Most locals didn’t feel the least bit used by the well-heeled whose lawns they tended, whose food they prepared, whose houses they cleaned.
A few locals, though, ended up providing services of an entirely different nature. And to Tilda’s mind, they were used.
She pushed that thought away, along with the pang of grief that accompanied it. Neither were productive and she didn’t have the time or energy for anything beyond what would keep her solvent—making her rent, filling her gas tank, filling her belly and paying for the online courses that were her only way of getting an education beyond her high school diploma.
At twenty-one, she was on track for getting her degree in biology in another six years.
Shoving a long swathe of her wavy brown hair off her shoulder, she bent to scoop up the grocery bags. Her boss at Maids by Mac, Mackenzie Walker—whom Tilda also counted as a friend—had passed over a list and the cash to pay for the items. She understood that Tilda didn’t have the extra to float the purchases until getting back to the office and handing over the receipt.
She shut the back door of her car with her hip and gave a cursory glance at the upscale vehicle she’d parked beside. Only two things interested her about automobiles: Did they run or didn’t they? But it was hard not to admire the gleaming black finish and tinted, smoky windows of the luxury ride. By comparison, her dented two-door with its faded paint looked like something that had been abandoned in a weedy, empty lot for an untold number of years.
Exactly what Roger Roper had claimed when he sold it to her, as a way to account for the astonishingly low mileage.
Tilda had known he was lying—she figured he’d fooled with the odometer—but the price had been right, and so far it had been kind to her.
Unlike the weather. As she moved toward the front door, big, cold drops shook out of the overhead clouds, leaving fat dots on her ragged jeans and on her faded green long-sleeved T-shirt. It read Blue Arrow Lake down one arm and the hem was unraveling, but it was good enough for her work as a maid.
Sometimes, if the homeowner was present, or if she took on a side job for a local caterer, she wore black pants and a white blouse as a “uniform.” But her helping with food service was irregular and the places she cleaned for Mac were usually empty during the week and used only on the weekends. So most often when working, Tilda dressed just one stage above rags, to prevent an errant product spill or a particularly grungy task from ruining a choicer piece of her meager wardrobe.
Now rain found the hole in her right sneaker, the one over her big toe.
An expert at ignoring things that caused her discomfort—from mere nuisances to actual anguish—she continued on, not even wishing she’d selected her other pair of work shoes for the day.
At the front door, she juggled the bags to free a finger and press the bell. It started up an intricate set of bonging notes, a classical tune, she supposed, that someone might learn to recognize in a college music appreciation class or even through the speakers in an elevator.
But Tilda would never register for a course so impractical.
And she’d never been in an elevator in her life.
It was weird, that, but true. She tried not to think it was because she wasn’t born to rise above her station.
Then the door swung open and her mind fogged.
Her expectation was to find on the other side an old friend of Mac’s who also was a former flame. He was recovering from the flu, she’d said. His cupboards were nearly bare. Tilda’s job had been to do a bit of marketing and to deliver it to the man—whose name was Zan Elliott.
But the person on the other side of the threshold wasn’t him.
Ash Robbins, her inner voice spoke in an appalled whisper. You weren’t ever supposed to see him again.
In her head, the fog cleared and playing cards—each an image of their one night together—were dealt across its surface. But she ruthlessly swept them away even as her skin flashed hot-cold-hot. It would be almost a relief to imagine she might be getting the flu, as well.
But what she was really getting was another look at Ash Robbins. Oh, God. A tidal wave of shame washed over her.
“Tilda!” He said her name and his handsome face split into a wide, white, perfect smile. As if he was happy to see her. How could he be happy to see her? “My God, this is amazing.”
Amazing? It was awful.
And so surprising that she stood like a stone, just staring.
His smile died. A faint pink stain spread across his cheeks. “Uh...” He swallowed. “Remember me? From that night, um, last May? Ash Robbins.”
Wow. She’d rattled golden-boy Ash Robbins, who was twenty-two and the apple of his filthy-rich parents’ eyes. They’d met right after his college graduation and the night before he left for an impressive summer internship in international banking.
She bobbed her head and said, “Ash,” as if he were, like his name, nothing more than a smudge of gray dust on her memory banks. Then she glanced down at the groceries, back up at him. “Can I come in for a moment?”
“Of course, of course. God, you must think I’m a moron.”
No, only the most attractive guy I’ve ever seen. That’s what had caught her attention at first, the night of her twenty-first birthday. His good looks. Only later, when he’d had the waitress deliver a drink and she’d smiled in return had he wandered to her table and introduced himself. His name had let loose her worst impulses.
“Let me take those,” he said now, bending a bit at the knees so he could get his arms under hers. His wrists brushed the undersides of her breasts and an answering shiver rolled down her back.
His gaze jumped to hers. “Sorry.”
