The front door opens before I even open mine.
A woman steps out onto the porch and starts down the steps, moving with calm and purpose.
She’s older—maybe late fifties or early sixties—with silver streaks in dark hair worn in a loose bun. She’s dressed simply, but everything about her looks put-together and intentional. Black slacks. A soft white blouse. Comfortable shoes. No jewelry except a thin chain at her neck.
Her eyes land on me and soften slightly.
“Ms. Crawford?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say automatically. “Hi.”
She smiles, small and polite.
“I’m Marisol,” she says. Her voice has a gentle accent I can’t place immediately. “Mr. Conti told me you’d be coming.”
Of course he did.
My throat tightens anyway.
“Okay,” I manage. “I— um. I brought groceries.”
I gesture toward the trunk.
Marisol’s gaze flicks to the car, and she nods once, like that makes perfect sense.
“I’ll help,” she says, already stepping forward.
“Oh no, you don’t have to,” I say quickly.
“I want to,” she says, smiling softly.
I fidget nervously with my fingers.
“Thank you,” I say and step to the car to open the trunk. I clear my throat. “He’s… not home?”
“Not yet,” she says, lifting two bags like they’re nothing. “He called to let me know you would be here. You’re welcome to use the kitchen.”
My cheeks heat.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I’m—I don’t want to… I don’t want to mess anything up. I know how this sounds. Like I’m just showing up and—”
Marisol pauses and looks at me fully, and there’s something in her expression that makes me stop talking.
Not judgment. Not amusement.
Just calm.
“Everything is at your disposal,” she says. “These were strict instructions from Mr. Conti.”
I swallow back another sudden bout of nerves.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Thank you.”
She nods, then heads inside with the groceries. I grab the rest and follow her up the steps and through the door.
The warmth hits first.
