“Oh, come on,” Nan said before Monica had a chance to agree. “It’ll be fun. Instead of sitting around and talking every week, we could sew and talk. If we do it together, I bet we can make a dozen jackets in no time.”
“Don’t look at me,” Monica said. “I had to make an apron in my eighth-grade Home Ec class. Sewed right over my thumb. Blood everywhere, purple stitches showed right through the skin.”
Monica lifted the once-wounded digit, tracing a line with her finger where the thread had been. I felt my stomach lurch.
“Okay,” I said, “you’re not allowed to get within fifty feet of a sewing machine. You can be in charge of cutting. Or maybe just pinning,” I said, considering the kind of damage Monica might be able to inflict with a pair of sewing scissors.
“So you’ll do it?” Nan asked, her face lighting up. “You’ll help me?”
What a question. If Nan had called me in the middle of the night and asked me to paint her house, I’d have grabbed some drop cloths and brushes and headed right over. Of course I’d help. So would Monica.
“Thank you! We really appreciate this!” Nan said, looking toward the dogs, who wagged their tails in agreement.
Monica started filling our glasses with more of the Chianti she’d chosen to accompany the meal. When she got to me, I placed my hand over the top of the glass.
“Better not. I’ve got to be at the office by five thirty.”
Monica gasped. “You can’t be serious. Five thirty in the morning?”
“That was the deal I made with Nutting so I could leave ‘early’ tonight,” I said, making air quotes with my fingers.
“Nine o’clock is early?” Nan asked.
“It is in Gavin Nutting’s world,” I said, and put my hand over my mouth to cover a yawn. “He works constantly, never eats lunch, and has no discernible sense of humor. He may be a robot.”
“Oh, Grace,” Nan said sympathetically, “maybe you should start looking for another job.”
“Believe me, I am. If it was only about salary, I could find a new job tomorrow, but the insurance . . .” I shook my head. “Probably a third of the companies I’d be interested in don’t offer it, another third have insurance plans, but really crummy ones, and the final third—with good plans—require a waiting period before the benefits kick in. I can’t afford to pay for ninety days of Jamie’s care by myself.”
Monica bit her lip, the way she does when she’s thinking.
“What if they fired you? Spector would have to offer you insurance coverage for a while, wouldn’t they?”
“But the premiums would be more expensive and it wouldn’t last forever. What if I couldn’t find another job? It’s too big a risk to take. Besides,” I said, tossing back the tiny bit of wine left in my glass, “a part of me wants to hang in there—prove that I can take whatever Nutting is dishing out, like getting through hazing during pledge week. Guess what he had me do on Thursday?”
Nan and Monica shook their heads simultaneously.
“Interview cleaning ladies. For his house.” More head shaking, but this time it was the disbelieving sort. “Apparently, it was not the highest and best use of his time.”
“You’re joking,” Monica said.
“Oh, how I wish I was.”
“I don’t get it. Where’s Mrs. Nutting? I mean, it’s her house, right?”
“Palm Springs.” I changed my mind about the Chianti, reached for the bottle, and poured an inch of wine into my glass. “She goes from January to April every year—not a fan of Portland winters. I hope Nutting will cut back on his hours when she gets back.” I drained my wineglass and sighed. “But somehow I doubt it.”
“You must be exhausted,” Nan said.
“I’m okay. It’s worth it to keep Jamie in Landsdowne. He gets such great care there. I’ve only had time to visit three times last week. Alicia texts me twice a day with updates, but it’s not the same as seeing him myself.”
“I shouldn’t have pushed you to come tonight,” Monica said.
“Don’t apologize,” I said, dismissing her comment. “This is the first decent meal I’ve had in days. And I needed to see you two. If only to vent a little bit.” I reached for the bottle again. “If this is going to be the new normal, I’ve got to figure out how to have a little fun sometimes, right? I’ll burn out otherwise.”
“True,” Monica said. “Say, have you heard anything from Luke?”
I looked at her blankly. “Luke. You mean, Luke Pascal? No. Why would I?”
“No reason. It’s just . . . you two had a good time that night. That’s all.”
The abrupt but too-casual way she’d broached the subject, coupled with the overly ladylike, utterly un-Monica manner in which she was sipping her wine, made me suspicious.
“You didn’t tell Luke to call me, did you? You didn’t give him my number?”
“Of course not! I was just wondering. Luke is such a nice guy. He’d be—”
I pointed a finger in her face.
“Don’t, Monica. I mean it. Don’t try to play matchmaker. And do not, under any circumstances, give Luke Pascal my phone number.”
“Fine,” she groused. “No need to bite my head off. You were the one who said you needed to have a little fun sometimes.”
“Right now, I’m too exhausted for fun,” I said.
“But you should get out a little bit,” Nan said. “You can’t spend every waking moment in the office. It’s not good for you.”
“Don’t worry. I get out a little bit,” I assured her. “I never miss my three o’clock Starbucks run. I couldn’t get through the afternoon without it. It’s only a two-block walk, but it’s nice to breathe a little fresh air and see some daylight.”
“Well, I guess it’s better than nothing,” Nan said. You need to give yourself something to look forward to, even if it’s just an afternoon latte.”
I shook my head. “Lattes are only for special occasions. A tall drip
