The Maid Who Refused to Fear Him

The morning after Emma refused to give me a second pill, I fired her.

At least, that was what I intended to do.

At eight-thirty, I called Mrs. Alvarez into my office.

"Send Carter home."

The housekeeper folded her hands.

"Emma?"

"Do we employ another Carter?"

"No."

"Then yes."

"Should I tell her why?"

I looked at the financial reports on my desk.

"She doesn't follow instructions."

Mrs. Alvarez's face remained professionally blank.

"Which instruction?"

I looked up.

"Excuse me?"

"Was it an instruction related to cleaning?"

I narrowed my eyes.

"You've become very brave lately."

"I'm seventy-two."

"Sixty-eight."

"That's sweet."

"Don't try me."

Mrs. Alvarez smiled anyway.

"I'll tell Emma."

Thirty minutes passed.

Then forty.

Emma didn't appear to plead.

That irritated me.

An hour later, I wheeled myself toward the upstairs hall.

Her cart was gone.

So was she.

Good.

Problem solved.

At eleven, Luke entered my office.

"You fired the maid."

"News travels fast."

"You fired the maid who stopped you from taking double pain medication."

"I didn't fire her because of that."

Luke dropped into the leather chair across from me.

"Why?"

"She talks too much."

Luke stared.

I stared back.

Finally he said, "You've spent three weeks finding excuses to be in whichever room she's cleaning."

"I live here."

"It's a twenty-eight-thousand-square-foot house."

"And?"

"And somehow you suddenly need books from the library at midnight."

"I read."

"You haven't opened a novel since Obama was president."

"Get out."

Luke laughed.

I almost threw something.

Almost.

Then pain flickered through my legs again and my expression changed before I could hide it.

Luke noticed.

His smile disappeared.

"You need a therapist."

"No."

"You need rehab."

"No."

"You need something besides rage and bourbon."

"I don't drink that much."

"Because the nurses hide it."

"I wondered where it went."

Luke leaned forward.

"Bring her back."

"Who?"

He gave me a look.

"The maid."

"Why?"

"Because she's the first person in two years who has gotten you to do something you didn't want to do without a gun, a contract, or blackmail."

"She made toast."

"Exactly."

I hated that he had a point.

I hated something else more.

At noon, I asked Mrs. Alvarez for Emma's employment file.

She refused.

That almost caused another firing.

Then she reminded me that I'd signed a company policy limiting access to employee personal information after one of our former managers had misused addresses.

I cursed my own lawyers for their competence.

"Call her," I said.

Mrs. Alvarez crossed her arms.

"You fired her."

"I changed my mind."

"I'll tell her."

"No apology?"

"From me?"

Mrs. Alvarez laughed so hard she had to sit down.

Emma returned the next evening.

At exactly nine-fifteen, her cleaning cart appeared outside the library.

I waited five minutes before wheeling past.

She didn't look at me.

I reversed.

Still nothing.

"Carter."

She kept polishing the bookshelf.

"Mr. Moretti."

The title sounded intentional.

Cold.

Formal.

I disliked it immediately.

"You came back."

"I need the money."

"That's not very flattering."

"I didn't realize employment was a romance."

My jaw tightened.

Her mouth twitched.

Almost a smile.

"You shouldn't have interfered with my medication."

"You shouldn't have tried to take more than prescribed."

"My doctors work for me."

"Your prescription doesn't."

I stared at her.

"You always like having the last word?"

"No."

She turned back toward the shelf.

"I just usually do."

I should have been furious.

Instead, something unfamiliar happened.

I laughed.

It was one sound.

Short.

Rough.

Barely recognizable.

Emma turned around.

So did Mrs. Alvarez at the far end of the hallway.

I stopped immediately.

Nobody said anything.

That made it worse.

"Get back to work."

Emma did.

But I could see the smile she tried to hide.

The following weeks changed in ways I didn't notice until later.

Emma didn't rescue me from myself.

She irritated me into participating in life.

When I skipped lunch, food appeared beside my documents.

When I worked past three in the morning, she unplugged the desk lamp.

The first time she did it, I stared at the dead lamp.

"Did you just turn off my light?"

"Yes."

"Turn it on."

"No."

"Emma."

"Three-thirteen in the morning."

"I have business."

"You have insomnia."

"I own this house."

"And tomorrow you'll still own it."

She walked away.

I turned the lamp back on.

Five minutes later, I turned it off myself.

She never knew.

Or maybe she did.

I began noticing other things.

Emma's hands sometimes shook.

Not dramatically.

Just a tiny tremor when she carried coffee.

