“I saidnow,” he barks, coming into view with a fresh bottle of whiskey in hand, and I shoot to my feet.
“Yes,sir,” I mumble under my breath. At least we’re off to a great start. “Oh, and the cleaning suppl—”
“No one’s going to hold your hand, child. You do your job, so I can do mine.”
It isn’t until six hours later, when my neck is cramped and my hands are blistered, that I realize just how sincerely he meant those two simple sentences.
I am on my own.
Chapter 9
It didn’t takeas long as I expected to figure out which closet kept the cleaning products. Mr. Blackwood had no trouble at all ignoring me while I worked around him. He spent most of the day in the living room, his head buried behind books one minute and scribbling over old notepads the next. I felt like an intruder snooping around a stranger’s house, walking on eggshells and going from room to room.
The Blackwood house is oddly fascinating. It’s two stories, with five bedrooms situated on the second level, but most of the place looks entirely untouched. Three of the bedrooms aren’t even furnished, with nothing but coarse, grey carpets, cobwebbed closets, and windows that look like they’ve never been cracked. But they looked ready to be shown in an open house by the time I was done with them.
What struck me most, though, was I didn’t spot a single photograph in the house. And I was looking. No signs of the man’s history or family were to be found.
Back home, Grams and I had framed photos everywhere—sitting on bookshelves, hanging on walls, topping dressers and nightstands, decorating hallways. I never met my mother, Talli, but it was those pictures that allowed me to see her dance as a teenager in our living room, smile shyly at the camera in her blue high school graduation cap and gown, and wrap her slim arms around her pregnant tummy with a gleam in her brown eyes that told me she loved me.
It was those eyes I ran to crying when Frankie Stuller lied and told everyone in school I let him feel me up beneath the bleachers, and it was to those eyes I boasted about socking Frankie Stuller the next day. Photographs might not be the real thing, but they still offered just enough truth to steady me when I was about to fall.
Now, as I lean into the living room closet and return the last of Mr. Blackwood’s cleaning supplies, I find myself peeking at him with even more curiosity than I had when I’d first met him yesterday.
He’s hunched over the coffee table with a pair of scissors, carefully cutting into a newspaper article, and I can’t help but notice how frail he looks when he’s not grunting, drinking, or barking. His bones are thin, poking out around the edges of his frame.
I didn’t know it was possible, but he hasn’t taken a single swig of liquor in six hours—ever since he dove into whatever he’s been so focused on.
I shut the closet door with more force than necessary, hoping it’ll get his attention. Of course, it doesn’t. He didn’t even speak to go over the new contract he’d typed out for me over an hour ago. Instead he set the papers on the corner of the table with a grunt and returned to his research as I read through it all and signed at the dotted line. I didn’t mind it at the time, but now that my work for today is done, I don’t know if I’m supposed to announce that I’m leaving or if he’d prefer not to be interrupted. Eventually I decide on the latter and tiptoe toward the front door, slipping it open with the care of a mother trying not to wake her sleeping newborn.
He doesn’t look up before I close it behind me, and I don’t say a word.
The second I step out from the shelter of his porch, I’m attacked by pouring rain. It’s strong and mean, and I’m cursing myself for wearing such an ill-fitting sweatshirt. No hoodie, no umbrella.
So I hit the dirt running.
As I pass beneath a familiar line of trees, a part of me wonders if I’ll seehimagain. Feel his warmth, hear his voice. But it’s the same part of me that doesn’t know if I even want to see him or not. Really, how great of an omen could it be if Death decides to follow you around?
My thighs are burning, but my hair and clothes are drenched, so I pick up the pace. It’s times like these I wish I were a runner like Jamie. We did a 5K together once, one of those races to raise breast cancer awareness. She crossed the finish line with her head held high, part glistening goddess and part swimsuit model when she poured a light stream of water into her hair to cool down. I crossed the finish line with my skin red and blotchy, my knees wobbling, and my lungs convulsing, knocking people out of my goddamn way like a bulldozer so I could collapse in peace on the nearest bench.
I’m shivering and heaving when I arrive at the inn, leaving a trail of water with every step I take across the small lobby.
“Oh my gosh! Lou!” Claire’s mouth drops open.
“Whoa . . .” The male voice behind me is drawn out and lazy, reminding me of Dexter Freiman—a likable kid, who also happened to be the biggest pothead in my high school. He strolls into view, a young guy with dirty blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and a half-asleep look in his eyes. He closes his black umbrella as he takes me in with an expression of pure wonder. “You must really dig the rain, huh?”
“Yup,” I answer through chattering teeth. “Decided to go for a run, dressed like this, because I love it so much.”
He gives a slow and thoughtful nod, as if I’ve just stated something profound. “Nice.”
“Oh my gosh, Lou,” Claire repeats, quieter this time. She jots something down on a rectangular sheet of paper that looks like a timecard and says, “You don’t need to be catching a cold. Let’s order in for tonight.” She turns to the guy beside me. “Paul, would you hate me if I asked you to start your shift now?”
He gives another easy nod and ambles toward the desk. “Nah, that’s why I’m here, right? You go ahead. I got this.”
I’m already walking up the stairs, each step weighed down and uncomfortable with the soaked clothes sticking to my body, when Claire pops up beside me and matches my pace. “So,” she whispers, as though she’s got a secret, “I asked my mom about Mr. Blackwood today.”
I glance at her, saying nothing. I can’t deny I’m curious about what she has to say—the old man is like a puzzle, one from eBay that’s missing half its pieces. But I also feel like I’ve invaded enough of his privacy for one day.
“Well,” she continues, either not noticing my hesitation or choosing to ignore it, “she was pretty surprised he even hired you.”
