I open the Red Lake Chronicle—the local paper—and scanthe scarce wanted ads. Most jobs are online. I could risk popping into the library and using a computer, but everyone wants a contact number or at least an email address, and I have neither. I sigh and lay the paper down next to me and pop open the can of soda. Time for a sugar boost.
Hairdresser, no. Not unless you need it shaved or were happy with a shop bought color. Avoiding customer facing jobs is preferable. The more people I have contact with, the greater the risk of discovery. So bar and restaurant work isn’t ideal. My finger pauses on a set of bold words. Help Needed. Okay, I’m helpful.Personal support worker for busy retiree required. Experience is not essential, but must have great organizational skills, be able to cook, and have a sense of humor.
That’s me. I can do those things. My sense of humor is buried deep inside of me, but I’m sure I can find it. There’s a landline number to call. My gaze snaps to the public pay phone across the parking lot, like the universe is sending me all the signals.Fuck it.I can’t live in the back of this van forever.
I blinkat the white mini mansion. The female busy retiree snapped an address at me and told me to be there in less than an hour before hanging up. No request for information or pleasantries, and because I have zero options, I find my way to the home after asking a few locals for directions.
Stepping out of my van, I trot up the few stone steps to the double doors. I raise my fist to knock, but it flies open. A woman in her mid-forties, dressed in a pencil skirt and cream blouse, eyeballs me. She turns her nose up at me. Oh boy, this isn’t going well.
I hold my hand out. “Hi, I’m?—”
“Don’t speak to her,” a voice snaps behind the woman. “And if you are another gold-digging woman who thinks you can worm your way into my home and get written into my will, you can turn your ass right around and disappear.”
My mouth falls open as the woman sneers. “Good luck with the cantankerous old bitch. If you value your sanity, you won’t even step foot inside this house.”
“I’m not surprised you didn’t get the job with that kind of attitude. She clearly has the uncanny ability to cut through your bullshit pristine appearance to the rot underneath. Expensive clothes and perfectly applied makeup don’t make you beautiful, they make you a liar.”
She huffs as she barges past me, checking my shoulder on her way out. I scan my outfit. Three day-old dirty jeans, a stained and wrinkly Mickey Mouse T-shirt, and I’m pretty sure I smell. I take a step back from the open door. What am I thinking? The type of person who lives in a house like this will never hire me.
A slight woman with a sharply-cut angled bob of light blonde hair appears in the doorway. She’s dressed in navy tailored slacks and a white cashmere sweater with a colorful red silk scarf tied at her neck. Her dark brown eyes scan me from head to toe, but not in the same manner as the woman who left. This is with the keen gaze of someone who has met every type of person and can judge them accurately.
I swing my thumb over my shoulder. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’ll see myself out.”
She folds her arms. “If you have that kind of fire for someone you’ve never met, you pass the first test. Follow me, unless you have somewhere else to be?”
She turns on her heel, revealing the red soles of her pumps, and disappears around a corner. I glance at my van, then the open door. The urge to retreat is strong, but I can’t keep this up for much longer. Dragging in a fortifying breath, I breach thethreshold and close the door behind me. The interior is stunning. Warm, inviting, and carefully designed not for show, but to reflect the personality of the owner. Each piece of art is a study of fire and determination. It’s not to impress, it’s to express. I follow her trail through a sitting area and under an arch into a massive modern kitchen. Black and white is the theme, with chrome accessories placed on the countertops.
She waves a hand at the breakfast bar. “Take a seat.”
I slide onto a cushioned stool and grimace at the plethora of resumes laid out before me. I don’t have any employment history I can comfortably tell her about, and lying to this woman is pointless. She puts a kettle on the stove and selects two china teacups before turning to me as she folds her arms and leans against the sink.
“You aren’t local.”
I shake my head and twist my hands in my lap. “No, ma’am.”
“Helen.” She raises a brow and waits for me to respond in kind.
“Cleo.”
Her gaze studies my face for a full minute. “No, you’re not. But I’ll accept it for now.” I glance at the door to my left. I should leave. This is a mistake. “Don’t do that. I’m not prying, merely informing you I will know if you lie.”
“Understood.”
“Do you have a resume?”
I shake my head and glance at the expensive paper before me. “No. I’ll leave.”
“Why?”
“Excuse me?”
“I question if you have a resume, and you gave me an honest answer and now you are leaving. Why?”
I wave my hand in front of me. “I can’t compete.”
“But you aren’t aware of the parameters of the competition.”
I pick the top one. “Rose Hunter. Trained nurse, chef, and experience as an executive assistant.”
