Page 34 of Minted

Without realizing we’re dealing with paperwork hangups, my marketing team already pitched the idea to Chump Change, and they’re chomping at the bit to start laying down some plans. In fact, their boss, Gary French, has sent me an email and left me a voicemail asking when he can meet with them and telling me he’d like them to be the spearhead of their upcoming marketing campaign, and wanting to know if they’d be willing to do a commercial as well. He wants it all to go live on January one, and in marketing timelines, that means we’re already four months behind.

I’ve been slammed on all fronts lately, especially as holiday plans are being implemented and adjusted, but it’s time for me to make that home visit and figure out what the hangup is with their mother. It’s a real fluke that they live right around the corner, really. Less than ten percent of our accounts live within a reasonable driving distance.

I plan to go in the morning, when hopefully their mother will be home and not busy with kid stuff. But by the time I put out all the fires that pop up, including all the necessary last-minute planning for the holiday party we have tonight—it’s for a small but lucrative client and the CEO insisted on doing it at his personal residence, with us taking point—it’s already late.

I whip out my phone to text Bentley. My heart races a little bit just thinking about him, and I hate to do this, but I do not have time to rush to his place to pick him up, and I can’t expect him to drive forty minutes to this guy’s home on the edge of the North End.

SLAMMED AT WORK. I’M SURE YOU ARE TOO. YOU CAN SKIP TONIGHT’S PARTY. IT’S NORTH OF THE CITY, AND IT’S AT SOME GUY’S HOUSE.

NICE TRY. I’M COMING.

Now my heart’s really pounding. Shouldn’t he be relieved to be off the hook? I CAN’T COME PICK YOU UP. I HAVE TO GO TO DEAL WITH AN ADMIN HURDLE AND THEN GO STRAIGHT THERE. And I’ll be wearing my boring black suit, blue blouse, and slate heels.

Today is just not my day.

TEXT ME THE ADDRESS.

I should argue further. I should refuse to give him the info, but I did my part. I gave him an out, and if he doesn’t want to take it, that’s not on me. Right?

Right.

I can’t help smiling on my way to the apartment listed on the twins’ paperwork from last year. I hope they haven’t moved. That would make this even more irritating. I got the distinct impression that money was really tight for the mom and that the girls’ extra income really helped. You’d think she’d be a little more motivated to respond to my messages instead of letting her eleven-year-old daughters handle them.

When I get there, the mailbox still says McKinnon. That’s promising.

I buzz the apartment, but no one answers. Luckily, a neighbor waves me over. “They never answer for anyone but delivery,” he says.

“They work for me, actually, so I swear I’m not up to anything nefarious,” I say.

“Eh, you don’t look too scary.” He just bobs his head and ducks into his apartment after letting me through.

It was great he allowed me in, but it doesn’t inspire confidence that they’ll just wave anyone along.

I stumble down the line of apartments, many with numbers hanging askew, kick aside piles of accumulated leaves, and try to make sense of the bizarrely ordered rows. I do finally find theirs, and I tap on the door. It’s four in the afternoon, so hopefully their mom’s not picking them up from school or tennis practice or anything.

No one answers.

I bang.

Still nothing.

I’m about to give up and try to come back later, when I hear voices inside. Not loud ones, but it’s enough that I know someone is home.

“Girls? It’s me, Barbara from Follow. I just need to get some forms signed by your mom, and it’ll be super quick. I have a new job for you, and it’s a great one.”

There’s some scuffling around, and then a bit of whispering, and then the door opens a crack. “Barbara?” It’s Nikki, I think. She has eyes that are slightly darker blue than Ricki’s and her hair’s almost always down, falling across her eyes.

“See?” I wave.

But she doesn’t open the door. She just sticks her arm through the crack.

“The thing is, hon, I need to get your mom’s signature. You two are minors, so I kind of need to confirm with her that it’s fine for you to be working with us.”

“Oh.” She nods. “Well, I’ll run it back to her, and then I’ll bring it up to you. Will that work?”

It’s strange. Why wouldn’t her mother come to the door? “Is she not feeling well?” In that moment, I catch a whiff of something ripe from the inside of their apartment—like spoiled fruit or unwashed… something. It’s not confidence-inspiring either.

Nikki looks worried. “She has a stomach ache.”

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