I’ve been here before, for a work party she held last year. The house fits the woman: nothing flashy, but deliberate.
I’m just about to knock on the large black-painted front door when I realize that I’ve lost my mind. I can’t ask Simone for help right now. Not with her health issues. This might be the dumbest, most selfish thing I’ve ever done.
What is wrong with you, Claire?
I can only attribute this to feeling completely in over my head with this job, or temporary insanity, or both. Because clearly I’ve lost it.
I turn around and head toward my car to leave, but then I hear the squeaking of the heavy door opening behind me.
Crap.
“Miss Claire,” a deep voice says.
I spin back around. ”Hi, Mr. Caldwell,” I say, holding my hand up to shield my eyes from the midmorning sun to see his tall, broad-shouldered frame filling the doorway.
“I . . . just came to check on Simone. How is she doing?” I ask.
It’s not a total lie; I want to know how she’s doing, but that’s not why I showed up at her door. And I think Marcus is onto me. He gives me a slow smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
But then he chuckles. “She’s doing just fine. Much better, actually. Do you want to see for yourself?” He stands to the side, holding out a hand toward the open door, inviting me in.
“Oh, I don’t want to bother her,” I say, even though I was here to do just that before I came to my senses.
He waves me in. “Come on. She’d love the company. I think she’s sick of only having me to look at every day.”
I tentatively follow him inside the house, the smell of brewed coffee in the air and classical music playing in the background.
“She’s out back on the porch,” he says, leading the way.
We walk through her minimally decorated house and out the open French doors to a covered patio. It’s welcoming, with terra-cotta tile, string lights hanging along the eaves, and a ceiling fan turning slowly overhead.
Lounging on a sectional outdoor couch, her hair down, her feet bare, a book in one hand and a half-full glass of lemonade in the other, is Simone.
“You have a visitor,” says Marcus.
She seems fully engrossed in her book. It takes a second before she turns her head in our direction, and then she does the most un-Simone thing. She smiles. It’s bright and warm and full of something I’ve never seen on Simone’s face: pure contentment.
What’s happening right now?
“Claire,” she says. “It’s good to see you.”
It’s weird to see youis what I want to say. I’d imagined her sitting just like this—sprawled out on a couch with a drink in hand—but I never thought that was what she was actually doing. I don’t think I knew Simone was capable of relaxing until this very second.
“How are you?” I ask. This sounds like a formality, but I honestly mean it. What has happened to Simone? The woman before me looks settled and at ease. All her boss-woman edges softened.
Has she been body snatched by an alien? Joined a cult? Should I ask her to blink twice if she’s okay?
“I’m doing fantastic,” she says. She holds out her lemonade to Marcus, and he takes it. “Can you refill this and get our guest some as well?”
My shoulders relax a bit. This feels more like the Simone I know, ordering people around and offering things without asking first. So maybe not replaced by an alien after all. The cult is still a possibility, though.
“Have a seat.” She gestures to the other end of the couch after Marcus goes back inside.
“So . . . everything’s okay?” I ask, settling in.
“I’m doing much better. Blood pressure is under control,” she says.
“That’s great news.”
