The Women in White

Chapter One. Riley, Present Day

CHAPTER ONE

RILEY, PRESENT DAY

Just before I knock on the door of the small brick house, I’m gripped by the skin-tingling sense I’m being watched.

But when I twist my head around, the only thing I see is a neglected stretch of yard. It must have been pretty once. The bones are there—brittle rosebushes lining the worn picket fence, gardens overrun by weeds, a graceful sugar maple tree being choked by vines.

I turn back, shaking off my unease, and knock so firmly my knuckles sting. Betty Sadler is eighty-one. Her hearing may be failing.

She’s a sweet woman, but incredibly picky. You can’t imagine how hard it has been to fill this position, said the social worker who tipped me off about the caretaker job.

As the front door opens, I lower my gaze to Betty, who uses a wheelchair. Her white hair is swept into an updo and she’s wearing a pink dress and string of pearls. Her skin is so creamy and unlined it could belong to a woman half her age.

I aim for a confident, warm smile. “Hi, Mrs. Sadler. I’m Riley Bell.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Betty’s eyes travel over me and I’m aware of the small mustard stain on my sleeve from a recent fast-food dinner. I’m grateful I at least changed out of jeans and into a skirt.

“I’ve never heard the name Riley before. Is it Irish?” she asks.

“Yes, it’s actually my mother’s maiden name.”

“That explains your pretty auburn hair. Please come in.”

I follow her into the living room. It smells like lemon cleaner and the furniture looks old but well-kept. The heavy gold drapes are pulled back, allowing the fall sunlight to brighten the space.

Along with running errands, cooking, and helping Betty bathe and dress, the job requires light cleaning. But Betty’s house is already spotless.

“What a lovely home,” I tell Betty, wondering if I should sit down or wait for an invitation. “Have you lived here for a long time?”

“Sixty years,” Betty replies. “Time truly does fly by.”

Betty doesn’t use email, so I’ve brought a copy of my résumé.

I slip it out of my bag, hoping nerves haven’t made my hands sweaty.

Standing in a stranger’s house with nothing to my name but the old Toyota I’ve been sleeping in for weeks is a place I never imagined I’d be at age thirty-two.

But impulsively marrying a hilarious, handsome guy who hid a massive gambling addiction led me here.

“Would you care for some coffee, or perhaps tea?” Betty offers.

“I’d love some. Can I help?”

“You just make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She wheels down the hallway into the kitchen, propelling herself swiftly with arms that must still be strong.

I look into the dining room where a table and chairs are framed by faded floral wallpaper. There’s a pile of papers on the table, close enough that I can glimpse the top one. The formatting gives it away: It’s a résumé.

My competition.

When my life imploded in a series of hard, fast blows—my discovery of Danny’s enormous secret followed by our bankruptcy and divorce filings the same week—I began searching for a better-paying job than my current one as a nurse’s aide at a hospital.

I’ve applied for dozens, but with only two years of college, I rarely get to the interview stage. I’ve run out of options.

Betty is offering a generous salary, plus it’s live-in. I’ll do whatever it takes to get hired.

I hear the spurt of water running and clatter of dishes in the distance. Betty probably won’t be back for a couple of minutes.

“I love the painting in your dining room,” I say loudly as I step toward it. “Is it of the Grand Canyon?”

“Yes,” Betty calls back. “I always dreamed of seeing it but we never made it there, so my husband bought me the painting as a birthday present.”

“I’ve never been, either.” I reach down for the pile of neatly stacked résumés, hoping to glean a way to set myself apart from the pack.

My eyes widen as I scan them. They’re from nurse practitioners, physical therapists, and nursing aides.

People who speak multiple languages and have twice the experience as me.

Why would Betty ever choose me over these candidates?

I walk back into the living room, feeling defeated. It isn’t over yet, I remind myself. There must be something I can do to make myself stand out.

A moment later, Betty comes in with a tray balanced on the flat armrests of her chair. Atop it are two pink-and-white china teacups with matching saucers, a sugar bowl, and a small pitcher of cream.

She sets the tray on the coffee table and hands me a cup.

“I hope you like Earl Grey,” she says.

“Oh, that’s actually my favorite.” My insomnia forced me to give up coffee, but on chilly fall days like today I crave hot, sweet black tea. She smiles, seemingly pleased by the coincidence that we both prefer the same beverage.

“Tell me a bit about yourself,” she prompts.

“Well, I’ve been a health care aide at Union Memorial for the past five years and I really enjoy it,” I say, launching into the little speech I prepared on the drive over.

“I like being around people, and ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to be a healer.

I used to bring home wounded birds and try to nurse them back to health. It’s just in my nature, I guess.”

“What a nice quality. And do you have family nearby?” she asks.

“Not too far away. I grew up in Northern Virginia, and my parents still live in the house I was raised in. Although right now, they’re on a bike tour around Italy, which my father has always wanted to do.”

“Italy! My goodness gracious. Did they travel by airplane or ocean liner?”

I blink. “Um, they flew … I also have an older sister and brother who live in the DC suburbs. They’re both married, with five kids between them.”

Betty nods. “May I ask, why are you interested in a live-in position?”

I shift in my seat. “Unfortunately, my husband and I recently divorced and we sold our home.” It’s a partial truth; the bank repossessed it.

“Oh, dear,” Betty says. “How long ago did this happen?”

“A month ago.”

Betty pats my arm. Her hand feels as soft as talcum powder. “That’s how long my Douglas has been gone, too.”

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her as sadness fills her eyes. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be.”

“It was very sudden. A heart attack. I called for an ambulance and they took him to the hospital, but it was already too late. He didn’t suffer, so I take a bit of comfort from that.”

Betty lifts her cup to her lips and I catch a familiar scent, one I’ve heard is among the five most identifiable aromas in the world.

Betty isn’t drinking tea. I smell coffee. A glance into her cup confirms it.

How could she know I prefer tea? My mind scrambles to find a logical answer. Before I land on one, Betty says something that leaves me so stunned I’m momentarily speechless: “I’d like to offer you the job. How soon can you start?”