’s dirt cheap. Mostly though, I don’t want to charge an old man any more than I need to. “Um, seventy-five dollars per cleaning?”
“Six hundred bucks a week,” he replies without hesitation.
“But that’s—”
“You clean what you want, go where you need, but don’t touch the damn papers.” He looks me right in the eye, his stubby index finger pointed for emphasis and voice sharp as a knife. “Do not touch a single piece of paper in this house. Do you understand?”
I doubt my expression is doing much to hide the confusion I feel at the strange instructions, but I nod. When his aged eyes narrow in response, I add, “Okay. I won’t touch any papers. But Mr. Blackwood . . .”
He doesn’t wait for me to finish before pushing himself up from the sofa and heading into the kitchen. “Mr. Blackwood,” I repeat. “Your offer. That’s two-hundred dollars a day, just to clean.”
“I know how to count,” he slurs from the other side of the wall. “I’ll draw up an agreement for you to sign by the end of the day. Otherwise, you’re on the clock starting now.”
Now? My back is stiff, hands clasping around my knees and fingers drumming anxiously. I shouldn’t be so on edge; I’m not an anxious person. But I’ve never been hired to do housework before, and the fact that he’s offering a novice like me more than double of what I’m fairly certain he should pay makes me uncomfortable. And what’s up with the freaking papers? They’re on the sofas, coffee table, and some are even on the carpet. I even spy a few white sheets wadded up on the dusty bookshelf across the room.
