"It is. Darn," I say, but I don't punch out. Hillary's House is a great job. Not to mention she's about the sweetest person I know. So if she wants me to stay, she knows I will. Damn her.
"You wouldn't happen to want to do me one little bitty ol’ favor, would you?"
"No," I tease, shaking my head.
"I need an order delivered out on Hammersmith Road. That's out by you, isn't it?"
"Um, like ten miles past me. Where's Dylan? Why doesn't he deliver it?"
Hillary looks around the kitchen and clears her throat. "Dylan is out on another delivery and this one needs taken now."
I slump against the wall, my dreams of a hot bath fading. "It can't wait ten minutes?"
"I wouldn't ask you to do this, Ali, if it wasn't necessary. I'll pay you overtime to take it. I'll pay you triple if you need me to."
"I'll take it for triple," Opal yells from across the kitchen. "Hell, I'll take it for double!"
"You are making pies this afternoon. Hush," Hillary admonishes her. She turns back to me, tilting her head. "Please, Ali. I'll save you a piece of the pecan pie Opal is making in a little bit."
"She gets overtime and pecan pie? I hate you both," Opal moans.
I sigh and put the card back in my slot. "Fine. I'll do it for double pay and pecan pie."
She slings an arm around my shoulder and rests the side of her head against mine. "I'll give you triple," she whispers. "Thank you."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
Alison
I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE I'm at.
I drive past the entrance three times before I even realize it’s an entrance at all. The gate is on the other side of the tree line, and a security guard, dressed in a navy blue suit, greets me with a scowl. He wants to see my credentials, so I show him my Hillary's shirt and the large box in the back with food. After a couple of calls, he waves me in, and I start my trek down the mile-long driveway to the impressive home sitting at the end.
It's a three-story plantation-style house with black shutters and ferns hanging from hooks on the wrap-around porch. There are rocking chairs spaced evenly across the right side and a large table with what appears to be an oversized checkerboard to the left of the front door. A yellow dog comes running slo-mo from the side, his tail wagging and tongue sticking out. Another security guy, this one in a black suit and black tie, is waiting for me.
"Can I help you?" he asks. His eyes are a wicked shade of grey, his hair cropped close to his head. His skin is a smooth, olive-y color that's to die for.
"I'm here to deliver food," I say, letting my eyes sweep around the property. It's gorgeous and simple and quiet—the house of my dreams, basically. I can imagine myself sitting on one of the rockers on the porch with a glass of lemonade watching the sun set.
"Your name?"
"Alison Baker."
He steps out of my way. "I’m Troy. Go on in, Miss Baker. You don't need to knock."
I smile back, getting one final look at those beautiful eyes, and head inside. I would be more annoyed at the inconvenience of this little adventure if my curiosity weren’t at an all-time high. Who lives here? With security? And has lunch delivered by Hillary's? I'd be a little concerned being so far out, but Hillary knows where I am and the security guy gives me a little peace that an axe murderer isn't going to jump out of the woods.
I'm wondering if Dylan comes here regularly as I push open the front door and step inside. It's as charming as the outside. Wooden floors and dark trim set off bright white walls, royal blue décor and dark brown accent pieces adding pops of color. There's a white desk in the corner with neatly-piled files and folders and a sofa to my other side.
No one comes to greet me, no one seems to even know I'm here besides security. I can't tell if this is a house or some kind of office.
The sound of footsteps against the hardwood makes me whirl around to see a grey-haired lady looking as surprised to see me as I am to see her.
"Well, hello," she says, taking the eyeglasses off her face. "Who might you be?"
"I'm Alison from Hillary's." I gesture with the box of food in my arms and shrug.
She smiles and it reminds me of my grandmother. Her face is calm and kind, her blush a little too heavy. She nods and takes the smaller box from me. "Take that one up the stairs, to the right, and to the door at the end of the hall, please."
"I . . .” I start to speak, to ask why she can't take it considering she knows where she's going, but the smile on her face stops me. I suddenly feel disrespectful. "Sure thing."
I shuffle past her and make my way up the stairs. My steps echo as I clamor to the top and take a right.
If I weren’t so in love with the house, I'd probably be more nervous. I have no idea where I'm going or who is awaiting me. I just hope it isn't a dying old woman like in an old movie because that's exactly what this reminds me of.