Page 30 of Matteo

There’s no point in hiding anything from Arthur. He's always had a knack for getting to the heart of things fast.

“Just a vibe I got from the place.”

“But this was your third interview,” he says, eyeing the plate of goodies.

“You don't miss a thing, do you?”

“Not when it comes to your life, Lizzie.”

“I was going to drop some of these at the old people's center later. Are you and Irene going?”

“Why, of course we are. We'll pop in later this afternoon. I can take them for you, if you like.”

“That would be lovely. Let me put a little box together for you and Irene.” While the tea brews, I put some of my baked goods into a small plastic container. “How's Irene doing?”

“Enjoying the film. Fred Astaire was her favorite.”

“I have no idea who he is.”

“You haven't lived.”

“Apparently not.”

“I hope you meet a good, decent, hard-working beau. Someone who'll look after you.”

I frown. “I can look after myself, Arthur.” He doesn't often bring this up. I'm assuming he knows I'm single because I've never had anyone over, and I've also never stayed away. I'm always here. Alone.

“I just don't want you to be lonely, Lizzie.”

I force a chuckle. “I'm not lonely, Arthur. I have you and Irene.” I pour hot water into the cups and give them a good stir.

“We won't be here forever, Lizzie.” His voice turns soft, and his words crack something in my heart. Tears well up in my eyes as I rush to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Nonsense,” I manage to croak out. I can't think of Arthur and Irene being any place else other than across the hall from me.

He puts his hand over mine. “Not nonsense, Lizzie. We're old—”

“Stop, Arthur. Don't.” I swallow hard against the lump in my throat, steeling myself against the tears threatening to spill over. The thought of them not being in my life hurts more than I can bear. I found my family, and it breaks my heart that I found them so late, in their twilight years.

I don't want to think about it or talk about it.

He pats my hand reassuringly. “We haven't finished talking about your job interview,” he says, ever vigilant. “You were so excited before, Lizzie. Why are you having doubts now? Did the interview not go well?”

“I thought it went really well.”

“Then?” he pushes, but I busy myself with adding milk to the tea.

“Don't you like the people there?” His voice is muffled as he chews a muffin.

“Uh ... they were okay, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” He stops chewing and examines my face. “Who interviewed you?”

I keep stirring.

“What's going on, sweetheart?” he asks, when I've still said nothing.

I pull out the teabags, give the tea a stir and bring the cups over. “It's not even worth talking about.”