Earning Her Keep (Price of Love)

I stifle a little whimper at the thought.

Ethel comes around the corner. She’s less like a cat in the dryer now, but still clearly pretty ticked off. “You,” she snips, looking me up and down in my uniform.

Me. I know. I know.

“Should I pack my things? Am I fired?”

She narrows her eyes at me. Even though she’s probably over seventy, she’s got a fierce eyeliner game. “Well, much to my surprise, little missy, you are not fired.”

I reach out to steady myself on the glistening mahogany side table that sits under the big, bright—but at the same time dark—painting, signed “Basquiat” in the front foyer.

“I’m not?”

With a slow, deliberate shake of her head, I start to realize I’m not homeless. Then she reaches out and takes my hand off the side table, buffing my fingerprints away.

She smells like lavender always. It’s very soothing, even though she kind of scares the pants off me. “You are not. And in fact, Mr. Philipe has requested that you take on some new duties.”

I blink at her, letting that sink in. “Is this some sort of sex worker situation?” I let the words seep out like a slow flowing river. “Because if it is, I think I’ll try my luck at IHOP or Target or something.”

She shakes her head, both slightly aghast and clearly borderline tickled. And this whole thing is rather funny. But only if I keep my job.

“Okay. So what are the duties? Please don’t tell me it’s soft-boiled eggs.”

Now she actually does smile. And it’s marvelous. “That would be better than you deserve, my dear, but no. The new duties are as follows. Mr. Philipe wants you to bring him your plans for the kitchen garden. I do not know what he means, but he indicated that you would.”

As in, the ones he found? Under my bed? When he was stalking me? God. Why is that so sexy? “Really?”

She nods. “Yes. He’s having a landscaper come to talk to you about it. He wants you to take more responsibilities there. Not only in getting it designed, but also in getting it started.”

A garden? Of my own?

“Yes, of course. Absolutely. And?”

She slips a tidy little piece of notepaper from her pocket. “And he will be having a new flock of twelve chickens delivered today. Well, they are babies from what I understand. Chicks. The chick man is coming soon. So he wants you to look after them and also talk with his carpenter about your ideas for a henhouse. For now, the chicks are to be housed in the old shed out the back door of the kitchen. It’s filled with broken plant pots waiting to be mended, and old tools that haven’t been sharp in years, but Morty is clearing it as we speak.”

I nearly snap my neck, I nod with such enthusiasm. But as I do, I slip my hands behind my back and pinch the skin on the top back of my right hand. Nope, not dreaming. A garden and chickens!

“Yes, I would be delighted! And? Anything else?”

Please say goats. Please, please, please say goats.

“Yes, one final thing. Mr. Philipe would also like you to read to him at dinner each night.”

Uh oh. “Me? Read? To him? Why?”

Ethel looks mildly mystified. Understandable. I balk at the easiest of the three new duties. But it’s only easy for someone who finds it that way. A garden from scratch and hand raising chicks? Easy peasy. But reading out loud?

“Why is not a question to be asking Mr. Philipe, now is it? Especially considering the day you’ve had.” Ethel’s eyes challenge with a hint of residual anger.

“No, that’s true.” He’s not a guy for why. And when it comes to me, he’s not a guy for no either.

Lord.

But my heart sinks at the thought of what’ll happen when he finds out that, try as I might, I won’t be able to read to him at dinner. There’s something about him that makes me want to give him everything he wants. Even if it seems impossible.

“Chop-chop then, missy. The chick man will be here in five minutes.” She shoos me away with her hand, and I try to shoo away my anxieties.

For now.

* * *

The chick man is a little older than me and he introduces himself as “Robert, but you should call me Rob.” I’m kind of aware that he’s handsome in his own way but I pay him no attention. Because the chicks.

Oh my goodness, the chicks!

I hold one in my hand as it cheeps and chirps. It’s hardly bigger than a lemon. Its eyes are barely open. Little leathery eyelids like a baby dinosaur. It hardly weighs anything at all. I savor the sweet little sharp prickles of its teeny claws pressing into my palm.

“They’re New Hampshire reds,” he says. “Once they’re grown, they’ll keep laying all the way through the winter, if you heat their henhouse well enough.”