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“I already feel bad enough breaking it. I'm not going to ask you to buy another one.”
But she's missing the point. “If you truly like that dish, if it makes your job better, easier, or even nicer, I’d rather purchase another than have you go without.”
She pauses for a moment, then speaks in a thoughtful tone, settling back on her heels as I continue to clean up red sauce. “That might be the nicest thing an employer has ever said to me.”
I hold back a chuckle. “Obviously you've worked for some really miserable bastards.”
“Present company excluded, of course?” she asks, arching an eyebrow at me. This time, I let the laugh come.
“Absolutely not.” I know I’m a miserable bastard, and I’m likely a nightmare to work for. Lord knows I’ve given her enough grief since she started. Hell, I might be the most miserable bastard of them all. And I realize I’m enjoying this back and forth. I’m enjoying being on my knees, cleaning up broken glass and tomato from the floor and cabinets. I’m enjoying her.
This does not bode well for our working relationship, so I’d be better off putting all of those thoughts in a box and sinking them to the bottom of the ocean, along with the accompanying feelings. I have no right to enjoy her company - she’s hired help. Anything else I feel is inappropriate and unwelcome and best kept to myself.
Besides, we’re clearly from different worlds. And I don’t mean that in a disparaging way, simply in our lives could never line up enough for a relationship to work kind of way.
“Thank you for this,” she says, her voice suddenly soft.
“For what?” I ask, startled out of my thoughts.
She nods at the floor. “For helping me clean up.”
Her words send an unexpected wave of warmth through me. “Of course.” For once, I’m not sure what else to say, so I pick up another bit of glass and drop the shard in the trash.
“Want me to make you another steak?”
I glance at her, surprised. She’s not supposed to be here, much less be making me food. I’m fully expecting her to laugh, tell me she’s joking, and tease me for thinking she meant her words, but she doesn't.
“Are you supposed to be home right now?”
She nods. “But I want to properly thank you for your help.” The second she says those words, her cheeks go red and my body reacts. We both freeze, as if shocked by our reactions, and I quickly respond.
“I’d like that, thank you.”
Together, we put the last of the glass in the garbage and she wipes up a huge glob of red sauce. I put a hand on hers. “I’ll get the mop.”
Her gaze meets mine and her throat flexes as she swallows hard. She nods, and I leave the room to get the promised mop, well aware that if I don’t get out now, I might do something I’ll regret later... like kiss her.
Chapter Seven
Alisha
“Oh, you don't have to do that, Beverly.” I smile at Charles’ mom as she sets out plates for me. She continues walking through the kitchen with a single flap of her hand, as if she’s waving away my concerns.
“I am happy to help.” She reaches into the cabinet and pulls out three plates. “You really should join us, you know.”
I can't hold back a smile. She says that to me nearly every day now, and I can't explain how inappropriate it would be for me to sit down at the table with the people that I work for. I love that she wants to include me in these meals, but I'm not part of the family. I'm the hired help, and I want to keep that line very distinct. Which is really hard to do when she comes in here every day to help me as if we're family setting up meals together.
Some part of me wonders if she's lonely, which makes me sad because she's really a lovely lady. I don't know how Charles can be the man he is with a mother like her because she's incredibly warm and kind. I'm not naive. I know that she has a backbone of steel and that she wouldn't take anything from anyone, but it seems like she needs something to trigger that response in her.
“It's very sweet of you to offer, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I open the oven and peek in on the cast iron pans holding the frittatas I’d made them.
“I think it would be good for Charles to have you there. He seems very cold, but he's a good man.” She turns to face me, leaning against the counter. “Food smells delicious as always.” She gives a deep, appreciative inhale, tilting her chin up and letting the breath out in a rush.
“I’m thinking about serving the frittatas in the cast iron. Do you think that would be an issue?” I'll still need plates for the breakfast fruit and yogurt salad that I had made, along with the steamed spinach, Brussel sprouts, and sweet potatoes.
“I think that would be lovely, dear.” I can hear her smile in her voice.
There are so many things I want to ask her about being a mother; like what happens when children grow up and if the grief and fear and guilt for not being around enough ever go away. My daughter's only four, and I already feel an overwhelming guilt for not being around more. I don't know how other parents can drop their kids off at daycare or school all day long and not see them until evening when they get home from work. Maybe I'm just weird, but the more time I spend away from my daughter, the harder getting up in the morning and leaving gets.
