by Mia Pride
“Your dinner is already made. No need to sweet-talk me.” She smiled and got on her tiptoes to reach a plate from the cabinet. At nearly sixty-five years old, she still had energy and determination, and I learned long ago never to offer help with the cooking, cleaning, or even purchasing a five-dollar step stool so she could reach the top shelves. Of course, I preferred to do these things myself, but a Farrington never dared to do such things, according to my parents. It was elitist and absurd. I knew this every day I came home. Yes, I enjoyed the clean house and hot meals. It beat any shit I would microwave and likely explode, but the desire to function without a servant niggled at me daily.
Thankfully, Sylvia enjoyed her work, and I enjoyed her company. She made double what all her fellow housekeepers made, and I enjoyed hearing the stories about her kids and grandkids, knowing my employment offered her health care and security she would otherwise never have. It was also nice to have someone to speak to when I came home after a long day of sales pitches and people kissing my ass. Sylvia never did such things. She would reprimand me if it were necessary, and as of late, it had apparently been very necessary.
“Mr. Farrington. You work too hard,” she scolded, plopping a steaming pile of mashed potatoes on a plate.
“I believe this is a ‘pot calling the kettle black’ scenario, Sylvia.”
“I work hard because I want to. You do it because you have to. Look around. Huge house. Nice car. All the money in the world, and nobody to share it with. No beautiful wife to come home to or children to play catch with. You need more,” she said, adding more potatoes before slopping the aromatic pot roast on top.
“I need more vacation days. I will give you that. But I need nothing more than what I have.” I was lying through my teeth to the sweetest old woman in the world, and she knew it. I wasn’t Brent. I was in no hurry for a wife or child, but that did not mean a steady relationship was out of the question. And for the first time in my entire life, I had an image of the perfect woman in my mind. She had brown hair and eyes, a laugh that lit up every room she entered, didn’t take herself too seriously, a career of her own and didn’t seek my money, the best damned body I had ever seen... and she was the last woman on earth I would be allowed to date unless I wished to jeopardize my relationship with my business partner. I had not slept with another woman in a month, and I wondered if Monica had ruined me forever. No woman would be nearly as interesting or challenging as she was.
“Speaking of days off...” Sylvia handed me the dinner plate and came around the counter to stand in front of me, her mouth set in a firm line.
“If you need days off, Sylvia, you know you can have as many as you require,” I said before taking a bite of pot roast and rolling my eyes back in my head as the delicious juices flooded my mouth. “Dear God, this is delicious,” I murmured around my mouthful of meat.
“I do need some days off, Mr. Farrington.”
“How many?” I asked, getting the feeling she was about to drop a bomb on me.
“I am not certain. Likely, all of them. You see... it’s my husband. He is quite ill.”
Putting my fork down, I frowned and turned to face her. “I am terribly sorry to hear that, Sylvia. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Find a cure for cancer?” she asked, putting her head down and wringing her hands.
“Good lord. I am so sorry.” I did not know what to say. “Please, take as much paid time off as you need. And send all his medical bills to me.”
Shaking her head, I saw a tear run down her wrinkled, beautiful face. “I cannot take advantage of you that way, Mr. Farrington. You already overpay me.”
“Have you tasted your own cooking? If anything, I do not pay you nearly enough.”
She smiled, and I stood from my stool. “Sylvia. This is the last request I will make of you as your employer, and I expect you to do as I say.”
Her eyes widened when she looked at me, and her lower lip quivered. Walking around the counter, I opened the junk drawer and pulled out a pen and my checkbook, scribbling a number that I assumed would be enough to pay all her medical bills and double her wages for the next three years. Signing my name, I tossed the pen back in the drawer and walked over to her. Folding the check in half, I handed it to her and put up a finger. “Now, listen to me, Sylvia. You are never coming off my payroll, but consider this an advance and a raise. Do not look at that check until you are home, and do not dare to refuse it. If you do, I will write one for twice as much, and you know I never lie.”
Her hands shook as she held the folded check. “Sir, I... I do not feel right...”
