I hurry across the hall and I open Luke’s door. Inside I flick on the bathroom light, casting a gentle glow into the room. The nerves, all of a sudden, are back. For me. Not for Anna. She looks around with the curiosity of a child, getting her bearings. I wheel her inside.
I know the moment she sees him, because she stills, and releases her breath softly. Luke blinks awake. He sees me first, then Anna. Maybe it’s because I want to see it, but I swear, a bulb lights up within him. He lurches upright.
I push Anna over to Luke and help her move onto the bed beside Luke. Then I back away. She plants a hand on each side of his face and he closes his eyes. They start to nod in unison—a strange, beautiful liturgical dance—then stop with their foreheads resting together. The empty space between their bodies, I notice, resembles a heart.
After a moment, Anna looks over at me. Her mouth moves ever so slightly, and a breath of noise comes, like a whisper that didn’t work out. But I hear what she’s trying to tell me all the same. Thank you.
*
The next morning, I stand in the kitchen, yawning. In theory, I’m washing the breakfast dishes, but in practice, I’m just staring out the window, where Angus is doubled over in a garden bed. The ground is going to freeze soon, and he’s working hard at putting the plants to bed. Even from the back, there’s something sexy about him. I try to ignore it, but it’s like trying to ignore the sunset during an evening stroll on the beach. Not happening.
Perhaps feeling my stare, he turns. Quickly I focus on the blackened char on the base of the saucepan I am washing. I haven’t spoken to Angus since Clem saw us kissing. I’ve barely looked at Angus since then. I have, however, thought about Angus since then. When I look back at the window he is standing up, walking toward the house. A moment later, he’s in the kitchen.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say. Clem is in the parlor, and I silently pray she won’t choose this moment to come tumbling in.
“I just wanted to show you this.” Pinched between Angus’s thumb and forefinger is a tiny green sprig. I gasp. “Cilantro?”
“Just about enough to feed a baby Smurf. But yes.”
“Wow.” I remove my gloves and lean over to smell it. “Mmmm. I’ve never had any success growing cilantro.”
“You’ve never tried with me before,” Angus says.
I blush, wondering if Angus is thinking the same thing as I am: That there’s something else I’ve never tried with him. Why on earth am I thinking that?
“Well, thanks for showing me,” I say.
“Actually, I was wondering if I could tempt you to have a rest from cooking one night?” he says. “Maybe let me cook for you?”
“Oh.” I laugh. “Thanks, but it is my job. And I don’t think Eric would be very happy if—”
“Not for the residents,” Angus says, chuckling. “For you.”
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. I want to say yes. But …
“You’d rather not,” he says.
“It’s not that. It’s just—”
“Clem.” He nods. “I get it. It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry, Angus.”
“It’s fine.” He hands me the cilantro and smiles. “For you.”
“Thank you.”
I turn back to the sink, shove my hands into the rubber gloves. I know I’m doing the right thing, but sometimes the right thing feels so wrong. I’m still pondering this a few minutes later when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Eve! There you are.”
I turn. Eric is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. My heart sinks.
“Do you realize it’s nearly ten o’clock?” he asks. His face is ruddy and his hair a little unkempt.
I glance at the clock. He’s right. By ten o’clock, according to my manual, the breakfast dishes are supposed to be done and the residents’ rooms should be made up. I doubt, in all the months I’ve been here that I’ve met that timeline, but I was late this morning, and my corn fritters took three tries to get them right, so today I’m definitely behind the eight ball.
“Shoot!” With my forearm, I push the hair out of my face and start on the last pot. “Sorry, Eric. I’m almost done here.” There’s a tray of orange and poppy-seed muffins cooling on the kitchen table and I gesture at them. “Have a muffin, Eric. Fresh from the oven!”
I force a smile, but for the first time, Eric doesn’t return it.
“Eve, I’m concerned that you’re getting your priorities out of whack. Your role is a cook-housekeeper. And the housekeeping side of things, to be honest, is not up to scratch.”
This hits a nerve. “In fairness, Eric, I’m filling in doing the housekeeping. And it’s actually a lot more work than I expected.” I put the pot in the drying rack and turn around. “I thought you’d have found someone by now. I can’t imagine it is a difficult role to fill, and it’s already been months—”
“Actually there’s been a change of plan in relation to that position,” he says. “I’ve just heard from above that the budget has been cut, and the cleaning is going to be a permanent part of your role now.”
I blink.
“I know it’s not ideal,” he says, “but that’s our reality. We’re cutting costs.”