The Things We Keep(8)

“Oh,” I say, relieved. “So … uh … you are?”

“The gardener.”

He disappears around a corner and I have to run to keep up. I catch him at the end of the corridor, where he is already knocking on the door.

“Eric?” he says through the door. His gaze touches mine briefly. “Eve Bennett is here to see you.”

The door swings open. The man standing there has a thick mustache and, unlike the gardner, is smiling.

“Hello,” he says brightly. “You must be Eve. I’m Eric.”

The gardener makes himself scarce and I take Eric’s extended hand. “Good to meet you.”

“Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in.” He ushers me inside. “Is that a British accent I detect?”

“East London,” I say. “But I’ve been in the United States nearly fifteen years.”

“Well, I won’t welcome you to the country, then.” He laughs, an oddly feminine giggle. “Only to my office. Please, have a seat.”

Eric pours a couple of glasses of water, and once we are sitting comfortably, picks up my résumé. “I have to say we haven’t had many applicants with your cooking credentials,” he says. “Our current cook is self-taught, and while the residents are quite fond of her, I think they’re getting a little sick of rice and beans and enchiladas for dinner every night. Gabriela’s pregnant, and her last day is Friday, so we need someone pretty desperately.”

“I’m available immediately,” I say.

“Good,” he says. “Then why don’t you tell me why you are applying for this job. With your training, I imagine you could get a job at an upscale restaurant or café!”

Eric laughs again, and I feel a bolt of encouragement. Clearly, unlike the gardener, he has no idea who I am.

“This is close to home,” I say. “And my daughter is at elementary school, so the day shifts suit better than regular hospitality hours.”

“Fair enough.” Eric’s gaze darts to the right, and then down to my résumé. “And why do you think you’d be a good candidate?”

He looks up expectantly, and I take a sip of water, buying some time. I don’t think it’s the moment to mention that this is my lastditch attempt to get an address in Clementine’s school zone. That without this address, she’ll be zoned to the far less idyllic Buttwell Road Elementary, known to the locals, of course, as Butt Road.

“Cooking is my passion,” I say finally. “I know what needs to be cooked fresh and what can be prepared in advance. I grow my own vegetables and try to use what’s seasonal both for taste as well as keeping costs down—”

“Some of our residents have special dietary requirements,” Eric interrupts. “High blood pressure, that kind of thing, so we need to keep our meals healthy and balanced, not to mention soft for those with dentures.”

I keep my wince on the inside. “I know all about cooking for high blood pressure. And I love the challenge of making simple food taste great.”

Eric smiles, threading his fingers together behind his head. The buttons on his shirt strain against his doughy belly. “And I don’t suppose you’ve done much in the way of cleaning?”

I pause. “I … er … thought this was a cook position.”

“Oh, it is. But our cleaner has just left us in the lurch, and I am hoping whoever takes this job can fill the void until I find someone.”

I swallow. “I see.”

“Have you had any experience with cleaning?”

“Of course,” I manage, even though until six months ago, Valentina, our live-in maid, took care of all the housework at our place. Since Valentina left, I’d taken over, but the standard of cleanliness had taken rather a large dive.

“Wonderful … well, it’s not a lot, really. The kitchen needs to be cleaned after meals, and the residents’ rooms need to be made up each day. There’s not much ironing, but some of the men like to wear a dress shirt on Sundays.”

I slump a little in my chair. I’ve ironed a couple of shirts before, but probably not more than a couple. When Richard and I were newly married, I’d made a great song and dance about being the one to iron his shirts. Once, I’d even done it naked. I thought there was something terribly romantic about ironing my lover’s shirt before he set off for work in the morning. But after a while, I’d handed the ironing over to Valentina along with the rest of the household chores that didn’t interest me.

“Shirts on Sundays,” I say, thinking of Butt Road. “No problem.”

“What else?” he says, clicking his tongue. “We have a fantastic nurse, Rosie, who does night shift, and we have caregivers here between eight and five. Trish is our personal care attendant, and Carole is her assistant. Angus, who let you in, is the gardener, and he also takes care of maintenance. As for the residents, we have twelve at the moment. One of our selling points is that we’re intimate. A family, really. We have to make sure everyone is a good fit before they start.”

I nod, a false smile woven to my face. The one thing I’m convinced of is that I’m the opposite of a good fit. I’m a chef, specializing in fine dining.… What do I know about being a cook and temporary cleaner at a residential home?