With my dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin, I look like my father.
The irony is I’ve never traveled out of the United States. I don’t speak any Spanish. I know as much about Mexican culture as my mother, who was white. My father was too busy working long hours at a call center to teach me about it. He was more concerned that I ace English literature than learn Spanish. On the rare nights he got home before eight p.m. we’d order pizza delivery and watch Battle Bots together.
When he died I lost more than a father. More than a family.
I lost my only link to that half of my heritage.
He picks up a file on the side table. It sat there all this time, being an innocuous manila folder. Now he pulls it onto his lap and opens it, it becomes something else. A grainy picture of me as a child sits on top, a serious expression because I never smiled even when my father was alive. A serious child, everyone said. Other people would insist that I should smile, but Daddy would stop them. “No, she’ll smile when she wants to. Not before.”
Mr. Rochester rifles through the pages. “I confess I didn’t look this over very carefully before you were hired. I read the references you sent. The one by your social worker. Very nice. The one by your current boss at the store. Excellent. A couple families where you did occasional babysitting. Everything seemed stellar, and the agency itself came highly recommended, so I considered it enough. Why would I need to know your entire life story?”
“You don’t.”
He gives me a half smile. “It’s interesting reading, I’ve come to find out. The straight A student. You never had a problem with turning in your work. Even when your father died, you kept on getting straight As. Valedictorian of your middle school and high school.”
“Everyone grieves differently.”
“That’s true. Paige Rochester attempts to freeze to death.”
His scornful tone makes a knot form in my chest. “And how do you grieve, Mr. Rochester? By acting like an asshole to your niece? It was your brother, after all.”
“And my sister-in-law. Don’t forget her.”
I stand up. “If you’re going to be disrespectful to the deceased—”
“Sit down, Ms. Mendoza.”
“They were your family. She is your family. They deserve better than to be—”
“I said, sit down.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. I sit down. “You know nothing about my family. A few days with a rebellious child doesn’t give you a decade’s worth of secrets and lies.”
“I don’t need to know your secrets or your lies. I already know that little girl is hurting, and you aren’t helping her nearly enough.”
“Agreed.”
I open my mouth to continue my tirade before realizing what he’s said. “You agree?”
“Yes. I’ve known that I was too distant. Too abrupt. Too much of an asshole, to use your terminology. I thought getting a nanny would help, and the truth is, it has. You brought her down from that tree a lot quicker and painlessly than I would have.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
He continues paging through the manila folder. Apparently admitting you’re an asshole doesn’t make you actually stop the behavior.
Sure, I signed papers agreeing to every kind of background check imaginable. I did a blood draw and peed in a cup for the Bassett Agency, but he wasn’t interested in those things before hiring me. He’s only curious now because he wants to humiliate me.
And the worst part is, it’s working. It’s a cold churn in my stomach.
“It says here that you work at a diner. And a grocery store.” His gaze challenges me, dares me to tell him it’s none of his damn business.
“I did, yes. Before coming here.” I hope I can get my jobs back if he does fire me, but there’s no guarantee. He may have complimented me a second ago, but he’s mercurial enough not to care. If I displease him, I’ll be gone. I know that much is true.
“The agency called the grocery store manager, your shift manager, and someone named Noah Palmer. He works with you. According to this, you’ve known him for years.”
My cheeks burn. “We were in the same foster home.”
“Coincidence?”
“I worked at the diner through high school. After I graduated I needed another job, and he knew they had an opening at the cheese counter.”
“Gouda,” he says. “Camembert. I do enjoy a good manchego.”
“It’s really not that kind of grocery store. They sell mostly mozzarella and cheddar. My job was to clean out the slicer between slicing the meats and the cheeses.”
“Why are you here?”
I glance back at the dark hallway. And then toward the fire. “You told me. You told me nine o’clock in your study.”
“Not here in this room. You could have been in the city where you grew up, selling mozzarella and cheddar. With your family.” He corrects himself. “With your friends. Instead you decided to move to the coldest, wettest place on earth. I want to know why.”