Page 18 of Summer Ever After
I couldn’t hide my eyebrow raise.
“I know.” He hopped off the boat and tied the lines. “Believe it or not, this family is actually one of the good ones. They’re trying their best to offset the necessity of petroleum with their environmental charity. Laird is genuine – and he tries his best to balance the economics of his corporation with the needs for environmental protection.”
“Wow.” I accepted his hand as I stepped off the boat. “Maybe I will take this job after all.”
Trey cleared his throat. “To do that you’re going to have to win over Mrs. Graham. You’re not the first pretty girl to come across the lake today. As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen a cottage keeper job with so many applicants that look like supermodels.”
Glancing down at my scuffed shoes, butterflies beat at my stomach. It might be harder to get this job than I thought – especially if you had to look like a model.
“Shit. I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.” Trey’s cheeks were the same color as the light on the gas pump.
“Do you have to look like a supermodel to get the job?” Trey’s candor surprised me.
Trey’s brow furrowed. “No. It doesn’t matter what you look like, Faye wants a hard worker, so as long as you can prove that you’re not more worried about breaking a nail than getting the job done, she’ll be able to overlook how you look.”
I held out my hands, nails short and unpolished. “I don’t think that she has to worry about that with me.”
Trey unclipped the radio from his belt. “Interviewee nine at the main dock.”
“Does she have heels on?” A voice rasped through the static.
Trey glanced at me and took a few steps away, but he was still within earshot. “Negative.”
“Thank God. Send her up.”
Trey pointed to a wooden stairway. “Follow those stairs up. Faye will meet you at the landing and take you to the cottage keeper’s cabin.”
Resting my hand on the railing, I took a deep breath. “Thank you, Trey.” I looked over my shoulder. He had the gas pump in his hand but replaced it to give me a wave.
“Good luck, Daisy.”
I nodded and my scuffed Converse started their journey up the long flight of stairs. About halfway up I heard the squelch of Trey’s radio. His voice was low but audible. “Faye, this is your girl.”
Buoyed with Trey’s not-so-secret support, I picked up the pace, taking the stairs two at a time. Working out wasn’t part of my routine, but the ten-mile walk into town, often carrying groceries was my own form of hot yoga.
As I reached the top of the stairs a woman with white hair and an even whiter apron was waiting for me. After my snafu with Trey, I was reluctant to assume her identity. “Daisy Carmichael,” I held out my hand.
She looked me up and down, then extended her hand and squeezed mine – tightly. “Mrs. Graham. Follow me.”
For a woman who couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, she was surprisingly fast. I fell into stride behind her, following a flagstone pathway past the main building. Lilies burst from the gardens on either side of the pathway. “The gardens, they’re beautiful.” It was risky, making small talk, but it was true – the gardens were a floral fireworks show that wound past the cottage and lined the pathway as it spread into the cover of the trees, the lilies giving way to shade-loving hostas.
“Mrs. Starling was the gardener, this is all her design, God rest her soul.”
That answered my question about Mrs. Starling, but Christina would need more details. Had the designer of the lily gardens been replaced? Was there a future Mrs. Starling in waiting? From Trey’s comment about the lineup of women vying for a cleaning job, I probably wasn’t the only one wondering. “Who takes care of them now?”
We had arrived at a small cabin. Small when compared to the grand cottage, at least five of the trailers could fit inside the cottage keeper’s space. Faye opened the door and gestured for me to come inside. “The gardeners take care of them.” Her voice was monotone. “Have a seat.”
Faye grumbled as she plopped into the chair at the head of the table. I lifted the wooden chair so it wouldn’t scratch the hardwood flooring and slid onto its seat then slid the folder with my resume across the big harvest table. Raincoats hung on the wall beside the door, and name tags were written on small blackboards above each of the hooks. Open shelves held teal dishware and notes about not leaving food in the refrigerator were taped next to Garfield comics and more notes about stealing lasagna. It was the most beautiful lunchroom I’d ever seen at a job site – a far cry from the fluorescent lights and cold metal tables at the factory.
“This is a very nice lunchroom.”
Faye slid her glasses down her nose and ignored my second attempt at small talk. She scanned my resume, her finger tracing down each line. “You’ve actually got experience.” Her eyebrows were raised, crinkling her forehead.
Was that a question? “I’ve been working as a housekeeper for a while now.”
My years of working far exceeded what was on that piece of paper, but Christina would’ve been in trouble with the authorities if they found out I’d been working under the table for cash when I should’ve been doing homework and going to soccer practice like other thirteen-year-olds.
“Let me ask you a question.” Faye closed the folder and set it aside, crossing her hands on the table in front of her.
