“I’ll send Carole over,” he says, and a moment later, a staff member is scurrying in her direction. “If there’s something wrong, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
I nod and he gestures for us to return to the house. As he holds open the screen door for me, he says, “The upside of dementia, of course, is if she does lose her scarf, she isn’t going to miss it for long.”
4
As we drive through the gates of Rosalind House, Clementine’s eyes widen. “This is our new house? Mom, are we rich again?”
In my surprise, I nearly lose my grip on the steering wheel. Clem had been utterly indifferent when I’d told her I was starting a new job. Utterly indifferent when I’d told her we were moving house. Utterly indifferent about everything since Richard disappeared from our lives. Because of this, when it came to my new work situation, I’d been sparing with details. Now I wonder if I’d been too sparing. “What do you mean ‘again’?”
“You know. How Dad lost our money and stuff.”
For a moment, I’m punch-drunk, stupefied. Clem gives me a look that says Seriously? Did you think I was stupid?
Did I?
I think of the house as we left it. Boxes lining the walls of the foyer, every room dismantled, packed away, and labeled with a yellow, pink, or green sticker—take, toss, sell. The “sell” stickers were the most plentiful, labeled in green in the hopes it would correspond with the amount of green they’d bring in at auction. Was I a fool to think that Clem wouldn’t have drawn her own conclusions? Particularly now, when everything we own fits nicely into one Samsonite suitcase and four garbage bags.
She stares at me, her brown eyes curved into inquisitive crescents, far too knowing for a seven-year-old.
“Clem—”
“My name’s not Clem,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s Beatrice.”
I wipe at my brow with the heel of my hand. The name thing started a few months ago and is wildly inconsistent—sometimes she keeps a designated name all day; other days she changes it four, maybe five times. For now, it just seems easier to go with it. “Okay, Beatrice, then—”
“How many bedrooms is it?” she asks.
And just like that, she is upbeat again. In the past few months, she’s yo-yoed between euphoria (almost exclusively when she was in the company of her best friend, Allegra aka “Legs”) and a sullen, introspective demeanor befitting a teenager rather than a seven-year-old girl.
As she begins her involuntary bounce, the first part of what she’d said—“This is our new house?”—slips into my consciousness. I glance up at the beautiful house. Of course Clem assumes this is her new home. It looks a hell of a lot like her old home.
“Clem, wait,” I say as she reaches for the car door handle.
“Beatrice!”
“Sorry.” I curse under my breath. “Beatrice…”
But Beatrice has already swiped up the garbage bag containing her things and is leaping up the stairs. I charge after her, and by the time I get there, like a déjà vu, the gardener is in the doorway.
“Oh, hello, again,” I say, flustered.
“Hello,” he says. His eyes drop to Clem. She stares at him, her mouth slightly open, then a little smile starts.
I can hardly blame her; he really is extraordinarily handsome. I’m suddenly aware of my jeans, my plain white-but-graying tee, my ponytail. My round face is bare of makeup and my hair hasn’t seen a cut or highlight in months, leaving it well past my shoulders and a dirty dark blond. Worst of all, I’m wearing an ill-fitting bra that is digging into my shoulder blades and squashing my breasts into a strange, wavelike shape. I cross my arms.
“Hi,” Clem says, sliding behind my leg, her bouncy excitement replaced by shy awkwardness.
“May I take your bag?” Angus asks.
Clem’s eyes widen. “Are you the butler?”
Angus’s eyes meet mine for the briefest of seconds.
“Oh no, Clem—”
“No,” he says. “I’m the gardener.”
“Oh!” She nods and smiles as though now everything makes sense. “Of course! You’re the gardener. Well, you’re doing a great job. The garden looks neat.”
“Thank you very much,” he says, taking her bag.
“Eric asked me to pop in tonight to meet the residents properly,” I explain to Angus. His responding shrug makes me feel foolish.
Clem darts inside and I chase after her into a high-ceilinged dining room. It is louder than I expected for a residential care facility—a cacophony of clangs, dings, and tremulous shouting. Residents and a few staff are parked in front of bowls of what looks like red beans and rice. Eric sits at the end of one table next to Anna.
“Well, hello there,” Eric says, rising from his chair. “Glad you could make it.” He hushes the room with a wave of his hands. “Everyone, can I have your attention, please? This is Eve Bennett. Eve is our new cook. She has studied at New York’s Institute of Culinary Education, so you are in for a treat. Eve will also be doing some cleaning for us, until we hire someone permanent. I hope everyone is going to make her very welcome.”