rupert
When Ms. Austin doesn’t appear this morning outside my window, I fear the worst. My mind has always been anxious, but not quite as acutely as when eight o’clock comes and goes, and her beat-up saloon never appears.
At first, I wonder if she is a no-show. Is this her declaration that she’s quitting already? I’ve done my best to keep my temper under control, to compliment the meals she made for me. I wanted her to stay. I wanted to breathe in her sweet smell again.
My anger flares after that, and I demand that Kellen go looking for her. From what little I’ve gleaned about Ms. Austin so far, she works hard and doesn’t seem to be the type to quit without a resignation, at least.
As eight o’clock becomes nine, I begin to panic. What ifsomething terrible has happened to her? What if her car broke down and animals in the woods got to her?
I try to remind myself that the worst she could encounter would be a rabbit or a deer, perhaps a black bear, and they tend to run away afraid from most things human. Especially me. But my thoughts won’t stop spiraling. I torment poor Kellen, insisting he call her over and over, even when he informs me that she does not, in fact, have a mobile.
Who doesn’t have a mobile in this day and age? My mystification only pisses me off further, because I hate that no one’s told me sooner. I would have paid for Ms. Austin to have a mobile if it meant I could reach her. She could be anywhere. She could be dead on a street after a mugging gone wrong.
I then have Kellen call all the GPs in the area, searching for a Ms. Peony Austin.
Peony. That’s the first time I’ve heard her name, and I will never forget it. A perfect name for a woman like her, a delicate but delicious flower.
After learning that she hasn’t appeared at any of the local clinics or morgues, I become despondent. She must have indeed decided to quit. Perhaps she found a better job with someone who isn’t so strange and reclusive. Perhaps it was something she discovered in my quarters when she cleaned yesterday. What if my mode of living is so disgusting, so reprehensible to a fine woman like her, that she couldn’t return?
That idea infuriates me even further. Fine. If she doesn’t like it, if she can’t tolerate doing her job, then I’ll sack her. I was wrong about her.
By ten o’clock, I’ve cycled between furious and worried so many times that I’m dizzy.
Finally, at eleven, she arrives. By then I’ve whipped myselfinto such a whirlwind that it takes everything I have not to rush out and confront her.
But then she would definitely quit.
Instead, I watch her out the window as she speaks to Kellen, who seems to be rather harsh with her as she stands with her hoover, shoulders curled. I wish that he hadn’t been—I will have to chastise him later for his behavior.
Cowed, Ms. Austin gathers her things and rushes inside to begin her work.
The lunch she prepares is not up to the same quality as her other meals, but I enjoy it nonetheless. That softens my heart toward her, that whatever befell her this morning seems to have set her off-balance. Perhaps it was a tragedy, a death in the family, and she had no way to contact us and let us know without a mobile.
My anxiety settles some now that she’s here and working, and I’m able to sit down and turn on the latest episode ofBig House. The meal she crafts for dinner does not disappoint, and I hope that we don’t have a repeat of today ever again.
peony
I can’t park at the Thrifty Mart anymore, obviously, and I’ll likely face the exact same sanctions if I try to station myself in a different lot. I’ve found a few public parks around town, but they also have signs saying NO OVERNIGHT PARKING. The last thing I need is to get a ticket from the cops.
That only leaves one choice. I need to find somewhere to sleep, and there’s a place I can think of where no one would ever stumble across me by accident.
That evening, instead of driving back to town, I locate atiny utility road I’d spotted the last time I came in through the woods. I take a sharp left, and my car bumps the ground as I hit uneven terrain, but she’s a trucker. I apply more gas as we head uphill, the road growing pockmarked and muddy.
Then I find a pull-off, which must be some type of utility access point. After parking, I finally let myself relax against the steering wheel.
This isn’t ideal, but it will be perfectly quiet, and hopefully someone won’t find me all the way out here. The last thing I need is for Mr. Edgewood to learn I’m squatting illegally on his property.
I push back my seat, grab my blanket, and leave the car’s dome light on as I read a book. I didn’t realize just how much anxiety had plagued me when I was parked in town, where anyone could find me in the middle of the night. Now I’m truly alone, and it’s calming.
That night, I sleep as well as I can, probably better than I’ve slept since I left Andy. I wake up when the sun rises, and my watch tells me it’s six-thirty. I should have just enough time to drive back into town for a shower before I have to be at the manor.
By the time I’ve finished up at the truck stop, I feel like a new woman, ready to take on the day.
The hours fly by as I work, making my way down the unoccupied rooms of the east wing, then getting up to the second floor by dinnertime. Mr. Castle has me make up another shopping list for him for the next week, so I spend an hour taking notes about every meal I want to make. He’s a little surprised by the ingredient list, but promises he’ll visitthe Asian supermarket for whatever he can’t get at his typical grocery store.
For a moment, it almost feels like I’m back at my old job, before I ever met Andy. Except here there’s no head chef coming up with recipes, just me, using the knowledge I have tucked away in the back of my mind to invent dishes I think Mr. Edgewood will like—that don’t use onions. It’s too bad I’ll never get to show him the glory of French onion soup or potato leek soup, but I realize I’m probably the only one with such a strong affection for soup.
Still, I decide to put potato soup on the menu alongside roast chicken thigh and broccolini for a full-featured meal. I wonder what sort of note I’ll get on that plate.