“Sylvia, I am the one who does not feel right. Look at me. I live alone in this empty house. You have made this a home to me for the last several years. You are my family, and Farringtons take care of their own. Money means nothing. Take care of your husband, Sylvia. Your job is here if ever you want it back, but with this...” I pointed to the check, “you will be secure for... a long time.”
“But... sir...”
“Chris. Call me Chris. And, I insist. I am not a doctor, and I have no cure for what you seek. But your husband will have the best of care; I demand that. All right?”
Sniffling, Sylvia lunged at me, wrapping her small arms around my waist, blubbering into my chest. I just held her there for some time, allowing her to grieve, to lean on me, wishing I was capable of more than just offering money. After a long moment, she let go and looked up at me once more. “Thank you, Chris. You have no idea what this means to me, to us.”
“I do actually, Sylvia. My father had cancer. He beat it because he had luck on his side, as well as the best doctors money can buy. I do not know your husband’s prognosis, but with luck and the best doctors, he has a chance. I will be sending you the names of all the best doctors in the Bay Area. Tell them the Farringtons sent you. Let me know if you need anything more.”
My heart ached. Watching my loved ones suffer was the most painful experience. Swallowing hard, Sylvia nodded and clutched the check, doing as I asked and keeping it folded. I walked her toward the door for what I knew to be the last time and stood on that porch well after she drove off, staring up at the stars twinkling in the sky, hoping she would not rip up a check for a quarter-million dollars when she got home.
Sighing, I shut my door and slowly walked into my living room, plopping on my soft beige leather couch, wondering what I was going to do in this large, empty house, feeling like I had lost not only a good friend but a woman I never truly had in the first place. I had been an ass the last time I saw Monica, asking if she was pregnant like an immature teenage boy. The thought of a baby scared the shit out of me, but it was wrong for me to ask such a thing, especially to my best friend’s sister. I wanted to apologize, but three weeks had passed, and it was probably better to keep my distance and assume she never thought about me, despite my constantly thinking about her.
Chapter Four
Monica
THE BATHROOM SMELLED like stale pee, but soon it would smell much worse. Hand over my mouth, I kicked open the closest stall and wretched, barely making it into the toilet... for the third time that day.
Flushing, I ran to the sink and rinsed my mouth, then washed my hands. This was not a good way to start my shift as head chef for the night. Maybe it was those clams. I told Ryan they were not fresh enough last night when a table sent them back. Hungry as hell, I had shoved a few in my mouth while on my break. It seemed gross, but you didn’t get it until you worked seven solid hours with no lunch break and stared at food all day. Touched food got trashed, but anything untouched was fair game to the staff, myself included.
Heading to the kitchens, I stopped in my tracks when Rochelle came around the corner, chewing her gum like a cow out to pasture. “Excuse me.” I attempted to go around her, but she shifted, blocking my path.
“Hey, Monica,” she said sarcastically. I resisted rolling my eyes and took a deep breath.
“Hey, Rochelle.” What more was there to say to th
e woman Steve left me for? I think she believed I cared way more than I did. In fact, I cared zero percent. I would actually hug her in thanks if I wasn’t afraid of getting fleas.
Trying to go around her a second time, I sighed when she shifted again and popped her gum. She had better spit that wad out before the restaurant opened for the dinner shift, but for now, I let it go. “Can I help you with something?”
“Actually, yes. As you know, Steve’s birthday is coming up, and I wondered if you had any suggestions for gifts.” Her smile widened, and I felt myself losing my patience. I had an entire restaurant to cook for. It opened in twenty minutes, and I didn’t have time for her petty games. And yet, I couldn’t resist a chance to mess with her.
“Sure. Well... I mean, you know Steve. He’s the physical sort. When we were together, he never wanted me to buy him anything. He prefers blow jobs. Am I right? One year, I wore nothing but a bow and let him unwrap me. Once he did, he sure had fun licking all the chocolate syrup off my body. Said it was the best birthday of his life. So, I suggest that. A bottle of chocolate syrup and a BJ. He will love it. Now, if you will excuse me.”
