Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“Very walkable,” Stanley agrees as he returns with their drinks. “Did you tell her about the rowing machine?”
“I did, yes, of course,” Marta says with an exasperated huff. “We’re already at enrichment activities.” She sips her coffee, pulls a face that makes me think it tastes like garbage, and pushes the mug away. “He has facilitated play twice a week, French class three times a week, and music lessons on Fridays.”
I nod. Finally, something to get excited about. “Great! I’ll see what he’s learning and supplement that at home. I love that he’s so into music, especially drums. Drummers are the best.”
Marta’s mouth tightens. “Yes, well, we’re trying to guide him toward woodwinds. Or the violin. Something more portable. He’ll outgrow his drum kit soon, and it already takes up so much space in the nursery. And it’s so…loud. Even with an electric kit and headphones.”
“It is loud,” Stanley echoes, because apparently having an original thought is too much for the man. He takes a sip of his coffee, then squints down at it. “Does that taste like almond milk, Marta? I think that’s almond milk.”
“It’s definitely almond milk,” Marta says, pushing her cup farther away. “Definitely.”
“Oh, well, I asked for oat,” Stanley says. “I know I asked for oat. Should I go back? Ask for them to make them again?”
“No, I think we should head home,” Marta says, surprising me. “I’ve just realized that I’ve forgotten the extra keys.”
Stanley’s eyes widen dramatically. “No! We put them in your purse. I’m certain we did.”
“No, I just looked, and they’re not there,” Marta says.
My gut pings again in silent warning. She didn’t just look. She hasn’t taken her eyes off me since she sat down.
My stomach cramps as she pushes back her chair. “We’ll just have to get them to you in the morning, Clover. Along with the rest of the instructions. Does that sound all right?”
“Sure, that’s fine,” I lie.
But it isn’t fine. Something’s not right here, not right at all.
Marta isn’t the kind of person who forgets the keys. Marta’s the kind who triple-checks that the keys, the list, and the organic snacks are packed before she leaves the house. Marta runs a tight ship and prepares for every possible hiccup that might fuck with her schedule.
I’ve done something to upset her. Clearly. But I have no idea what.
After hasty goodbyes and awkward handshakes, I watch them go, the ache in my midsection intensifying.
I try to finish my five-dollar tea on principle, but every sip makes my stomach burn a little more. Finally, I abandon the dregs of my raspberry-honey-mint and head for the bus stop, leaning on my cane more than usual.
I overdid it last night, and I’m feeling it today, but I would still be fine to keep up with a five-year-old. My slight limp won’t interfere with that at all.
I try to tell myself that I’m being crazy, that I’m reading too much into Marta’s single hard look at my cane. It was literally two seconds, maybe three, and she launched right into giving me instructions right after. She wouldn’t have done that if she’d already decided to fire me…would she?
I don’t know, but the nagging certainty that my plans are about to fall through trails me to the bus stop, where I stand and wait, and wait, and wait, until my leg throbs like a fresh wound.
The bus is late. Of course, the bus is late. That’s what I get for thinking luck was on my side for once. I lean against a lamppost as clouds roll in to banish the sun, my stomach clenching in rolling waves I know aren’t food poisoning. You can’t get food poisoning from a cheese stick and herbal tea.
But maybe you can get it from dive bar popcorn…
No, Karen’s popcorn was fantastic.
Marta’s vibes, however, were not, a fact proven an hour later, when I’m back at home, debating what to make for dinner.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I snatch it up, expecting baby pictures from Bea.
Instead, it’s a message from Tasha, my boss.
A woman who does not usually work weekends…
I know I’m in trouble before I read a word of her lengthy text—
Hi, Clover. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but I just got off the phone with the Hendersons. They’ve decided to go in a different direction for their childcare needs. I know this is likely disappointing, but I want to assure you that this has nothing to do with your interviews, your qualifications, or the way you showed up at the final meeting today. This seems to be purely personal preference on their part. There’s nothing you did or should have done differently.
I fight to swallow past the lump in my throat.
Personal preference…
I’m betting that’s a “personal preference” for someone who doesn’t need to use a cane to get up and down from a chair, but no one’s going to say that part out loud. If they did, I’d have grounds for a discrimination suit, and no one wants that.