“About what?” she asked vaguely, releasing the bags. Let him think his touch was nothing she remembered. That it didn’t affect her in the least.
Ash turned and she shut the door behind them, then followed him across gleaming floors to a state-of-the-art kitchen. Her apartment had a microwave and a single burner she and her roommates plugged into an electrical outlet. But thanks to the job that took her into many of the priciest homes in the area, she recognized the upmarket appliances and their functions.
He set the bags on the island and peered into them. “Uh...”
“I’ll put the things away,” she offered. His privilege probably meant he didn’t know if canned soup belonged in the pantry or the refrigerator. “I am at the correct house, right? This is Zan Elliott’s place?”
“Yeah.” Ash ran his hand through his hair, rumpling the golden-blond waves. “He’s taking a shower. But he knows his friend—Mac, isn’t it?—was sending someone by with groceries.”
“That’s me...not Mac, but the someone with the groceries.”
He smiled, a dimple digging deep in his cheek. Outside, the rain began in earnest, coming down in sheets.
Ash’s dimple. Heavy rain.
It only needed a flat tire to cap out a really crappy day.
“How have you been?” Ash said, as she moved toward the pantry, the soup and a box of crackers in her hands.
“Um, fine.” Small talk? After what had happened that night he wanted to chat?
“I’ve been fine, too—though I’ve thought about you again and again, hoping I didn’t leave you with a bad impression.”
Her head whipped around. “What?”
“I didn’t even wake up to say goodbye.”
It was actually she who’d left without a word while he was sleeping, sneaking out to do the Walk of Shame at dawn—and boy, had she been ashamed. Of course, there had been no getting away from her own conscience, but once the hotel door had locked behind her, second thoughts had been useless.
“No big deal,” she said.
“I wished I’d found a minute to make contact before I left.”
“Y
ou had a plane to catch that morning.”
“Yeah.” Once she returned to the bags, he spoke again. “But I also wasn’t my best the night before.”
As if she’d been a saint.
“I don’t...” He cleared his throat. “After a certain point I don’t really remember too much about it.”
Now she turned her head to stare at him. Could it be true?
His hands dived into his pockets and he hunched his shoulders, appearing as uncomfortable as a rich, handsome young man with the world at his feet could look. “Possibly it was that last bottle of champagne I ordered from room service.”
As she continued staring, he shrugged.
“I don’t recall paying for it. I only know I must have seriously overtipped the server who delivered it.”
A new surge of heat rushed up her neck. “I should have—”
“Nothing’s your fault,” he said quickly. “It’s just...it was a great night and I feel like I let it end on a sour note.”
Swallowing, Tilda made herself return her attention to the items in the bags. Her hand found the carton of eggs. “It doesn’t matter. That was a long time ago.”
And then Ash was at her back. She turned, to see that all the awkwardness had fallen away. He looked rich and smart and...confident. Smiling, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
The touch pierced skin, bone, marrow. She froze.
“I planned to find you, you know,” he said. “It’s a good omen that you appeared on the doorstep my first full day back in Blue Arrow Lake.”
Her eyes rounded. “You’re staying here?”
“For a few weeks. Then I’m off to England.”
“You were in Europe before.”
He nodded. “All over it, all over everywhere, actually. After my internship ended, I caught up with Zan Elliott and worked with him and a documentary crew for a couple months. But I’ve got a job in London waiting for me.”
He had a job in London waiting for him.
There were some toilets waiting for her and a scrub brush.
She decided to abandon the rest of the groceries and get on with her life. Ash or this Zan character could figure out what to do with the rest. “I’ve got to go.”
“Not yet.”
She was bound by his words, by her memories, by guilt over what she’d done and why she’d done it. Her mouth dried. “What?”
“You’ve got to let me make it up to you.”
Him make it up to her? She’d wronged him in ways she hoped he’d never discover. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Another night together.” His smile flashed, so disarming it was dangerous. “Just a date, Tilda. To get to know you better.”
Meaning, I’m not expecting you to jump back into the sack with me.
Yeah, that dangerous, because didn’t every woman—particularly one like Tilda—hope to find a man just like Ash Robbins who wanted to get to know her better...and not just get her into bed?
But truly, he wouldn’t at all appreciate what he’d find out about Tilda.
He had a job in London. She had a job cleaning litter boxes and kitchen sinks.
Even if they could forget about that one night they’d already shared—and she could not—the divide between them was much too wide.
* * *
MAC LOVED HER small office situated on a side street just off the main road that bisected the village of Blue Arrow Lake. It wasn’t much, primarily a main room divided by a counter between the entry door and her desk. Behind the central space was a large closet that held supplies, a small restroom and a back door that led to a tiny courtyard. That was a fine place to grab some lunch in good weather.
Sometimes she felt a bit embarrassed by the pride she felt sitting at the secondhand desk she’d found at a local thrift shop. But growing up, on rainy and snowy days her sister Shay had played school, Poppy had played with dolls and Mac had imagined herself in command of schedules and a staff.