I smiled victoriously when she turned red and frowned. Heading toward the back of the kitchen, I grabbed cuts of meat to prepare as I waved to my sous-chef, Ryan, who was too busy chopping vegetables to notice anything around him.
“You know something, Monica? You’re a real bitch.”
Plopping the meat down, I sighed and turned around to face Rochelle again. Ryan whistled beside me and put down his knife. “Leave Monica alone, Rochelle,” Ryan said defensively.
“Stay out of this, Ryan!” she spat, placing her hands on her hips and popping her gum again.
“Look, Rochelle. I have a job to do. I’m not feeling well as it is. You asked for birthday gift ideas, and I gave you one. If you don’t want to hear stories about me blowing your boyfriend, then maybe you shouldn’t ask me for advice. Better yet, maybe don’t steal someone’s boyfriend.” I shrugged and turned around, yelping when I felt her yank my ponytail.
“Hey!” Ryan stepped forward, but I put a hand out to stop him.
“I’ve got this, Ry,” I said calmly, looking at Rochelle once more. “Did you just pull my hair? Are you twelve?”
“I hate you!” she cried. “You’re like... the worst!”
“I’m so sorry I dated Steve off and on for two years before he even knew you existed. My bad. Leave me alone, and go do your job.” The nausea was coming on again, and I needed this pathetic creature to leave me alone so I could focus on my job and try not to hurl. “You need to go now.”
“Make me.”
Before I could even consider what to say or do with this annoying, petulant child, it was too late. My stomach roiled, and I tried to push past her, but she blocked my way again, this time paying the ultimate price for her childishness when I lost control and vomited all over her uniform.
A blood-curdling scream filled the kitchen, and it seemed every employee came running in, the restaurant’s owner included.
“Oh, shit!” Ryan shouted, holding his hand over his mouth to cover his laughter.
Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I ran to the bathroom, wondering what the hell was wrong with me while Rochelle continued to scream like a banshee. Locking myself in one of the stalls, I sat on the toilet lid and put my face in my hands. It took a lot to embarrass me, but I could say for certain this was the most humiliating moment of my life. Even worse than that time I was at the movies in high school with Billy Thompson and accidentally choked on a popcorn kernel and then farted. That was embarrassing. This was downright mortifying. Although, if anyone deserved to get vomited on, it was Rochelle.
There was a knock on the bathroom door before it creaked open. “Monica? It’s Joseph.” Shit. The owner of the restaurant. “May I come in?”
“Uh-huh.” Standing up, I wiped my mouth with toilet paper and tossed it into the stall’s side bin before slowly stepping out to meet my demise. “Joseph. I am so sorry. I don’t understand what’s wrong with me.”
“You’re sick.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve been in the bathroom off and on since starting your shift.”
“Yeah...”
“You need to go home, Monica. You are not well enough to be handling food for an entire restaurant.”
“I know.” I didn’t know what was wrong with me, though I had a sinking feeling in my gut that it wasn’t the clams. Numbers, dates, and days ran through my mind as I tried to calculate how much time had passed since Brent’s wedding. One... two... three... I silently counted on my finger. Five weeks.
“Are you all right, Mon?” Joseph frowned. “Listen. The work environment here has become hostile. Rochelle filed a complaint against you this week claiming you’ve been verbally harassing her over some boyfriend of hers.”
“What?!” Fuck that. This woman was insane. “Absolutely not. All I do is ignore the woman, but she won’t leave me alone. She just pulled my hair and called me a bitch! Ryan heard it!”
“Ryan is staying out of the ‘drama.’” Joseph made air quotes, and I huffed in frustration. I didn’t blame Ryan, in the end. He was a quiet man who worked hard and had a family to feed. He just wanted to cook. So did I! I was a classically-trained chef. I did not sign up for the bullshit of being harassed by a waitress, only to have her file reports against me.
“Joseph, my personal business is my own. Rochelle has her own set of problems. I have nothing to do with them.”
