The Best Next Thing

Charity liked the blunt, no-nonsense man and felt safer when he was around. She regretted that he did not stay on the premises when the Hollingsworths were in residence. She always felt like George was in her corner, and it was such a comfort to have someone she could trust implicitly around. Especially when the Hollingsworths brought strangers on vacation with them.

After today—unless Mr. Hollingsworth needed George to take him somewhere—she and her employer would be alone. And the prospect of being alone with him all day, every day, filled her with dread.

“Why Knysna?” Mr. Hollingsworth asked, as George carefully navigated the dirt road toward the old, wooden bridge that led into town. “Riversend is closer.”

“Riversend’s supermarket may not have some of the ingredients I’ll need, they stock only the basics. Knysna has more variety.” Charity didn’t like explaining herself. He didn’t usually care about these things, trusting her to handle it efficiently. That’s what he paid her for.

“I told you, you don’t have to make any special effort on my behalf. If the weather is as unpredictable as you say, wouldn’t it be better not to chance the drive to Knysna? What if the bridge washes out before we get back? I say we go to Riversend and make do with what we can get from their local grocery store.”

Charity inhaled impatiently, counting silently to ten in German before pasting a fake smile on her lips and nodding.

“As you wish, sir,” she said, forcing the words out past the clenched teeth of her strained smile.

“I haven’t been to Riversend before,” he stated, leaning back—seemingly content now that he had gotten his way—and folding his arms across his chest. “We’ve always just passed through it on our way to Knysna or Plett.”

“Nothing much to see, really,” George weighed in on the conversation, more relaxed now that he had successfully reached the tarred road that led into town. “A few shops, one restaurant, one pub. And completely dead in winter.”

Charity felt that was an unfair assessment of the town George called home. It was quaint and while it was quiet—which she appreciated—it didn’t lack charm. The restaurant had changed management a year ago and was becoming quite popular with locals and tourists alike. Charity wasn’t one to eat out at all anymore, but she had heard about the splash it was making on the local scene. And it had been hard to miss how crowded it always was on her weekly forays into town.

The citizens of Riversend were friendly and never seemed particularly perturbed by the “keep away” vibes Charity deliberately exuded. But they respected her desire for solitude, and Charity appreciated that about them.

Mr. Hollingsworth and George continued to chat amicably, while Charity watched the wet, green scenery slide by. She mentally reviewed her grocery list, eliminating things she knew the local store didn’t stock and considering possible alternatives.

The sound of her name in Mr. Hollingsworth’s mellifluous voice startled her from her thoughts, and she was jerked back to the disagreeable present.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” she said, trying to keep her expression as neutral as possible.

“I asked if you come into town quite often,” he repeated.

“Not often. Once a week for uh…” Her voice petered out, as she considered a reasonably honest substitute to what she had been about to say. “Gym.”

“Gym? There’s a fully equipped gym at the house.”

“Yes. I use that regularly as well, but there are special classes I like to attend on Wednesdays.”

“Like Tae Bo, you mean?”

Tae Bo? Did people even do Tae Bo anymore?

“Something like that,” she murmured.

“My daughter, Nina, is a big fan of that Zumba thing,” George offered conversationally. “She’s tried to get me to go to a couple of classes with her. But I’ve seen it on the TV. Just a lot of jumping and bumping and gyrating, if you ask me.”

“Is that what you do, Mrs. Cole?” Mr. Hollingsworth asked, his deep voice utterly serious. “Jumping and bumping and gyrating?”

Charity pinched her lips between her teeth and refused to reply to the borderline inappropriate question.

Seeming to recognize the impropriety himself, Mr. Hollingsworth’s color heightened. He cleared his throat and diverted his attention to his driver. “How is Nina these days, George?”

Charity very much doubted that Mr. Hollingsworth had ever met Nina Clark, but George talked about his only child often enough that anyone who knew him would be at least loosely familiar with her antics.

A disgruntled frown settled on George’s face, and his jaw tightened.

“Pregnant.” The word was succinct and teeming with fatherly disapproval. “Thirty-two years old and she finds herself pregnant and single. Can you believe that? And she won’t tell me who the father is. But at least I’ll be a granddaddy. The rate she was going, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be one.”

Mr. Hollingsworth made a suitably sympathetic noise, and that was enough to set George off. He ranted about Nina and the mystery man who had gotten her “into trouble,” rhapsodized about his impending grandfatherhood, and updated their employer on the local gossip.