by Fiona West
“I'll give you a ride,” Cindy smiled. “Hop in!”
“Oh. Thank you. I appreciate that.” Martina slid into the front seat of the woman's SUV.
“No trouble at all. I like to make sure our employees are well cared for. Though I doubt you'll have any trouble with this family. They're very well off, very well-known in the community. He asked for you specifically, actually.”
Well, that’s flattering. “Really?”
Cindy nodded, her hair bobbing with her head. She turned onto Highway 22. “The young man called me up out of the blue. Usually, folks do get a recommendation from someone who's been through a similar situation. Lots of word-of-mouth in this business; if you take good care of their loved one, they want to pass that blessing on to others.”
“Of course.” She couldn't put her finger on why just then, but suddenly she was nervous. Of course, it was her first day. Everyone must feel nervous their first day on the job. But this wasn't just first-day jitters . . . a deep sense of wrongness permeated the very air of the vehicle. It was like when you're getting sick, and you only figure out later that's why you snapped at your sister and couldn't manage to focus on your book. Or PMS. Yes, the air in the car felt like PMS. Work PMS.
“How did they know I worked for you?”
“I'm not sure, really. He didn't say. Just said that he knew you were supposed to be working for us, and if you were available, he'd pay any price to have you.”
“Did you gouge him?” she smirked, and Cindy smiled back.
“No, I charged him the standard rate. He was very grateful. I guess he's dealing with all this on his own. His mother has been sick for some time.”
“Well, he's got help now. I'll do everything I can to . . .” Her mouth went dry as Cindy turned off the highway into a private drive. “What did you say the name was?” She knew this lane. She knew its boxy hedges and its wrought iron fencing. She'd walked its gravel driveway, kissed a boy she loved under its cherry trees.
“Carpenter. The son's called . . .”
“Crash.” Her heart was beating too hard; was she arrhythmic? She'd never had heart problems in the past, but then again, she'd never been in a situation like this.
Cindy didn't seem to notice, and she brightened at the name. “Yes, that's right. I thought it was his legal name until he corrected me. Do you know each other?”
“I thought I was going to marry him.”
Cindy pulled the car to a stop in front of the stone villa. “Oh my. Well . . . ” She paused, apparently at a loss for words. “Is this going to be a happy reunion?”
Pull it together, Lopez. You can't quit your first week of work. How had he even known? What was she saying, royalty was always in the know. When they bothered to check in with the peasantry, that is. Crash hadn't so much as drunk texted her in nearly five years.
“I'm sorry. I don't think this is a good idea.”
“You don't even want to talk with them?”
“No, I . . . I'm sorry.”
Cindy watched her for a moment, quiet. “All right, honey. I still need to meet with him in order to find out what his requirements are exactly. Is there anything I should know about working with them?
“No, they’re perfectly nice people.” For some other employee to work for.
“Do you mind waiting here in the car?”
“No, that's fine.” I'll just be here, regretting everything in my life that led up to this moment. The massive front door opened, and Crash appeared on the threshold. Martina cursed inside her head, and she pressed herself back into the seat hard, as if that could make her disappear. As if he wouldn't be able to see her if she squeezed her eyes shut hard enough.
“Wow. He sure did a number on you, didn't he?” Cindy's voice was sympathetic. “I'll try to make this quick. Be right back.” She stepped down out of the car and shut the door behind her. Martina let out a shaky sigh. She'd been able to avoid him for so long. She covered her face with her hands, trying to breathe evenly. She couldn't even watch Cindy talk to him . . . well, maybe just through her fingers. That furrowed brow, that light confusion. She knew it well; it was his “What? I'm not getting what I want? How odd.” face. No, he wasn't getting what he wanted. Not this time. There was no way she was walking up the stone steps into that house, smiling like nothing was wrong, not for all the celebrity gossip in the universe. Smiling like paying her to watch his mom was an acceptable solution after the shit he'd pulled when they were dating. No way. Not a thing. Uh oh—the light confusion wasn't so light anymore; it was a deep scowl now. His footsteps crunched on the gravel driveway; oh no. He was coming over, he was coming to talk to her . . . she pulled her hands away from her face at the last minute and let them fall to her lap.
“Martina.” He knocked on the window. “Can we talk for a minute?”
