In that short statement, I see how the last few months have unfolded between them. I knew that her parents had died in a tragic accident, relatively recently. But somehow I assumed that her uncle, like any caring family member, would treat her gently. He’d put up pictures of the people she lost. Since he has money, he’d probably get her therapy, too.
They would be a unit. A sad but loving unit.
That whole image goes up in flames. They’ve clearly been locked in a battle for a lot longer than this morning. I knew I’d have to work hard at this job, but now it feels dangerously close to impossible. Except I need this to work.
“Well,” I say, keeping my voice even. “I suppose the first thing to do is figure out what to wear.” Her T-shirt is not much proof against the cold. She’s got bare feet beneath a black tulle skirt. I agree with Mr. Rochester in theory. But if I demand long sleeves and pants and socks and a sweater, we’re never going to leave this room. I might as well insist she turn lead into gold while I’m at it. Instead I head over to the dresser where I find a bunch of colorful clothes all jumbled together as if they came in a trash bag and were dumped out. No attempt at folding or organizing has been made. I suppose it’s good that they seem clean.
I dig around and find a thin Gucci hoodie. “How about this, as a compromise? You can keep what you’re wearing, add this, and then be comfortable around the house?”
“You smell bad,” she says to me.
Great.
Mr. Rochester raises his eyebrows. “Ms. Mendoza, can I speak with you a moment?”
I follow him into the hallway.
“Do you have this under control?”
Under control? No. “We’ll be fine.”
“Right. That’s how it seemed in there.” His voice is sardonic. Light streams through the doorway, casting his handsome face in sharp lines. His expression looks stern. It’s scary, enough to make my stomach turn to knots. And also somehow hot.
Warmth floods my cheeks. “I’ll figure it out.”
His lip quirks as if he knows what I’m thinking. “She’ll walk all over you.”
I lift my chin. “You hired me to do a job. Let me do it.”
His dark eyes flash. He likes me strong and defiant. For a moment it looks like he’s going to reach for me. Touch me. His hand actually rises. It’s inches from my face. Then it drops. “I’ll be in my study if you need me.” He pauses with a hard look. “Don’t need me.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone.
I walk back into the room with a small child who probably hates my guts.
This is not precisely a new situation for me. I helped the younger kids in foster care. That, along with a very nice letter from my social worker testifying to that, allowed me to get this job.
However, I only had to get them dressed and onto the school bus each morning. And get them fed after school and into bed. I didn’t have to actually teach them their lessons each day. And they were probably going to move to another home in a few months. It would be rare to stay together an entire year. The bar was a lot lower there, basically.
I examine the hoodie. It looks like it’s never been used. “This is the same color as community chest. That’s cool, isn’t it?”
“Nice try, lady.”
I drop the hoodie back into the drawer.
Yeah, it wasn’t going to be that easy. She’ll walk all over you.
“Listen,” I say to her. “I know you don’t have any reason to trust me right now, but I promise I’m on your side. I’m just here to make your life easier, really.”
Nothing.
Time to pull out the big guns. “I have a kitten in my room.”
She looks suspicious but interested.
“If you’re very gentle, you can pet her. And I’ll even let you name her.”
I take a page from Mr. Rochester’s book and head out of the room without waiting to see if she’ll follow. I don’t look back, but I do listen very carefully. Sure enough there’s the gentle swish of motion that lets me know she’s coming, too.
The kitten had seemed like a wet ball of fur and bones last night. Now she’s mostly wide eyes and large pointy ears. Her hair is a mixture of black, white, and caramel colors. She stands at the edge of the bed and meows when she sees us.
Paige lets out a sound of delight and drops to her knees by the bed. She immediately falls into baby talk. “Oh who’s a good little kitten, it’s you, it’s you, you’re so little and so sweet.”
The kitten leans forward and boops its nose against hers.
“Mr. Rochester—that is, Beau—he rescued her from the storm last night,” I say, hoping that it will win him some points with the child. He clearly needs them.