A Five-Minute Life

He pursed his lips. “Don’t say much do you?”

“Not much.”

“Lucky you, workers standing around yapping is one of my biggest gripes.” He extended his hand. “All kidding aside, this letter of rec makes it clear I’d be an idiot not to take you. Jim Whelan, you’re hired.”

I eased a sigh of relief and shook his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

“Only call me sir in front of Margery,” he said with a wink. “Otherwise just Alonzo. I’m friendly, but I run a tight ship. This place has rules on top of rules to keep the residents safe and comfortable. Breaking them is a one-way ticket out the door. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right then.” Alonzo rose to his feet, and I did the same. “Let’s go sign some paperwork, then you be here Monday morning. Seven a.m. sharp. That work for you?”

I nodded. “I lined up a place in Boones Mill. I’ll get moved in this weekend.”

“Good,” Alonzo said. “I’ll be needing you to cover breakfast, lunch, exercise, and afternoon recreation. You’ll be trained on the duties as you go. We lost two fellas at the same time, so I’m going to need you to think on your feet.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I signed the paperwork then we said our goodbyes.

“Monday, seven a.m.,” Alonzo said. “Sharp.”

I headed back toward the foyer. Jules had left the front desk, but the room wasn’t empty.

A young woman with wavy blond hair stood by the wall, studying the oil painting next to the AC unit. She was shorter than my six feet by a good five inches. Slender. Dressed in shapeless khaki pants, a plain beige shirt, and loafers.

She looked around as my booted steps echoed around the foyer. Large blue eyes in a heart-shaped face watched me approach. A full-lipped smile lit up her delicate features and my goddamn pulse quickened.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked, nodding her head at the painting. “The way the light falls over the curve of the apple. How it gives the grapes that shine.”

I moved to stand beside her. “Looks like fruit to me.”

She laughed. “It is fruit. It’s the essence of the fruit. A gorgeous rendering of something so simple. The light revealing the life within.”

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“I like to think so. I’m an artist. A painter.” Her crystal-blue eyes, fringed with dark lashes, rose to meet mine. “You’re the first person I’ve seen. What’s your name?”

“Jim. Jim Whelan.”

“Thea Hughes. Pleased to meet you.” She took my hand and gave it one strong, hearty pump up and down. “You have kind eyes, Jim Whelan.”

You’re fucking stunning, Thea Hughes.

She gestured at the painting. “But not a fan?”

I shrugged.

“What’s your poison, artistically speaking?”

“Music,” I said. “I like… music.”

Christ, I sounded like a moron. Me like music. But Thea’s exquisite face lit up even brighter now.

“Oh hell, I love music.” She laughed. “Painting is my jam, but music is life. Do you play?”

“I have a guitar…” I said, and the rest died. I wasn’t about to tell her I sometimes sang too. Fuck no.