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“Dammit.” I ducked through the narrow hallway to the maid’s quarters. I’d been staying in my studio most nights, but it looked like that was going to be out of necessity now instead of insomnia.
I slipped out the side door and held my hand up against the rain ripping at my cheeks. I had to pray there was kerosene in the generator.
My hands fell to my sides as I glanced around. What the hell? The larger generator was gone.
When had that happened?
I tipped my head back and swiped back my hair. I rushed to the garage, my bare feet currently blocks of ice thanks to the dropping temperatures. My fingers shook over the access panel and finally, the stupid thing opened. Thank you, battery power.
The smaller generator was still in the corner, but it was way too heavy to carry. I spotted my old Red Flyer hanging from a hook. I monkeyed my way up onto a shelf and managed to get it down.
Perfect.
Getting it onto the stupid wagon was a bit more of a challenge. Three broken nails and a swollen toe later, it was balanced on the lip. The trip across the driveway was slow and the puddles were growing into small ponds. The sandy incline couldn’t hold up against the relentless rain.
I was ankle deep in water by the time I’d pushed it up the small incline to the side of the house. I’d bought the generator for my workshop before we’d upgraded to the bigger model. Either it had been stolen, or my grandmother had sold it.
Just the idea of her having to actually put an ad in the paper or putting the word out that she was selling such a pedestrian item made my stomach hurt.
Why hadn’t she come to me?
I wasn’t sure when the rain had blended into tears, but I was sniffling as I found the old hookups and connected them. The skyline was lightening when I finally got the stupid thing to start. All I wanted was a hot shower, and that was definitely not going to happen. There was no way I could wait for the ancient water heater to warm up.
I turned the taps on the hottest setting and prayed that the tepid water would last through a shower. I’d take the room temperature water over the cold at least.
Luck was not with me.
I laughed bitterly as I soaped and scrubbed. Did I sound mad? I wasn’t sure, and far too afraid to look at it too closely. I yelped my way through my conditioner rinse before slapping the taps off. I wrapped myself in two towels and stood in front of the radiator at the end of the room. If I dove under my covers, I might just be able to warm up, but I didn’t trust that I’d stay awake.
Not being this cold.
I plugged in my travel hair dryer with trembling fingers and tried to get the worst of the water out of my hair. All my products were in the bathroom upstairs, but this was where the electricity was—so, a wet ponytail day was in my future.
I grabbed my phone and flicked on the torch app so I wouldn’t kill myself on the stairs and went to hunt down clothes.
What a way to start to my first day.
Deciding not to press my luck, I grabbed a pair of sturdy leather boots without a heel to pull over my opaque tights. A wool blend skirt and burgundy sweater was suitable for the office.
I hoped.
It worked in the gallery—it should be okay for the office. Jack certainly hadn’t been overly formal with his suit. Mr. Carson had been a bit more of a stickler, but I had to work with what I had. I definitely didn’t have the money to buy another wardrobe.
Finally, my hands stopped shaking enough so I could put on enough makeup to look professional and not feel like a hooker. I spritzed on my perfume and flipped my ponytail over my shoulder. It was as good as I was going to get.
The commute was a cherry on my super-shit sundae. Parking in Boston was either nonexistent or expensive enough to come with its own rental agreement. I opted for park-and-ride, and instead of waiting for the Blue Line, I hoofed it half a mile. My feet were the only things dry when I pushed through the door to the vestibule. I dug my temporary identification out and tried to open the inside door.
Locked.
I waved the ID over the little silver panel and remembered that I wasn’t chipped yet. Wonderful.
“We don’t open until eight.”
I jumped at the clipped female voice. “Um…” Was I supposed to talk into the box? “I’m new.” Lame.
“Name?”
“Grace Copeland.”
