CHAPTER 6
Emma
Phyllis is a lovely woman. But I can’t help it—I’m waiting for the but.
The other shoe.
The words she’ll use to tell me I’ll have to walk back to Reno in the dark. Or for her to accuse me of being a con artist, then pick up the phone to call the police on me for trespassing, or attempted robbery, or whatever my offense is.
I’m not a big fan of the criminal justice system. Or any system.
I keep waiting. She chats with me as she shows me around. Eventually, I allow myself to exhale. It seems that with Phyllis, there’s no other shoe.
I don’t get it. In my experience, there’s always another one.
She’s extremely nice, but not in a gushy way.
I don’t know what it’s like to have a mother or a grandmother, but Phyllis is the kind of grandmother you might find in storybooks, or from a Hallmark Christmas movie.
From the moment Phyllis took my hand and guided me carefully out of the tent, it’s felt as if someone is taking care of me.
As if someone cares.
It’s a very strange feeling.
From what I’ve seen, the ranch is dotted with a few houses.
All in different styles, but they’re all beautiful.
Phyllis walks me to the second house away from the tent.
It looks a lot like the house from the Yellowstone TV show.
I wonder if Yosemite Ranch is like that, and if these ranchers have that kind of money.
The only rancher-types I’m used to are the ones that occasionally came into the truck stop in Reno where I used to work.
Those men were definitely not the clean-cut-in-fancy-suits types who live in mansions. They were workers whose minds were as filthy as their jeans, who managed to burn through their Friday paychecks by the early hours of Saturday.
Phyllis opens the two-story front door, which isn’t locked.
She enters and steps aside for me to go in.
I drop my duffel by the door. The entryway floor is slate.
The rest are hardwood. The ceiling has massive exposed beams. I’m staring up with my mouth open, but I shut it when I feel Phyllis’s eyes on me.
She stares intently at me. Do I have shrimp puff on my face? I wipe my hand across my mouth, just in case.
“Is this your house?” I ask.
“No, this is your house,” she says. “It’s Finn and Jasmine’s house, where you’ll be living and working.”
“I got the impression Mr. Finn doesn’t want me here.”
Phyllis swats at the air. “Finlay MacLaine doesn’t know what he wants. Follow me. I’ll show you around.”
The inside of the house looks like it came out of a magazine.
I imagine that Finn’s wife is either an interior decorator or that they hired someone to decorate every square inch.
It’s perfectly laid out. But as I look closer around the massive living room, I notice the thick layer of dust on the surfaces, the crumbs on the couch, and various Barbies and Kens strewn around the floor.
When Phyllis shows me the gourmet kitchen, I realize Finn is single. There’s no wife or mother here. The sink is full of dirty dishes, and the utensils and spices and everything else are put in the wrong place, disorganized, like whoever uses this kitchen has no idea what they’re doing.
I turn toward Phyllis, unable to ask her the question, but somehow she reads my mind.
“His wife, Amy, passed away in labor with Jasmine. Pre-eclampsia in the eighth month. Do yourself a favor and don’t mention it to him.
He won’t talk about Amy except to Jasmine, and nothing about her death, of course. ”
I let that soak in and try to digest it, but her explanation fills me with a lot of questions. I want to tell her that I never knew my parents either, that I was told that my mother and father are dead. But I don’t say a word. In my experience, no one wants to hear it.
I think it’s kind of like trying to tell other people about a dream you had the night before. The specifics are boring, out of context, and make them a little uncomfortable.
“I’ll take you to your room,” Phyllis says, and I follow her upstairs.
The staircase is massive and hand carved. Once we get to the second story, I look down at the living room—and what a room it is! I could stay up here and gaze down forever. But I remind myself not to get too attached to anything.
Any minute now, I’m sure Mr. MacLaine will bust in the front door, give Phyllis a piece of his mind, and throw me out. I take a second to memorize the beauty of the house before I have to leave it.
“In here.” Phyllis is at the end of the hall. I follow her past a pink room that has to be Jasmine’s, and then to the guest room. “I’ll make sure there are fresh towels in the bathroom for you. I’m pretty sure the sheets are fine.”
“I’m going to sleep in here?” I ask.