“Maybe. That isn’t what she says, and I have no proof either way unless you wish to file a report of your own.”
“I don’t wish to do anything but my job, Joseph!”
Scratching the back of his neck, Joseph scrunched up his face. “Maybe you should take some time off while we investigate the reports of aggression, Monica. Take time to get well... physically and emotionally.”
This was bullshit. “You know what, Joseph? I have been nothing but a stand-up employee. I’m always here early. I’m the best chef you’ve had in years, and you know it! I have done nothing to Rochelle, nor have I ever showed a hint of aggression toward anyone here. If you want me to take time off because of a falsified report from the jealous woman who stole my boyfriend, so be it, but don’t expect me to come back. I can do better elsewhere, somewhere I can actually do my job without a waitress stealing my boyfriend, throwing insults at me, pulling my hair, then filing reports. Good luck finding a new head chef.”
Storming past Joseph, I couldn’t think through my blind rage. This place could kiss my ass. Rochelle and Joseph could kiss my ass. I didn’t need this job. Well, I needed a job... but I would find another, I was certain of it. In fact, I had an interview this evening at one of the fanciest restaurants in the city, thanks to a few good connections. Working with Rochelle had become too burdensome, but I had never expected to lose this job before finding another. I could only hope I didn’t vomit during my interview.
Leaving the restaurant, I walked to my reliable compact SUV and sighed as I climbed in, resting my head against the seat. I had just quit my job, and I was not at all certain I wasn’t going to really need it in the next few months.
“Shit, Mon... get yourself together.” My hands shook as I started the engine and grabbed the wheel. I was being paranoid, right? Birth control was like 99% effective when taken accurately. Chewing my nails, I wracked my brain to think about the time around Brent’s wedding. I took the pill on time that night, right? What about the night before? Hell, if I could remember. I had been working late nights and was busy with the wedding planning. There were undoubtedly some nights I took it late, but I always took it.
Driving home, I saw the drug store on my left and immediately turned into the parking lot, turning off my car’s engine. “This is just precautionary,” I murmured to myself as I grabbed my purse and took a deep breath. I was a dumbass for even putting myself in this position. As soon as Chris told me he had no condom, I should have put a stop to thin
gs. But I was lonely and horny, and he was sexy as hell, and we were naked, and he was hard and ready and... “Shit,” I whispered. “Just do this, and be done with it.”
I had never had to buy one of these tests and somehow felt ashamed for needing one now. Running into the store, I purchased the most expensive digital two-pack they had and went through self-checkout, hoping I didn’t see anyone I knew. Receipt in hand, I tucked the tests into my purse and bolted for my car, feeling like a naughty teenager about to get caught sneaking out.
My condo was just up the street. It was modest, but it was all I needed... and all I could afford in a housing market where half a million got you two bedrooms and a thousand square feet if you were lucky. Still, it was my place. I paid the mortgage, and I was proud of that. A chill ran up my spine as I pulled into my complex and clicked the button to open my garage. I had a mortgage, no job, two pregnancy tests in my purse, and I felt like I would barf again.
Hell-bent on being done with this, I ran into the house, frantically waving at my neighbor and slamming the door behind me before she started talking about the new HOA president and trying to convince me to join the board. As if. I went to one meeting, and they were ready to build my pyre.
The snorts and panting of Charlie, my beloved pug, greeted me as I came through the door. “Hey, buddy!” I said with a smile, stopping to scratch behind his ear as he covered me with slobbery kisses. Come on, Charlie, Momma needs to use the potty, and so should you.” Walking through the small space, I opened the sliding door to my patio garden, and Charlie bounded out, allowing me to make my break.
Grabbing the tests, I fumbled with the clear wrapping while I walked, trying to multi-task and doing a lousy job of it. Without bothering to close the door, I yanked my pants down and sat on the toilet, fiddling with the ridiculous packaging. I needed to read the directions, but I also really needed to pee, so I ripped open the test and used my common sense, peeing on one tip, then on the other.
