“I don’t understand why they’re willing to consider me then?”
“The job is listed under child care and education. You’re the only one on my roster qualified.”
This is the lucky break I desperately need. Children are my passion.
“They know who I am––right?” The first job in months with any real promise and I’m trying to talk her out of it. Someone needs to punch me in the face. Mrs. Marsh raises an over-plucked, penciled-in eyebrow.
“Not yet,” she says, guilt drawn into the firm purse of her thin lips. And the burgeoning hope I was nurturing only a minute ago withers away in an instant. “They’ll find out eventually. When they run a credit check. I’m hoping by then you’ll have made a good impression. Besides, beggars can’t be choosers.” The last few words she mutters under her breath, though I catch them all the same.
“Meaning?”
She sighs heavily before answering. “I hear through the grapevine they haven’t been able to keep anyone for very long. I won’t sugar coat this for you, the client is a difficult man to work for. Thus, the salary.”
Ah yes, here it comes.
“You have to sign a nondisclosure agreement, abide by a tight set of rules, and take a full physical exam.”
“Why?” I ask with what I am sure is a horrified look on my face.
“Make sure you’re not carrying any contagious diseases.”
“I guess that explains the difficult part.” By nature, I’m an extremely easygoing person; my anger threshold is incredibly high. And I tend to be nonconfrontational. Which means I will apologize to diffuse a situation whether I’m at fault or not. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no pushover. But my desire for peace always upstages my desire to win any silly argument. The thing is, events over the last three years have tested the integrity of my patience and left it significantly weakened. If this guy is into public displays of humiliation, this is not going to work.
“Do you want to interview, or not?”
My thoughts shoot straight to the gentleman’s club. An image of hairy, sweaty men with toothpicks hanging out of their mouths staring at my ass and calling me ‘doll’ crops up.
“What’s the address?”
Chapter Two
In a strange twist of fate, the town I grew up in, the town where my parents still live, is only three towns over from the address the employment agency gave me. Economically, though, they couldn’t be any farther apart. Where as my little town is staunchly working to middle class, Alpine consistently ranks in the top two most expensive zip codes in America. Once upon a time, names like Frick called Alpine home. Now names like Combs, as in Sean, Cece Sabathia, and Chris Rock rub elbows with some of Wall Street’s highest earners.
I drive my mother’s twenty-year-old Camry slowly as I search in vain for a house number that matches the one on the piece of paper I’m holding. Alpine is not your typical wealthy enclave. Nobody that lives here advertises their wealth; they’re notoriously private. Sprawling mansions hide behind high walls and heavily wooded landscapes. If you drove through it accidentally, you would assume it’s just another country town.
I finally locate the correct number on a plain wooden gate and drive up to the black security box, press the intercom, and announce myself. The gate doors peel back slowly, revealing the landscape of the estate. Yes, it’s a bonafide estate. The winding gravel driveway extends past the woods and rough winter lawn, all the way to a large white farmhouse with a glossy black door and matching shutters.
Unexpectedly, my throat pinches as I note that this house resembles mine. The style that is, not the size. This house could swallow three of mine. Or what had once been mine and is currently property of the U.S. government.
I check my face in the rear view mirror. As usual, I’ve harnessed my pin straight, dark hair in a bun. Also, as usual, small pieces have started falling out. The only makeup I’m wearing is mascara. My complexion is medium, tanning easily, the same shade as my father’s, and I have a smattering of very distinct freckles over the bridge of my nose. Coupled with my full lips, makeup tends to make me look like a Broadway performer, or a trany, so I generally avoid everything except mascara and lip-gloss. Let me be clear, every woman that grows up in New Jersey does not look like the Housewives of New Jersey. Personally, I prefer season tickets to diamonds, sunscreen to makeup, and flats to platform heels. But that’s just me.
After straightening my grey Theory blazer and brushing a piece of lint off my slacks, I ring the bell and send up a Hail Mary. I’m not a religious person, by any means, however, at this point I’m ready to try anything other than sacrificing live animals to secure a paycheck.