She shook her head at him, and he sighed.
“I should've talked to you before I called the agency. I'm sorry I sprang this on you, I just thought . . .”
That you'd whistle and I'd come running? Not on your life, rich boy. And yet, she knew immediately that her thoughts were unfair. High School Crash would've thrown a fit, yelling, demanding that she come inside or at least roll down the window. He wasn't doing any of that; he was asking. Politely.
“I can't help you,” she whispered, and she knew he couldn't hear her through the condensation-covered glass, couldn't see her lips move through the drips down the window. Yet he read her expression well enough; he saw the pain, the unspoken regret, and he ran a hand through his hair. Now that she wasn't peeking at him through her fingers, she noticed his appearance: he was in just as good shape as he'd been when he was running track, that long, lean physique still working for him. He was wearing charcoal suit pants and a blue pinstriped dress shirt that brought out his eyes. It was open at the collar, like he'd been wearing a tie, but took it off. She looked down to confirm that he was wearing dorky loafers and blinked in surprise at his bare feet. Doesn't that hurt? Still so impulsive, Crash . . .
“Okay,” he said, putting up his hands, as if in surrender. “Sorry. I'll just . . . I'll be in touch.” These words were spoken to Cindy, who was rounding the front of the blue 4Runner in order to get back in. He stood in the driveway, hands on his hips, and he waved as Cindy pulled out.
“Well,” Cindy said, clearing her throat, as they pulled back onto the highway. “That took less time than we thought, obviously. Why don’t you come into the office when we get back and we’ll see if we can't find another placement for you? You might have to go a bit further out, but I think we can find something . . .”
“Actually, I’ll just head home. I'll come in tomorrow, if that's okay.”
“Sure, honey. I understand.” She glanced at her. “I've had my heart broken before, too.”
TRUE TO HER WORD, MARTINA did go to the office the next morning; in fact, she was waiting outside Cindy's house when she came out to get her newspaper. In retrospect, 7:30 a.m. was probably too early . . . but, hey, now she knew that Cindy liked flannel. Maybe she could get her a new pair of pajamas to apologize for seeing her in these ones. Martina had battled guilt all night for not going yesterday, and it was after 1 a.m. when she finally fell asleep, three cats cradling her body. She only had three right now. It was usually more, but two of them had just died. She hadn't meant to take in so many; she’d just been trying to watch football at Annie’s bar, since she didn't have cable. But between drinks, Annie had happened to mention that the no-kill shelter was struggling to make ends meet, and the next thing she knew, she was driving down there to save a few.
She knew it was 1 a.m. because she was still taking Buzzfeed quizzes. This one was about which unpopular Twilight character she was, and she never got to find out that vital information, sadly. So when she got up this morning, she decided to go to the library today to study, where her phone would not be welcome. Forced distance from the device was never a bad thing, but hard to get. But of course, the library wasn't open at this hour; at 7 a.
m., nothing was. She wasn't a coffee drinker, so she made tea, just to kill time. She only drank about 1/4 of it before she slipped on her flats and grabbed her purse and went to Cindy's. There was a chance she'd open at eight. It wasn't that long to wait, and she always had magazines in her car. It was one of those habitual purchases now at the grocery store: she'd buy milk, bread, eggs, a magazine.
Yes, they were ridiculous. Yes, a lot of their information was inaccurate. But the way she saw it, it was better than reading something that she knew was fiction. But she didn't get a chance to read this morning, because Cindy let her in immediately, ushering her into the home office, sitting her in front of the large flat monitor to look at her choices while she changed into her normal clothes. Her husband shuffled by in his ratty robe and leather slippers that reminded Martina of a movie she'd seen that took place in Alaska. He shook his head, smiling, then went back to his coffee.
“Sorry,” Martina called after him.
“Not your fault,” he called back. “You want some coffee?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
He re-appeared in the doorway. “Well, you're not the first eager beaver to show up here early in the morning to find a new assignment, and you won't be the last. Cindy's determined to make this business work.”