She occasionally paused against walls when she believed nobody was watching.

Once, while lifting clean sheets from the dryer, her knees buckled.

She caught herself against the machine.

I had been passing the laundry room.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"You almost fell."

"I'm tired."

"Go home."

"I need four more hours."

"That's not a request."

"Neither are my bills."

She lifted the sheets.

I blocked the doorway with my wheelchair.

Emma stared at me.

"Move."

"No."

"You're using a wheelchair as a barricade?"

"It's an expensive barricade."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

She put the sheets down.

"What do you want?"

"Sit."

"No."

"Interesting how much you enjoy that word."

Her eyes narrowed.

Then she sat on the edge of the folding table.

"You work at the diner from when?"

"Seven in the morning until four."

"Then here from nine until three?"

"Usually."

"When do you sleep?"

"The bus is surprisingly comfortable."

I didn't smile.

Her joke faded.

"Why?"

"You already know about my mother."

I did.

But I wanted to hear it from her.

Emma looked at her hands.

"Early-onset Alzheimer's."

Something inside me tightened.

"How old?"

"Fifty-nine."

"Your father?"

"Gone."

"Dead?"

"Gone."

The distinction was clear.

"Insurance?"

"Not enough."

"What about family?"

"You're looking at it."

I glanced at the empty room.

She laughed without humor.

"Exactly."

"How much debt?"

Her expression changed.

"That's none of your business."

"I could pay it."

The words escaped too quickly.

Her eyes snapped toward mine.

"No."

"You didn't hear the amount."

"I heard enough."

"Emma—"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I work for you. I don't belong to you."

"I didn't say you did."

"You don't have to."

The sentence hit harder than she intended.

Or perhaps exactly as hard.

She stood.

"I need to finish."

I moved aside.

She picked up the sheets and walked away.

That night, I couldn't sleep.

Her words repeated in my head.

I don't belong to you.

My world had always been built on ownership.

Companies.

Properties.

Contracts.

Favors.

Secrets.

People sometimes too, if I was being honest.

Emma wanted none of it.

She would take thirty dollars an hour because she'd earned it.

Nothing more.

It should have made her irrelevant.

Instead, it made her impossible to ignore.

A week later, Luke arrived with another physical therapist.

Dr. Noah Grant.

Forty-five.

Sports rehabilitation specialist.

Former Army physician.

He looked at me like someone who had already decided he wasn't afraid.

I disliked him immediately.

"No," I said.

He hadn't spoken yet.

"That's efficient," Grant replied.

"Leave."

"No."

I looked at Luke.

"You've brought me another Emma."

Luke smiled.

"That was the idea."

Grant placed a bag beside my chair.

"I read your imaging."

"I don't care."

"I do."

"Then enjoy it."

"You have incomplete spinal cord damage."

I stopped.

Every doctor had said those words.

Incomplete.

Possible.

Uncertain.

Maybe.

Words designed to keep wealthy families paying for hope.

"You've had occasional involuntary muscle responses."

"So?"

"So you're not medically finished."

My jaw hardened.

"Get out."

Grant shrugged.

"Okay."

That surprised me.

He turned toward the door.

Then Emma appeared pushing her cart.

She looked at Grant.

Then me.

"Therapist?"

"No."

"Yes," Grant said.

Emma looked back at me.

"You fired another one?"

"He hasn't started."

"So that's a yes."

"Mind your business."

She leaned against the cart.

"Can he help?"

I hated the question.

Not because I didn't know the answer.

Because I did.

Maybe.

Grant watched silently.

Emma waited.

Finally I said, "Maybe."

"Then why are you kicking him out?"

"Because I don't want his help."

"That's stupid."

Luke coughed to disguise a laugh.

I pointed toward the door.

"Everybody out."

Emma didn't move.

"Carter."

"What?"

"Out."

She pushed the cart forward.

For one hopeful second, I thought she'd listened.

Instead, she stopped beside me.

Her voice lowered.

"You know what I think?"

"No."

"I think you're terrified."

The room froze.

Luke looked away.

Grant went completely still.

I felt every old instinct rise inside me.

No one called Danny Moretti terrified.

Emma did.

"Of what?"

"Trying."

I stared at her.

She continued.

"Because right now you can say you can't walk because you were shot. But if you try your hardest and it doesn't work, you think you'll have nothing left to blame."

My throat tightened.

"Get out."

She nodded.

This time, she left.

Grant followed.

Luke stayed.

I looked at him.

"Say one word and I'll bury you under the tennis court."

"We don't have a tennis court."

"I'll build one."

He grinned.

Then he left too.