Page 33 of The One Timer

“These photos are adorable. Hilda looks so happy.” Mrs. W’s smile is genuine as she looks at the photos with Sheryl standing over her shoulder.

I stand by, not part of the scene like an uninvited guest at a party.

Sheryl takes her phone back and turns to me. “Did you get rid of those hockey tickets? Sorry, I couldn’t go. I would love to have seen Chase play.”

“Yes, you’ll definitely have to come to a game. We couldn’t have you miss seeing Chase play in his first season,” Mrs. W says, then turns to me. “Sheryl and Chase were such inseparable friends when they were younger.” She laughs, shaking her head, and turns her attention back to Sheryl. “Your mother and I always harbored big dreams that you would become a couple.”

“You never know, Mrs. Whittier. We’re both still single, right? Maybe we can get together during the holidays.”

“Maybe you can. He’ll be home the day after Christmas. I’m having a dinner, and your family is invited in case no one mentioned it to you in the middle of the excitement about the new baby.”

“Awesome. I’ll be there. We’ll all be there—except maybe my sister, Hilda, and the baby—not sure about them.” Sheryl turns to me. “Nice seeing you again, Emily.”

I don’t bother correcting her about my name as she flounces to the door, but Mrs. W speaks up. “Her name is Emery, sweetheart. Give my best to the family.”

Sheryl pauses a beat and mouths sorry to me as she waves and lets herself out.

“Let’s go shopping, shall we?” Mrs. W says. “Don’t mind Sheryl. She’s always been young for her age.”

“Do you still dream of her getting together with Chase?” I immediately bite my tongue. What the heck is wrong with me asking such a personal question? Shit. It was a mistake, but I hold my breath waiting for the answer anyway.

“Between you and me—not exactly. Not that such a thing would ever be up to me. I’m sure Chase has no problem attracting women all on his own and will have a choice of many possibilities.”

We walk to the library, and when I go inside, I breathe in the heady smell of leather-bound books that never fails to overwhelm me. The scent represents possibilities, the promise of more, of enrichment, knowledge, and independence.

And it’s been here all along, sitting and waiting for who knows how many years, taken for granted by this family, but well-used I have to admit. Maybe I should be resentful, but I can’t be. Mrs. W is too kind, too wise, and too hard-working, even at her age.

I certainly can’t resent Chase. He’s too down-to-earth, hard-working, and giving for me to feel anything but admiration—plus a healthy dose of lust. That’s where I shut the door on the contemplation of my feelings.

Concentrate on doing your job.

It shouldn’t take me until Christmas Eve to finish my shopping, but it does, mostly because I needed the money from the paycheck I picked up yesterday. Now, I’ll be late to Mrs. W’s if I don’t hurry. Uvi’s expecting me to make lunch for them.

When I let myself in the back door, I find the kitchen empty and take a deep breath in relief. Then I hurry to remove my coat, stow my bag, and throw on an apron. Before I get started, I head to the library to find Mrs. W. She’s there with Uvi, no surprise. They’re at the computer and talking about the list of invitees to the annual Whittier charity gala that I’ve been hearing about.

“You can’t add any more people to the list. The venue is too close to its maximum,” Uvi says.

Mrs. W makes a dismissive gesture and scrunches her face. “I’m sure we can squeeze a few more if need be.”

I smile and clear my throat. They both look up. “I just wanted to let you know I’m here and ask if you have any special preferences for lunch.”

“Good morning, dear⁠—”

Uvi interrupts Mrs. W, making a show of checking her watch. “You mean good afternoon.” She compresses her lips in disapproval. Her arthritis must be kicking up today. I’ll have to make up some more salve for her.

Mrs. W waves a hand at Uvi. “Nonsense. Emery has perfect timing, as always. No preference for lunch. Whatever you make is always delicious.”

“Too damn healthy,” Uvi grumbles.

I squelch a grin. “I’ll be in the kitchen then.”

“We’re right behind you,” Mrs. W says, joining me as I start with a Caesar salad. It’s a basic dish, healthy and easy enough to make. I’ll add some pre-cooked shrimp for protein, one of Mrs. W’s favorites and easier than poached salmon, which I almost made a disaster of the last time I tried cooking it.

No matter how many times I explain to Uvi that I’m not a trained cook, she insists that I make lunch every day when I’m here, and sometimes, breakfast, too, if I’m early. I don’t mind. I can hardly complain since Mrs. W is paying me almost twice what the agency paid. Still not close to enough to live on, but enough to get me by until I finish school with a little saved up to cover moving into my own apartment if I’m lucky.

Mrs. W enters the kitchen, walking slower than usual as I watch her. I don’t interfere because I don’t want to make her feel incompetent, but I’ll need to find out what’s slowing her down. Pouring her a cup of coffee as is our routine, I ask, “Did you sleep well last night?”

“As well as can be expected of an eighty-six-year-old woman. Thank you for asking.” She adds cream to her cup before taking a sip, and I linger at the table.