Chapter 3

WYATT

I slam the snooze button and throw the clock onto the floor hoping it will break. Waking up never feels good anymore. I roll over and look at my framed wedding picture on my nightstand. Tim would want more for me. He wouldn’t want me to be depressed everyday. It’s been five years since I watched him die. This house is so empty without him.

Deep inside I know it’s time for me to move on. Easier said than done. I’ve been looking for jobs but there’s not much out there. When I saw an ad for the house manager position out in the country, I put in an application. My interview is today. I need a change. I’ve been living alone for far too long, and this position includes room and board.

My ride shows up on time. I carefully step down from my front stoop. Why am I wearing heels? I sweep a couple rolled up newspapers our of my way with my foot. The driver gets out and walks around the car to open my door for me.

Just Breathe Wyatt, I tell myself. I’m far more anxious than I thought I would be. How can I organize someone’s life if I can’t even keep my own shit together? I’m a fairly organized person, but I am prone to distraction.

My home is in the northeast corner of Connecticut, so it’s just a thirty minute drive or so. I go over my resume one more time trying to remember the dates so I don’t sound like a fool. What does it matter? I don’t care if I get this job or not.

There’s probably other applicants with more experience than I have. I’ve never handled an estate. Unless we count my husband’s end of life care, and everything that I dealt with afterwards. That should qualify anyone.

The gates to the castle are towering over the car. The security guard looks a bit soft. The driver lowers the rear window so I can see the guard face to face.

“Good Morning Ma’am. Can I have your name please?” He seems nice. “It’s Wyatt James Hendrickson. I have an interview at eleven.” The guard smiles, “Good luck to you Ms. Hendrickson.”

He tucked back through the window, and opened the gate. The driveway up to the castle ran along a field of wildflowers in an old horse pasture. My driver parks around the other side of the fountain. He gets out, we both gaze up at the sky high castle towers, and take it all in.

My eyes find the front steps, I grab my messenger bag from the car. I walk up to the front door. Am I supposed to knock or ring something? The castle security seems up to date with the latest technology. There’s a little black box with a camera, and a doorbell. I push the button.

A short stocky woman opens the door for me and motions for me to come in. “Hello,” I say but she doesn’t reply. “I have an interview with John St. Jacks at eleven,” I slowly say to her so she can understand me. She just points over her shoulder to the grand staircase. She reaches for my coat. While I’m grateful for the hospitality, I’m slightly uncomfortable.

I walk up to the middle landing, and then take the stairs on the left. Shit. She pointed to the right side. I scurry over to the other side. I walk down the wing, I hear a toilet flushing. The quirky maid greets me as I approach a wide open door. “Right this way.” He says as he escorts me into the office.

The man of the castle is staring out the window. He turns to look at me. My heart stops for a moment. I take a breath, and approach his desk.

“Mr. St. Jacks I presume?” He looks smug, “And you are?” I confidently put my resume down on his desk and point to my name. “Wyatt James Hendricks.” He makes quite a judgmental expression. “It was my grandfather’s name.” I say to him. “That’s cute.” Right of the bat he seems so condescending.

I can’t do this.

“What do your friends call you?” He asks. “Wyatt.” I roll my eyes. He picks up my resume, “Of course. I’m not sure how I feel about a woman handling my affairs.” I can’t believe he just said that. What a chauvinistic prick. “This was clearly a big mistake.” I stand up, grab my bag. “I’ll see myself out.”

“Please, have a seat. Excuse me for my shortcomings. I wasn’t expecting a woman. You caught me off guard.” Was that an apology? I’ll give him a few more minutes. I sit back down and stare at him. “Are you always this intense?” He asks. I’m not answering that. His book collection catches my eye.

“Do you like to read?” An obvious question. “Does the pope shit in the woods?” I walk to his bookshelf. Some of these first editions are remarkable. I bet they aren’t even his. The acoustic must be his. “May I?” He nods. I pick up the guitar and lean on the side of his desk. “Do you play?” With my back turned to him, I strum a few chords. “I used to.” He clears his throat.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions.” Now he wants to interview me? I put his guitar back and sit in the chair again. “Shoot.” I say. “Why did you apply for this job?” That’s a great question. I wish I had a better answer. “Because I need a change.” I blurt out. “What are you running from?” He questions me. “Myself.”

He relaxes in his seat a bit, “Are you married?” This doesn’t seem appropriate. “Not anymore.” He nods, “Kids?” I hope he’s not hitting on me. “None, I read the ad. I understand this is a live-in position.” There’s something about him that I just don’t like. “Did you read the part where it said women need not apply?” There it is. I dislike him very much. “I must have missed that part.”

Maybe I should just leave.