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“Which is weird.”
“Which is not weird in this industry. I promise. Everyone who works for rich people has to sign an NDA.” At least, that’s what the lawyer who hired me claimed. And it makes sense. “He’s just a rich, old shut in with weird dietary needs.”
“That you’re going to live with for a year!”
I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me do it. “He has an estate with a guest house. It’s not like I’m going to be sleeping by the fire in the kitchen like Cinderella.”
“As far as you know…” Her voice trails off ominously.
“The lawyer showed me pictures of the guest house. There wasn’t a stone hearth in sight. I promise.”
“This guy could be anyone! He could be a serial killer.”
“That’s unlikely. And if he is, he’s unlikely to kill me, because there’s a very detailed legal trail tying me to him.”
“My point is, we don’t know. He could be Hannibal Lector!”
“That’s a fictional character.”
“He could be Sweeny Todd!”
“Also fictional.”
“Okay then, Jeffrey Dahmer! He was a real person, right?”
“Unfortunately. But he was caught and died in prison. Also, why are you only naming cannibals?”
“Because those are the serial killers that are foodies!”
“I promise you, I will run at the first sign of a human femur.”
There’s a beat of silence and I can picture Trinity chewing on her thumbnail, the way she does when she’s nervous. Then, “I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you too, Trin. But it’s only for a year. And it’s not like I’m moving to Antarctica. Honey Lake is twenty minutes from Austin. Forty-five if traffic is horrible.”
“But you don’t get a day off for a month!”
That part of the contract is a little weird.
The lawyer, a guy named Martin Harris, approached me a couple of weeks ago and offered me the job. Apparently, he knew a guy who knew a guy and law circles in Austin are pretty small. Ergo, he knew I was in deep financial waters and pretty desperate.
Is the job weird? Yes.
Were all the contracts even weirder? Yes.
I’ve been hired to shop for and prepare three meals a day, every day for the next year. After a month, I get two days off a month. I figure the guy I’m cooking for must be pretty old, because who else has no plans to leave his house for a solid year?
Yes, only getting two days off a month is extreme. On the flip side, I'm only making food for one guy. Only one dude.
And it’s not like I didn’t work seven days a week when dad was alive and I was cooking at Embarcado. Honestly, getting two days off per month is better than my usual work schedule.
Ain’t gonna lie. I'm a little worried about living so far from Austin.
But also … Have I mentioned how tired I am? And how broke? And how desperate?
And how big the bonus is if I last a full year?
I’ll be able to pay back my mom, with interest, and use the rest to start my own restaurant.