Martina smiled, then went back to the list as he shuffled off. She paged through it, uninspired. Many were families she knew, but none particularly stood out to her. She wanted to be smart about this, start with someone who would give her a glowing review for her next job. Work like this was largely word-of-mouth, and she didn't want to start out badly. Most of these people didn't really need someone as qualified as she was . . . anyone with a strong back, a kind heart, and some common sense would be fine. Martina sighed. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her phone, opening a notes app to halfheartedly write down a few names. She wanted to think about it first; she didn't like feeling rushed into anything. She didn't think Cindy would mind, and she confirmed as much when she came back downstairs in her work polo and khaki pants.
“Take the day and think about it. It's a long commitment with some of these folks. They're going to be around for a few more years, and we'd like to stay consistent with their caregivers, provided they're not mistreating you. I can also set up a phone call, if you'd like to talk to the family . . .”
Martina waved a careless hand at her. “Not necessary. I know most of them. Thanks, though. I'm just going to go into town and do some shopping. I'll let you know this afternoon.”
“Great! Coffee for the road?”
“No, thanks, I don't like coffee.” Cindy's stunned look made her laugh. “I know, I know. Everyone around here loves coffee. It's like sacrilege, but I can't help it. I don't like it.” God knows her father had tried; the first time he took her to Argentina to see her grandparents, every cafe they'd gone into, he'd convinced her to try something new. Cortado? (Ew.) Café con crema? (Eh.) Lágrima? (Better . . . but still no.) Café con leche, with more milk than coffee? (Still has coffee, though, Dad.) Finally, out of desperation, he'd ordered her a submarino, a chunk of chocolate drowned in frothy milk, the best thing she’d ever tasted. Her dad laughed, kissed her loudly on the cheek as she tried to wipe the bubbles from her upper lip, hanging onto the tall glass greedily. “She's Argentinian after all,” he chuckled, and later, when he finally bought her yerba mate, he confirmed that she was, indeed, his daughter. That kind of tea was just her style.
Martina got on the winding highway, letting the tall trees rush past her in the early foggy morning. A new job, she decided, was cause for celebration; she wouldn't just go to WinCo for cheap groceries today. She'd stop into Trader Joe's and get herself a few treats this week, too. She was dreaming about dried mango, turkey meatballs, and a sparkling yerba mate tonight before she went back to the library. She did her normal shopping first, put it in the trunk of her black Corolla, then hurried over to Trader Joe's with a spring in her step. She didn't skip; that wasn't very mature. But she wanted to. She'd been pinching every penny through school, and now she was ready to let loose a little.
She stepped into the boutique grocery store and sighed happily. She touched the gluten-free, vegan chocolate chip cookies by the front door. She sniffed the houseplants near the sustainably-made birthday balloons. She snagged a bottle of a cheap white wine affectionately known as Two-Buck Chuck. Chalkboard signs advertised a sale on coconut oil, and she narrowly resisted getting some, despite having at least one unopened jar at home. Dark chocolate almonds? Yes, please. Cauliflower gnocchi? Get. In. My. Cart. She was reaching for a bag of sweet potato chips when she heard a familiar voice down the aisle.
“Mrs. Sánchez, stop it! Do not put that in our cart, I hate Brussels sprouts.”
Martina turned her head without moving the rest of her, as the older woman mumbled something to her boss.
“I asked for them? Oh, please. They made me vomit as a child, why would I do that?”
“I don't know, Mrs. Carpenter.” The Latina woman's voice was soft, assuaging. “Perhaps it is good that you came.”
Willow Carpenter tossed her straight blonde hair and held her Hermes purse closer to her chest. “I see that I'll have to from now on. You clearly can't be trusted.” The look of hurt that crossed her employee's face was barely as long as a blink, but Martina saw it. Mrs. Sánchez had worked for Crash's family for probably thirty years . . . there was no way she'd make a mistake like that. Which meant . . .
Martina's feet were moving her toward the pair before she registered what she was doing. “Hola, Mrs. Sánchez. Hello, Mrs. Carpenter,” she greeted them. Willow's angry expression turned confused for a moment, then she broke into a bright smile.
“Well, hello, you! How are you, darling?” She squeezed Martina's shoulders with both hands, pulling her close for an air kiss on the cheek.
“I'm well, thank you. How are you?”
“Oh, I'm fine, just fine.”
Martina glanced at the brace on her wrist. “Tennis accident?”
Willow blinked. “Pardon?”
“Your wrist,” she said, gesturing toward it, as if she might not know which one. “Did you hurt it?”
