Page 14 of Firethorne
Just then, the delicate glow of a lamp lighting up the porch of a small wooden lodge came into view, and I couldn’t deny I was glad to see it.
“Ah! Here we are,” Lysander announced jovially, and he strode ahead as we both stayed back to take in our new home.
It was a single-story cabin. Small but cosy, with three small steps leading onto the porch area.
We took each step slowly as Lysander opened the door and turned the inside lights on, getting everything ready for us to see.
“Mrs Richardson made sure it was heated for you. And as my father said, she’s left some supper here, too.”
He stepped back to let us walk through the door.
The interior was simple and plainly decorated, with blue gingham curtains at the windows and well-worn woven rugs on the wooden floors. It was open-plan, with a small galley kitchen against one wall, a table with two chairs against another, and a small, blue sofa with a matching armchair in front of the fireplace. It was a little shabby, but it was clean, and I walked across the room to explore further.
There was a tiny hallway at the back of the room with three doors leading off it. Opening each one, I found two single bedrooms and a small, sparse bathroom. Adequate, that’s what it was. Quaint, even. Not at all like the main house we’d left,because unlike that cold, soulless building, this cabin had the potential to be...a home.
“It’s perfect,” my father remarked, and I agreed.
“Well, if there’s anything you need.” Lysander’s eyes met mine. “Anything at all, just dial zero and we’ll have you sorted out right away.” He tapped his finger on an old landline phone on a side table by the door. “That’s your hot line.” He winked.
“Thank you,” I told him. “But I think we need to settle in and get some rest now. It’s been a long day.”
“Of course.” He bowed his head, and then he stepped towards the door. “I’ll see you both tomorrow,” he said before he shut the door.
Chapter Seven
Maya
Isat with my father at the breakfast table the next morning, chewing my toast as I mulled over the events of the night before.
“What did you mean yesterday, when you said you needed to discuss terms for this job?” I asked.
“Exactly that,” he replied. “Mr Firethorne wants to discuss a few little issues. It’s nothing to worry about. Just that there are terms we need to agree on in addition to what was in the contract.”
As usual, his answer wasn’t really an answer.
“Why haven’t I seen this contract? Or better yet, why haven’t I signed one?”
My father sighed, dropped his toast onto his plate and brushed the crumbs off his hands.
“Because this is on me. You’re free to work here, live here, but if you want to leave at any time, you can.”
“That’s not how employment works,” I reminded him, niggling doubts burrowing away in my brain.
“And that’s why we need to iron some small specifics out this morning,” he replied, and I could feel a headache coming on. His inability to be transparent made my head hurt.
“What specifics exactly?” I asked, my jaw locking as my exasperation grew. “And how can they be small and specific?”
“It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“But I do worry.”
“Well don’t.”
My tension multiplied as I retorted, “That’s really helpful. Thanks.”
Why was I going along with this?
Why was I letting him get away with sweeping statements and sweeping shit under the metaphorical carpet?
