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Her apartment wasn’t in the greatest area of D.C., and that was being kind. Rental rates were outrageous and although scraping together the money was harder some months more than others, she’d drawn the line at having a roommate.
The apartment was on the top floor of a three-story building and, of course, had no working elevator. The door opened into a short hallway that led to a small living room with the kitchen off to the side. There was one bathroom and one bedroom. Throughout the apartment were beautiful wood floors.
Her parents had flatly refused to let her buy secondhand furniture, so the décor did not match the age and drabness of the apartment. Her beautiful, silver-spoon, incorrigible mother had insisted on bringing in her personal decorator, who had sniffed and grimaced, but it was her mother and he’d decorate an outhouse if she asked him.
Anne had no time to make design choices. She left it to her mother, only specifying that she liked natural materials, no painted wood, and warm, neutral colors. The end result was an inviting, albeit small, place with ivories and nudes as the palette, with rattan, bamboo, and natural wood elements. She hadn’t wanted to give her mother the satisfaction, but even she had to admit it was perfect, homey, and cozy.
Toeing off her shoes, Anne tossed her purse onto the hallway table. Going into the kitchen, she grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and collapsed on the overstuffed sofa, having to move three throw pillows to do so. Decorators and their throw pillows.
Teddy made angry noises when he saw any of the employees on their phones, so it was only now that she saw a voice mail left by her mother. Anne pressed to listen.
“Good evening, sweetheart. I hope you’re out on a lovely date and not working that ghastly job you insist on having. Really, darling, there are better ways to rebel against your father than slinging hash in some diner.” She’d only told her mother a hundred times that she worked in a five-star restaurant, but to her mom, a waitress was the same if she worked at the Ritz or a truck stop. Not that she’d know what a truck stop was. Anne stifled a sigh. “But let’s not rehash that right now,” the message continued.
“I’m calling to tell you I’m hosting the Downton Abbey charity tea Sunday and I expect you to be there. One o’clock sharp. And do dress appropriately. None of those off-the-rack garments I’ve seen you in lately.” Anne could almost see her mother give a shudder. “Call me. Love you. Kiss kiss.” The message ended.
Ugh. The tea. She’d completely forgotten about it. Her mother and a carefully selected seventy-five to a hundred of East Coast and D.C. elite ladies, dressed in their finery, each trying to earn a bit of extra favor from her mom. Anne would be paraded about as the epitome of style and grace—the perfect daughter of the perfect couple.
She already had a headache, just thinking about it. But no way could she miss it. Her mother would never let her hear the end of it.
Anne wasn’t just Anne-the-waitress, she was Anne Holton, of the New York Holtons. Daughter of Gerald and Nancy Alson-Holton. Anne had been gone on an extended “immersive cultural educational experience” for a year and a half. Her mother had pounced on her the moment she’d returned from her extended “educational experience.”
Her mother. Bless her heart. A woman with more beauty and kindness than common sense. Her parents had met when her mother was just twenty. A debutante of one of Boston’s oldest families, the Alsons. Her father had been a business tycoon, already a gas and energy multi-millionaire, and just beginning to dabble in land development. He’d been smitten with the young blonde immediately, and she’d been taken with him as well, though demurely leading him through a courtship that lasted only six months before they’d become engaged. The wedding had been the highlight of society and the most sought-after invitation.
That was over forty years ago.
It took fifteen years and four miscarriages before they’d adopted a baby boy. Matt. Anne’s older brother. Unexpectedly seven years later, Nancy had gotten pregnant and been able to carry the baby to term, with Anne being the result. Prized and protected from the moment she’d drawn her first breath, the effect of so much love was sometimes akin to being smothered.
She dragged her thoughts back to the present. The senator’s new demand for her attendance for his lunch meant that—while she kept her night job—she had to juggle her day job. Being a social worker in the city of Washington, D.C. had its drawbacks. A lot of them. Including a sad excuse of a paycheck. Hence the need for the waitressing gig. Her dad didn’t know because if he did, he’d have an epic fit and they’d fight. Again.
Anne thought through the timing as she stripped and showered in the tiny bathroom. If she got to work early tomorrow, she could take a slightly earlier lunch and be at the restaurant in time. Then back to work, finishing up about five and back to the restaurant for the dinner shift. It would make for a long day, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it.
Setting her alarm to wake her in five hours, she fell into bed, asleep nearly before her head hit the pillow.
* * *
“Mrs. Levee, I’m sorry, but there’s just nothing more we can do about your grandson.”
Anne’s heart ached as she watched the elderly woman sitting across from her, twisting a thin, old-fashioned handkerchief with hands that spoke of decades of hard work, roughened with callouses and bent with arthritis.
“But she’s still doing those drugs,” Mrs. Levee protested, desperation pinching the corners of her mouth. “She stole money out of my purse just the other day and lied to me about it. I went by her apartment and J.J. hadn’t had his diaper changed in hours. The poor thing was raw. He ate like he hadn’t eaten for days.” Tears stung her eyes, which she dabbed at with the threadbare handkerchief.
Anne grimaced. “DFS hasn’t certified the child is in danger or being neglected. Until they do, our hands are tied.”
“I’m just supposed to leave him like that? She won’t let me take him. Lord knows, I’ve tried everything I can think of. I even give her money if she’ll let me have him for a few days, but she always comes back. I don’t have any more money to give her.”
The pain in Mrs. Levee’s voice felt like a knife slicing through Anne. She wondered again why she’d gone into this profession. Just because a career assessment test said that her high levels of empathy made her well-suited to social work, it obviously hadn’t thought through what that empathy did to the emotional well-being of said worker.
Reaching over the desk, she grasped Mrs. Levee’s hand and squeezed. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” She actually could, which was why this job was so damn hard. “I promise you. If I hear anything more from DFS, I will call you. And I’ll pass on the information about J.J. that you just gave me. Maybe they’ll be able to stop by again.”
The woman nodded in a way that said she appreciated Anne’s gesture, but also that she wasn’t holding out much hope. She rose and left without a word, her shoulders bent in defeat.
And that’s how the morning had gone.
One case after another where her hands were tied and the limitations of the system meant that people—and children—fell through the cracks. It was an exercise in futility and Anne’s frustration was nearing epic levels. She had to be angry or the sadness of so many would overwhelm her.
Glancing at her watch, she saw with a start that it was already eleven-thirty. If she didn’t hurry up, she’d be late for the restaurant. As it was, she’d be cutting it close.
By the time she’d gotten off the Metro, hurried into the restaurant, changed, and yanked her long brown hair up into a ponytail, it was two minutes until noon. She clocked in just as Teddy walked by. Scowling, he pointedly looked at his watch.
