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“I’d like to hire you, Maren, and bring you out to Rosethorn.”
Words.
They mean nothing because I’m pretty sure I’ve heard them wrong.
“I have a job,” is the first lame thing I say. Followed swiftly by, “What’s Rosethorn?”
I can hear her amusement in her reply. “It’s where I live.”
“And what would I do there?”
She chuckles. “It’s difficult to explain over the phone. I think it might be better if you come to me and we can discuss everything over tea. Do you take tea?”
I’ve never had tea a day in my life. My nose scrunches and I almost give in to the impulse to lie. Tea? Love it! All kinds. Black…and…green?
“Um, I’m not sure,” I say instead, opting for the sad truth.
She tuts. “A travesty. I’ll send a car for you tomorrow. Around, say, noon? How’s that? I’ve got to run. I’m having lunch at the club, but I’ll put Collins back on and you can direct him as to where he should send my driver.”
And then before I can confirm whether or not I’m free at that time and willing to take her up on her odd offer, she’s gone, replaced by the prim and proper Collins, who asks for my address.
I give it to him because he has an air of authority that makes it clear he doesn’t like to be questioned. Then he tells me the driver will be there promptly at noon, delivers a curt “Good day,” and hangs up.
I stare down at the phone, not quite sure I understand what just happened.
A job? At Rosethorn?* * *I’ve come to expect unfortunate events to derail my life like it’s a universal law as irrefutable as gravity. I view any turn of luck through a lens of skepticism. There’s always a catch. Always. A coworker offers me a ride home from work? It’s because he’s hoping I’ll be an easy score. A girl sits next to me in class, offering friendship? It’s because she wants to cheat off my test. I’ve lived and I’ve learned. Some would call it being jaded. I just call it being smart.
Cornelia’s offer is too good to be true; I know that for a fact. Why would she want to hire me? What skills could I possibly possess that she would be seeking? Is she looking for someone who knows how to perfectly heat a Hot Pocket? Watch ten episodes of Friends in one sitting? Read for an entire day? Not likely.
I have a high school diploma and one semester’s worth of community college credit hours. My resume consists of a string of bad jobs with titles like “deli technician” and “retail consultant”. In reality, I made soggy paninis and folded t-shirts that teenagers left tossed around the Old Navy dressing rooms.
She can’t want me for my exceptional skillset, and she can’t want me for my glowing personality either because I’m not all that personable. At least that’s what people have told me in the past.
“Lighten up, Maren!”
“We’re at a party—have fun!”
My friend Ariana used to constantly call me a bore, and the nickname still stings.
The few encounters I’ve had with Cornelia don’t help me pinpoint her motive either. I’ve only seen her at Holly Home a few times. We’ve never had a long conversation or a meaningful moment. I know she enjoys when I play the piano, but I’ve only done that on occasion, and probably not all that well. In my defense, that beast of an instrument they keep there would make Beethoven sound like an amateur.
So as I stand out on the curb in front of the group home the following day, I waver between feeling hopeful that this might be the first day of a new and exciting path in my life and berating myself for thinking it’ll be anything different than what I’ve experienced in the decade since my parents’ car accident.
Don’t get your hopes up, I tell myself as a black Range Rover turns the corner and slows to a stop in front of me.
The driver, an older gentleman, puts the SUV in park and opens his door so he can round the hood and walk toward me.
“Maren Mitchell?” he asks, all business.
I nod, taking in his black suit and tie and white gloves. Trimmed salt and pepper hair peeks out from beneath his driver’s cap. He’s dressed fancier than I ever have in my whole life, and all he’s doing is sitting behind the wheel of a car. I’m a little stunned.
He misreads my reaction.
“Is something wrong?”
I shake my head quickly. “No.”
He scans the curb around my feet, frowning when he finds it empty. “Do you have anything you’d like me to load into the trunk?”
I glance down at my red pleather crossbody purse, a bag I scored at a resale shop and that has survived quite a bit of wear and tear. Inside, I have my wallet, an apple, and a book—the essentials.