“You don’t like it?”
I know my mouth’s hanging open again, but I can’t seem to close it. Until Phyllis gives me that intense look again. I snap my lips shut and clear my throat.
“It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.
” And I sure as shit have never slept in a room like it.
There’s a king-size four-poster bed! A large television attached to the wall over a massive fireplace!
Lamps! A comforter! “I don’t mean to be rude, Phyllis, but this can’t possibly be my room. ”
“You got that right.”
The voice a few feet behind me is deep and angry. I knew it. Mr. MacLaine has arrived. I turn to look at him, noting that the strap of my duffel bag is over his shoulder. He’s ready to kick my ass to the curb.
Of course he is.
I step toward him, my hand held out in his direction. He holds out his open palm, and I let the wad of cash drop into it.
It kills me to have to do it. I’m right back to having fifteen dollars to my name, right back to being homeless and hopeless, right back to learning—yet again—that I can’t count on anyone or anything.
I won’t be feeling any more shame in front of this man, though. With a little bit of food and water in me, I’m strong enough to know I don’t have to apologize simply for existing. For trying to find something better in life.
It’s been nothing but humiliation and groveling for scraps for me. I’ve done most everything to stay alive. But when I look into Finn MacLaine’s violet eyes, it’s important to me that a man of his status and money doesn’t think of me as inferior. Less than.
I am proud that I’m still here, still breathing, because I really shouldn’t be. I don’t want his pity or disdain.
He stares at the money in his hand. It takes him a moment to slip it back into his trouser pocket. It takes another moment for him to find his voice. He glances up at me.
“I didn’t place an ad for a housekeeper.”
“I did,” Phyllis snaps.
“You what?”
“Hear me out, Finlay. Jasmine’s growing up. You need to start living a life of your own. You’re a young man with many decades ahead of you, and you deserve happiness.”
“No, I—”
“Take a deep breath, Finn. Do that four-count, box-breathing thing you boys like so much.”
Finn laughs. “You’ve been hanging out with SEALs too long, Aunt Phyllis.”
“A housekeeper is just what you need.”
“I’m already living my own life, and it’s the one I choose. And I manage to breathe just fine without outside guidance or a housekeeper.”
As I listen, I realize that Mr. MacLaine isn’t totally convinced of the truth in what he’s saying. His living and breathing may not be how he wants it. I also note that Phyllis has his ear. I bet she often does. She’s got him thinking.
“I double-checked Emma’s work history, and I contacted her references. She’s used to hard work and has never given anyone trouble.”
“There’s an eight-year-old child in this house.” Finn’s words come out in a hiss. His words are for Phyllis, but his eyes are on me.
Rat-bastard is what Summer called him.
“I have experience caring for children,” I say. And it’s true. I just don’t tell him why. Because nobody wants to hear the details of my time in foster homes. If sharing your dreams can make people uncomfortable, sharing the nightmarish reality of the foster system will make them run for the hills.
No way will he allow me to work for him if he knows that my entire childhood was spent in the system. It’s a red flag for most folks. But I have to make my point.
“Phyllis is right about the hard work, Mr. MacLaine. I’m strong, and I don’t tire easily. I’m not lazy.”
A shadow falls over Finn’s face. “I never said you were lazy.”
I nod and lower my gaze.
“How about a one-week probation period, Finn?”
He glances at Phyllis when she makes that suggestion.
“And if it goes well, then maybe you can offer Emma a month-long probation period. That will give you an opportunity to see if Emma can help you and Jasmine before any permanent position is offered.”
He glances at me, but I see he’s uncomfortable.
“Finlay, maybe we can introduce Emma to Jasmine, and if Jasmine is on board, then we can try it out for one week. It’s just a week.”
He raises an index finger and holds it in front of my eyes. “One week, and only if Jasmine is all right with it. And if after a week things are going well, then we’ll talk.”
He lowers his finger and then offers me his hand. I shake it, aware of how dirty my fingers and nails are but determined not to let my humiliation show. As soon as my palm contacts his, a current of energy arcs between us.
It isn’t an electric shock. It’s a warmth that shoots through my entire body. It makes me feel alive.
And maybe just the slightest bit worried.