You always were a bossy little thing.
What Zan had said was true, but her drive to own her own business was likely less to do with her temperament than to an early memory. When she was little, she’d been in line at the bank with her mother when Miss Cherie, the owner of the local beauty shop, had come in to stand behind them.
“A good week?” her mom had said, nodding at the money pouch the other woman carried.
“Very good,” Miss Cherie had said, hefting the bulging zippered bag.
When Miss Cherie had stepped up to the teller beside the one helping her mother, Mac’s eyes had gone wide at the stacks of money and checks she withdrew from the pouch. How much could the total have been? she wondered now. A few hundred dollars, she supposed.
It had looked like the contents of a leprechaun’s pot of gold to one of the Walker family, whose finances had always been precarious.
So she loved being in charge of her own bottom line as well as being in charge of herself.
On the one hand, she was single and alone. On the other, she had her well-valued independence.
The front door pushed open and Tilda Smith came inside. You had to love the girl—not just because she was an eager employee, never saying no to extra hours or extras tasks, but also because she was a by-her-bootstraps kind of person. She’d been raised by a single mom who’d scraped by as a barmaid at various establishments—a single mom who hadn’t always made the best emotional choices for herself. At the woman’s sudden death several months before, Tilda had kept on marching, though, moving into a tiny apartment with two other girls and working for Mac and occasionally for one of the caterers in town as well as picking up any other odd job that she could.
Like dropping off groceries for Zan Elliott.
“Hey, Tilda,” she called out in greeting. “I’ve got the cleaning caddy all ready for you.” One day a week Mac devoted to paperwork, so the young woman was going to be cleaning a four-bedroom luxury lake-view condo on her own.
“Thanks.” The girl seemed a little distracted as she approached, binding her wealth of long, wavy hair in a rubber band at the same time. Shadows beneath her green eyes only made them appear more jewel-toned. Ah, youth.
“Are you okay?” Mac asked, studying her with new concern.
Their relationship went beyond employer-employee. Not just because she recognized a like soul—they both were tough-skinned survivors—but they’d shared a lot about themselves when they worked together. Polishing two dozen place settings of silver or scrubbing a kitchen sized for an army turned out to be natural times to trade confidences.
They began with how best to stretch a dollar and which bank had the most generous overdraft protection, then moved on to the more personal.
Tilda had revealed her mother’s history of affairs with married men as well as her own lackluster attempts at romance.
Mac had talked about the three times she’d attempted commitment in her early twenties—all awkward failures that had left her believing she was better off being alone. She’d even explained about the postcards that arrived at the office from around the world...and about what their sender had once been to her.
“I’m okay,” Tilda said now. “Fine.” She pushed through the swinging door cut into the counter. “Any special instructions?” she asked, first snatching up the keys to one of two small sedans with the Maids by Mac signage on the side. Second, she scooped up the plastic holder that contained gloves, cloths and their preferred cleaning products. It would take another trip for her to retrieve the vacuum cleaner and mops and stow them into the car’s trunk.
Mac narrowed her gaze, taking a closer look at the younger woman’s face. “You’re not coming down with something, are you? Did Zan pass along the same flu that flattened him when you delivered the groceries?” That had been two days ago, long enough for illness t
o incubate.
“I didn’t even see him then,” Tilda said.
“Really?” Mac frowned. “But he sent me a text, thanking me for the delivery. How did you get into the house?”
“Ash Robbins was there.”
“Ah. John and Veronica Robbins’ kid.” The couple’s home was on a regular rotation for Mac’s cleaning service now that they’d retired to the mountains. While she didn’t know them well, it was clear they loved their son. “According to his mother and father, the boy can do no wrong.”
Tilda flushed. “He’s not a boy. He’s a man.”
O-kay. Mac knew Tilda didn’t have much to do with boys—uh, men. Keeping oneself financially afloat took a lot of time and energy—at least that had been Mac’s excuse the past several years. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”
“We don’t, not really.” The girl lifted a shoulder. “We ran across each other last May. But we’re not in the same league.”
“What?” Mac bristled. “Is that what he said?”
She shrugged again. “Imagine what his father’s opinion of me would be.”
His father? What would his father have to do with anything? She frowned. “Til—”
“I need to get going,” the girl said, spinning around to head out.
Mac bustled into the back room to grab up the mops and wheel the vacuum toward the street. Before she reached the front door, Tilda had returned. “I’ve got this,” she said, taking over.
Frowning again, Mac put her hands on her hips. “I can help.”
The girl shook her head. “I don’t want to get used to that.”
Mac let her go but continued to watch as she exited. Clearly Tilda valued her autonomy, and her boss could appreciate that, but as a friend it worried her.
Keep On Loving you Page 6
