posters and the guy who sold firewood. I wrote each ad by hand on an index card, in my best handwriting, with little tear-off tabs at the bottom.
HOUSE CLEANING. Honest, reliable, thorough. References available. Call Carly.
The references were two neighbors and my old boss at the dental office where I’d worked the front desk before Willa was born. It wasn’t much. But it was true.
My phone rang while I was loading the groceries into the trunk. I almost didn’t answer. I didn’t recognize the number, and I thought it might be Darren’s lawyer.
“Hello?”
“Is this Carly? The house cleaner?” It was an older woman’s voice. Crisp and careful. The kind of
voice that sounded like it had never once said “um.”
“Yes. Yes, this is Carly.”
“My name is Margaret Whitaker. I saw your card at the library. I have a house on Linden Street.
