Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 53907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
As one might imagine, a multitude of massive windows gleamed in the late fall sunlight, reflecting back the barren trees, giving no insight onto what might lay inside.
But I would soon find out as I pressed my finger into the pad of the electronic doorknob. No sound accompanied it, and I wondered if I would ever be cool enough in life to own a doorbell that didn't chime through the whole house.
It wasn't long before the door pulled open, producing a woman in a utilitarian gray dress that cinched at the waist and came down to the kneecaps, worn by a woman closer to my grandmother's age than my mother's with black hair flecked with salt & pepper, bright brown eyes that seemed to look right through me and see all my secrets, and a crucifix around her neck.
"You're Wynn," she said, giving me a nod.
"Yes. You're Elsbeth?"
"Yes. Come through. I have an appointment. I can only be with you for a few moments."
A few moments?
I had to convince this woman I was worthy of twenty-five dollars an hour in just a few moments? Perry? Sure. She could do that any day of the week, a natural-born chameleon with all the charm of your average, everyday, run-of-the-mill cult leader. Me, though, with my subpar social skills and strange resume full of various small gigs that never lasted very long? I wasn't so convinced.
But Elsbeth was already turning, heading inside, leaving me no choice but to follow behind.
The inside was what an episode of The Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous looked like, except more modern, sleeker. Gone were all the dark woods and stuffy Oriental rugs, replaced with sleek gray-washed hardwood floors, gray walls with minimalist, abstract art in neutral shades that I could have painted when I was two-years-old, but knew were likely purchased for the cost of a decent mid-sized SUV.
We walked past the butterfly staircase that led up to the second floor, and back into a kitchen that I was relatively certain was the size of my entire apartment with its stark white cabinetry, marble counters, and oversized, top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances. There was actually an echo in the space when Elsbeth spoke again.
"You can work the hours?" she asked, cutting to the chase. "Ten until seven. Monday through Thursday. Then ten until three on Friday. Mr. Buchanan takes half days on Fridays, and he likes his space."
Maybe so he could sit and watch his little home movies in private, I thought, a little tingle moving through me at the idea.
"Absolutely. My schedule is open." Or, rather, it would be if I got this job and informed all my other side gigs of the new arrangement. I might even try to squeeze them in on Friday afternoons and on the weekend. It was always good not to put all your eggs in one basket, my level-headed stepfather had told me after my mother urged me to go on a three-thousand-dollar artist retreat for a month as though I didn't have bills to pay. I loved her. And my heart ached that I couldn't go. But real life required at least a small amount of practicality.
"Good. That's good. And you can do the cleaning? It isn't much. Mr. Buchanan is naturally neat. But the mirror and counters and toilets all need a daily wiping down. That sort of thing."
"Of course."
"And you will need to go to the store for groceries. I will leave that list. As well as the dry cleaners or any other errand you find written down for you. I saw you have your own car, so that is good. You can submit receipts for gas to Mr. Buchanan at the end of the month. And communication skills are important. To make sure the groundskeepers and pool cleaners, anyone doing any sort of work here is doing what they are meant to be doing, not lazing about."
My lips curved up slightly at that. "I can be a good motivator when the occasion calls for it," I told her. "I might even enjoy it."
"Good. That's good," she agreed, sharing my smile. "Okay. I will pass you on to Blake. He prefers being called Blake. Says Mr. Buchanan is his brother. He should be here in a moment. He was taking a call in the study. I have to get going. It was nice meeting you, Wynn," she told me, already grabbing her purse and rushing out the door.
The kitchen was spotless.
Curious, I walked over to the fridge, opening it, seeing a dozen or so glass containers full of various items. Slices of salmon with a side of asparagus and some rice in some, brightly colored vegetable and beef stir fries in others. There were salad greens and a massive green smoothie. Nothing even resembling unhealthy. I mean, the man's only condiments were mustard, hot sauce, and some kind of homemade salad dressing that looked like little more than oil, vinegar, and some spices floating around.