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 to 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
