Page 6 of Debt of My Soul

Chapter 3

Him

There’s an unfamiliar jeep driving slowly around town. Small towns aren’t supposed to be tourist attractions.

Chapter 4

Fleur

Thirty minutes into my training, and I’ve already inhaled three buttermilk biscuits smothered with tomato gravy. Mr. and Mrs. Northgate are the sweetest elderly couple running this multigenerational bed-and-breakfast. The Old Hillside B&B is an anomaly in this small town. A well-preserved Victorian home with intricate gingerbread trim and an ivy-covered entrance.

The parlor, with plush vintage furniture, chandeliers, and a detailed fireplace, is ancient yet inviting. Built in the nineteenth century, the house has five rooms, each with its own mix of antique furniture and modern comforts. My favorite room, as seen on their website, has a four-poster bed with an embroidered canopy, and the bathroom has a large claw-foot soaking tub that I immediately added to my farmhouse master bath wish list.

My new employers have spent the last half an hour telling me stories of family gatherings, romantic weekends, and wandering travelers blowing through unencumbered. And, of course, feeding me.

Now I’m following Mrs. Northgate around the house for the essential introduction to the place. She’s a plump older woman, with glasses that hang from a beaded chain. Her silver hair is pulled back into a low-set bun, and the fine lines around her pursed lips crease even further as she shows me the right way to enter one of the rooms with a finicky lock.

Technically, I’ve been hired as a housekeeper, but I’ve already been informed I’ll be needed for other duties as well.

We continue with the tour.

“This is the supply closet. You’ll find all the fresh linens and sheets you need. We also have travel toiletries that need to be replaced each day.” She gestures to a metal door in the wall. “The laundry chute. Just toss all the used linens down here.”

I open the chute, curious about how it looks, but the smell of old dryer sheets wafts up my nose as I stare into the black void. It’s actually kind of creepy.

Mrs. Northgate chuckles at my scrunched nose and closes the door for me. “You’ll get used to it.”

I’m not sure if she’s talking about the smell or the fact that I’ve never been a housekeeper before. It must show.

I completed two years of community college out of high school before I went to work for Chris’s parents’ family-run business. I thought I’d be marrying the love of my life, working the family business, and starting one of my own. Didn’t think I’d need additional years of schooling, but what do you know—I did. Now, in a new town, with little education—and work experience I don’t care to replicate—I’m limited on ways to make money.

The remainder of the orientation goes by relatively quickly, and I finish before check in at 3:00 p.m.

“Where you off to now?” Mrs. Northgate asks, pouring a cup of tea in the kitchen.

I smile. “The bank. Not overly exciting, but the one I used before doesn’t have a branch here.” Plus, I figure it’s not starting over if I don’t fully commit. That means new accounts.

“Well, have a good rest of your afternoon—Oh! Wait. Don’t forget your schedule.” Mrs. Northgate hands me a generic calendar printout with all the days I’m set to work, the times handwritten in cursive on each box. It’s old school, but I like it.

“Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Bye, Fleur. We’re really glad you’re here.”

Her words stick with me on the way to open my new account.

The bank is a quaint brick building with two old teller windows. The woman at the first one points me to the seating area outside the account manager’s office and I wait, people watching. Several local business owners come in, and a few mothers usher children in and out while juggling their deposit slips.

Smiling, I take out my phone to answer a couple messages from my mom, then one from River about a new table she got in, when?—

Another message.

So, you left?

I freeze, my gaze glued to the screen and the man’s name.

Chris. He’s messaged this exact message before, and I’ve ignored each one. Of course I left. Did he think I wouldn’t? Nine devoted years were swept away by a fling with a younger woman.

I toy with the rubber bands through my sleeve and chew my lip, trying to convince myself to block him and be done with it. The sound of a door opening jolts me from my internal debate, and I quickly tuck my phone away in my purse.

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