Inside, the cottage is just one room, small but spotlessly clean. The walls are white and the roof rafters exposed, thick brown beams crisscrossing the ceiling. The wood floors are so pristine, I’m compelled to kick off my sneakers. To the right is a small kitchenette; to the left is the most comfortable-looking bed I’ve ever seen, with a fluffy white comforter and four enormous pillows.
“Caroline, this is amazing.”
“Well, I know it’s a little tight, but after being with Teddy all day, I figured you’d appreciate the privacy. And the bed’s brand-new. You should give it a try.”
I sit on the edge of the mattress and lie back, and it’s like falling into a cloud. “Oh my God.”
“That’s a Brentwood pillowtop. With three thousand coils supporting your body. Ted and I have the same one in our bedroom.”
On the far side of the cottage, there are two doors. One opens to a shallow closet lined with shelves; the other is the world’s smallest bathroom, complete with shower, toilet, and pedestal sink. I step inside and discover I’m just short enough to pass beneath the showerhead without ducking.
The entire tour doesn’t take more than a minute, but I feel obligated to spend a little more time inspecting everything. Caroline has outfitted the cottage with dozens of small, thoughtful design touches: a bedside reading lamp, a foldaway ironing board, a USB charger for cell phones, and a ceiling fan to keep the air circulating. The kitchen cabinets are stocked with basic amenities: plates and glasses, mugs and silverware, all the same high-end stuff they use in the main house. Plus a few simple provisions for cooking: olive oil, flour, baking soda, salt and pepper. Caroline asks if I like to cook and I tell her I’m still learning. “Me, too,” she says with a laugh. “We can figure it out together.”
Then I hear heavy footsteps on the porch and Ted Maxwell opens the door. He’s traded his sports coat for an aquamarine polo shirt, but even in casual clothes he still cuts an intimidating figure. I’d hoped I would finish the interview without seeing him again.
“Teddy needs you for something,” he tells Caroline. “I can finish showing her around.”
And it’s awkward because I’ve already seen everything there is to see, but Caroline’s out the door before I can say anything. Ted just stands there, watching me, like he thinks I’m going to steal the sheets and towels.
I smile. “This is really nice.”
“It’s a single-occupancy apartment. No guests without permission. And definitely no sleepovers. It’s too confusing for Teddy. Will that be a problem?”
“No, I’m not seeing anyone.”
He shakes his head, annoyed that I’ve missed his point. “We can’t forbid you from seeing anyone, legally. I just don’t want strangers sleeping in my yard.”
“I understand. That’s fine.” And I want to believe this is progress, like we’ve taken a tiny step closer to a working relationship. “Do you have other concerns?”
He smirks. “How much time do you have?”
“All the time that’s necessary. I really want this job.”
He moves over to the window and points outside to a small pine tree. “Let me tell you a story. The day we moved into this house, Caroline and Teddy found a baby bird under that tree. It must have fallen out of its nest. Maybe it was pushed, who knows? Anyway, my wife has a big, big heart so she found a shoebox and filled it with shredded paper and she started feeding the baby bird with sugar water, from an eyedropper. Meanwhile I’ve got movers in the driveway, I’m trying to unpack the whole house so we can start a life together, and Caroline’s telling Teddy how they’re going to nurse this baby bird back to health, and one day it’s going to soar high over the treetops. And of course Teddy loves this idea. He names the bird Robert and he checks on Robert every hour, he treats the bird like a baby brother. But within forty-eight hours, Robert is dead. And I swear to you, Mallory, Teddy cried for a week. He was devastated. Over a baby bird. So the point is, we need to be extra careful about the person we invite to live with us. And given your history, I worry you’re too much of a gamble.”
And how can I argue with him? The job pays good money and Ted has a folder stuffed with applications from women who have never been addicted to drugs. He could hire a fresh-faced nursing school student who’s trained in CPR or a five-time grandmother from Honduras who gives Spanish lessons while preparing homemade enchiladas verdes. With options like these, why take a chance on me? I realize my best hope now is to play my trump card—my last-minute gift from Russell, before I got out of his car.