Page 38 of Duty Compromised
“Nothing. It’s just…” I took in the warm yellow paint, the swing on the porch, the garden that someone clearly tended with care. “Not what I expected.”
She fumbled with her keys at the front door, hands shaking slightly. I took them gently, found the right one, and unlocked it. The door opened to reveal hardwood floors, walls painted in warm colors, and?—
“Is that a hand-knitted blanket?”
Charlotte’s cheeks flushed as she moved past me. “My grandmother made it.”
And she’d kept it. Many people her age wouldn’t have. That told me a lot.
The living room was nothing like I’d imagined either. An overstuffed couch drowning in throw pillows, soft blankets draped artfully over the arms, photographs covering one wall in mismatched frames—landscapes, cityscapes, flowers, but no people. Not a single face among them.
Plants everywhere—hanging from some kind of knotted rope contraptions, grouped on a bookshelf, trailing from the mantel. It looked like a home. Like someone had built a nest designed for comfort.
“I’ve never had anyone from work here before,” she said quietly, setting her lunch box on the coffee table with reverent care.
“Why not?”
She shrugged, then winced at the movement. “They wouldn’t understand. Everyone expects…” She gestured vaguely. “Something else.”
I walked deeper into the room, taking in more of the details. A half-finished crossword puzzle on the end table. A candle that smelled like vanilla and cinnamon.
A bookcase against the far wall caught my attention. I moved closer, running my finger along the spines, reading the authors’ names aloud.
“Stephen King, Robert A. Heinlein, Janie Crouch…” I paused, pulling one out slightly to see the cover better, then continued scanning. “Charles Dickens, Josie Jade, Andy Weir…” The list grew more eclectic the longer I looked.
“Quite the mix,” I said, glancing back at Charlotte. “Classic sci-fi and romantic suspense?”
She flushed slightly. “I like variety.”
“No judgment. Just didn’t expect—” I gestured at the romance novels tucked between the science fiction.
“Expected something else from the robot scientist?” But there was humor in her voice now, not defensiveness.
“This is nice,” I said, meaning it. “Really nice.”
She looked at me suspiciously, like she was waiting for the punch line. When it didn’t come, some of the tension leaked from her shoulders.
“You should sit,” I said. “You’re swaying.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re about five seconds from falling over.” I guided her to the couch, pressing gently on her shoulders until she sat. “How about I make you some dinner?” I didn’t even have to ask if she’d eaten. I knew she hadn’t.
“Oh, okay.”
“Stay there.” I headed for what I hoped was the kitchen, finding it through an archway. Like the living room, it was warmer than expected. Sunflower curtains, a collection of mismatched mugs hanging from hooks, a magnetized spice rack arranged in perfect alphabetical order. The contrast between chaos and organization was perfectly Charlotte.
I walked farther into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Turkey, bread, the same ingredients she used for her daily lunch sandwiches. A few apples in the crisper. A carton of milk, eggs. Yogurt past its expiration date, wilted lettuce, a collection of takeout containers that had seen better days. The freezer held frozen vegetables and what looked like more sandwich bread. The woman literally ate the same thing every day.
No. Not tonight. She needed something warm, something different.
The pantry yielded better options—a box of pasta and a jar of sauce.
“You’re going to cook?” Charlotte appeared in the doorway, blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
“You need to eat. Something solid and filling. This is what you have.” I filled a pot with water, setting it on the stove. “Sit before you fall.”
She perched on one of the barstools at the kitchen island, still clutching the blanket. “I can help?—”
