“I’ll of course compensate you for the trouble,” Mrs. Van Alst adds, reaching for her purse. Her instinct (like many other exorbitantly wealthy people’s, in Gretchen’s experience) is to throw money willy-nilly at every problem that arises, hoping the right amount of it will magically relieve her burden. And why not, when it nearly always works?
Except Gretchen’s supposed to be weaning Mrs. Van Alstoffof her services. That is the right thing to do. And if she doesn’t do the right thing, then her dad wins the long, drawn-out battle that his letter reminded her is still quietly raging between them. “I’m not certain I’m—”
“I’d like you out there right away. I understand that it may take several days, and I know you usually have clients on the weekends. You’ll have to reschedule several appointments, find transportation and lodging.” She pauses a moment as if mentally calculating, then writes out a check. “I believe this will cover both your losses and expenses, as well as provide for your time and expertise.”
It’s slipped Gretchen’s mind that many of the people around here have an odd, detached relationship with the cost of thingsoutside of property and fancy wine. So when Mrs. Van Alst slides the check over the brocade tablecloth toward her, she nearly chokes on the number she sees.
“Have I underestimated?” Mrs. Van Alst smiles, closemouthed, as if she’s uncomfortable with the vulgarity of speaking of money and would really rather be finished with this part of the conversation.
“No, you— That’smuchtoo generous,” Gretchen forces herself to say through the odd combination of giddiness and nausea the number of zeros trailing the one inspires.
It could be nice to get away for a few days... give her time to think about how to handle her father before he comes barging into the life she’s so carefully constructed for herself. Time to get one more job in the books that she can point to as evidence that she’s able to survive without completely stomping on her moral compass.
“I assure you, Charles’s happiness is worth anything. He’s adearfriend.”
Well, then. If he’sthat dearof a friend.
Gretchen starts making a mental packing list. Looks like she’s going to be spending her weekend in the countryside, making an old farmer very, very happy.
2
Mrs. Van Alst writes down the farm’s address on a sheet of personalized embossed stationery from her purse and hands it to Gretchen. “Now, Charles may be a tad reluctant when you arrive—he’s somewhat skeptical about these sorts of things—but I’m certain he’ll warm to the idea once he experiences your gifts for himself.”
When she tucked the check away and formally accepted the job, Gretchen didn’t consider that she might be performing this fake exorcism against the property owner’s will. Not that it will be a problem getting Mr. Waybill on her side. She’s convinced her share of skeptics over the five years since she set up her shop. In fact, she admires someone who is reluctant to believe; it shows intelligence. And she assumes the eventual gotcha euphoria when she wins the farmer over will be all the sweeter if she has to work a little harder for it.
“Thank you for agreeing to do this,” Mrs. Van Alst says, as if the amount of money she offered Gretchen really gave her anychoice in the matter. “Oh, and I’m leaving for France tomorrow. I’ll be staying with friends in Provence for a few weeks, but I want to hold my spot in your schedule in case my plans change, so I’ll have Shruthi send your monthly payment as usual. Contact her if you need anything else. And please give Charles my regards.”
“Of course,” Gretchen answers as Mrs. Van Alst heads for the exit.
Provence? Well. That all but confirms that the bridge tournament and outings weren’t flukes. Mrs. Van Alst is fully back in the world (or, well, the extremely rich–person version of it). That means Gretchen has officially conned Mrs. Van Alst into being better off than when she first met her. A rousing success. She waits for the gotcha euphoria to hit but, once again, only gets a whisper of the old feeling. More like a gotcha wistful contentment.
Well, since their appointment finished early, she may as well get started on researching this guy and his goat farm. It’s been a long time since she’s had to rely solely upon the internet to get a feel for what she’s going into, having organized her business around the high-yielding local rumor mill and her roommate Yolanda Ortiz’s strategic positions within it. Hopefully, this Charles Waybill has a public Facebook page or something she can use, even if it does mean having to scroll through a bunch of highly artifacted chain letter graphics and bizarre political memes.
After Gretchen extinguishes the candles around the room and snuffs out the incense, she locks the door and heads up to her small apartment on the duplex’s second floor. Yolanda is in the kitchen, a can of cold brew in one hand and her keys in the other. Gretchen’s eyes rake over her roommate’s clothing for clues as to her destination. Off to one of her jobs, but Gretchen can’t be surewhich, since black leggings and a black shirt is her uniform for working the front desk at both Salon Apolline and Balasana Yoga.
“I thought you weren’t scheduled until four today,” Gretchen says as she toes off her pointed flats.
“Wasn’t,” Yolanda answers, reaching for her bag—also black. “But Candy’s daughter needed to be picked up from school early, so I offered to fill in at the salon until my shift at the studio.”
“Well, before you head out, I had a potentially lucrative walk-in today. A woman named Janice Easterly. Wants to talk to her husband, Ronald. Ring any bells?”
“Easterly,” Yolanda repeats, glancing up at an old water stain on the ceiling that looks a little like a dinosaur. “White lady in her late seventies or early eighties, gigantic black-framed glasses, wears too much makeup and real fur year-round?”
“Yep, that’s her. She’s been to the salon, then?” The brittle woman she met today would no doubt snap in half if she tried to do a sun salutation, so it seems like the more likely option.
“She gets her nails done at Apolline when her usual ‘girl’ isn’t available to make a house call. Last time, she had on this fox coat that gave me the heebie-jeebies. Had the heads attached and everything. When she handed it to me to hang up for her I nearly dropped it and ran.” Yolanda shudders at the memory. “I think Lex was her tech. I’ll fish around and see if they know anything.”
“Excellent, thank you.” Gretchen pauses, stripping the teasing tone she wants to use from her next question before she asks it. “Penny’ll be there tonight?”
“I don’t know.” Yolanda fiddles with her keys to avoid making eye contact. “Probably.”
Gretchen knows Yolanda has the pretty yoga instructor’sschedule memorized down to the second, but doesn’t give in to the temptation to call her out. Instead, she takes a seat on one of the stools at the breakfast bar and opens up her laptop.
“She’s teaching a seven thirty and a nine,” Yolanda concedes almost immediately anyway. “And I think... I think I’m going to see how she feels about me coming over after.”
Gretchen’s response slips through her defenses like a rogue. “All right, I won’t wait up, then. Hope you have fun with yourgirlfriend.” It’s hard to regret the moment of weakness when Yolanda’s light bronze cheeks pinken ever so slightly.
“She’s not my— We’re not dating, it’s just a casual—”