“Oh, that,” Willow said impatiently. “That . . . that was nothing.”
“It doesn't look like nothing,” Martina said, smiling, trying to keep her tone light and jovial. “Have you been cage fighting again?”
Willow laughed, pushing on her shoulder playfully. “Oh, you. You always did make me laugh. We miss having you around the house! Why don't you come around anymore?”
Martina swallowed hard. Did she really not know? Or was she saying that she'd expected them to stay friends, expected that she'd stop by when she moved back to town? She had no idea what Crash had told her about their breakup. Willow pivoted abruptly, poking around in the freezer, looking for God knows what. Martina looked to Mrs. Sánchez, whose fawn-colored eyes were sad. “Her memory, it's not good,” she said softly in Spanish.
“Yes, I know,” Martina murmured in reply. “I'm sorry.”
“So am I,” said Mrs. Sánchez. “Mr. Carter says she is sick. Maybe she will get better. But until then . . .” She gestured toward their empty cart. “Difficult.”
There are things you can do, Martina wanted to tell her. There are ways to help her be more cooperative, help her through this time with dignity. Instead, she smiled at Willow again, a silent apology for excluding her by using Spanish. Her speech was still fluent, she was still comprehending spoken messages; she wasn't aphasic yet. That would come later, most likely. So young. She slipped into a diagnostic role without overthinking it.
“How old are you now, Mrs. Carpenter?”
She tittered at the question, giving Mrs. Sánchez a look that said, 'Can you believe her?' “I'm 48.” The subtle shake of Mrs. Sánchez's head told Martina that wasn't quite right. If she remembered correctly, Mr. Carpenter had thrown Willow a big fiftieth birthday party last year, and Martina rarely forgot a party, especially one she hadn't be
en invited to.
“How did you hurt your wrist?”
“I fell,” she sniffed. “It was just an accident. Nothing to fuss over.”
Martina snapped her fingers. “I just remembered, I think my favorite team is playing tonight. Do you know what day it is?”
“Monday, silly.” Tuesday. She was close.
Putting on a show now, she dug around in her purse. “I've been losing things lately. I can't seem to find anything. I thought for sure my phone was in here . . .” It was in her back pocket. “Does that happen to you?”
“Oh,” Willow exclaimed quietly, “all the time. All the time. I swear, I'd misplace my head if it wasn't attached.”
“Are you still helping out with the bachelor auction this year?”
Willow huffed irritably. “I'm going to go look for apples.” She strode away before Martina could ask any more questions.
“That's a sore subject,” Mrs. Sánchez told her. “They kicked her off the committee. She's so emotional, so volatile, so . . .”
“Sick,” Martina finished. She watched Willow peering into open freezer consoles, looking at the frozen egg rolls and mixed vegetables and chicken breasts. “Can I distract her while you shop?”
Mrs. Sánchez's shoulders dropped, and her face lost the pinched look it'd had since Martina approached them. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” she said with a wink, and Mrs. Sánchez smiled. By the time Willow caught back up with her twenty minutes later, the older woman had already checked out; even Martina was impressed by her efficiency. The high color on Willow's cheeks told them she wasn't happy, but she said nothing, and she didn't seem to blame Martina whatsoever. Martina knew Mrs. Sánchez would likely get yelled at in the car, but at least she'd been able to complete her shopping. They were probably afraid to leave her alone at the estate. Which is why he was trying to hire a caregiver.
She let the thought follow her home, dogging at her heels as she put away her groceries and drew a bath, gathering herself a bubbly drink and a book as the tub slowly filled. There was no wrong time to take a bath as far as Martina was concerned; it was her guilty pleasure. Perusing her many options, she landed on the coconut lime Epsom salts with coconut bubble bath. It was like bathing in a piña colada, but less sticky. She shed her robe and eased into the water; it was so hot, she had to go slowly. When she'd settled into the water, the thought was still there: He was trying to hire me as a caregiver. His mom's not doing well, and he knew I could help. Martina let her fingers trail through the bubbles, popping the big ones idly. She wished her guilt was that easy to get rid of. No, not guilt: just sadness. Sadness for Crash and his mom and his brothers. Mr. Carpenter could take a flying leap off the peak of Mount Jefferson as far as Martina was concerned, but she hurt for the rest of them.