“Forty-two windows,” Willa announced. “And one of them in the attic is broken. There’s a bird’s
nest in it.”
Mrs. Whitaker looked at the drawing for a long, long time. She didn’t say anything.
“You can keep it,” Willa said. “If you want.”
“Thank you, Willa,” Mrs. Whitaker said quietly. “I’d like that very much.”
I didn’t think about it again. I figured it would end up in a drawer somewhere, or in the recycling
bin.
Life went on. It wasn’t easy. But it went on.
I picked up more clients. By the second year, I had nine houses a week. Mondays were the Garcias and the young couple with the twins. Tuesdays were the dentist’s office and old Mr. Pham.
Wednesdays were two houses in the new development out by the highway. Fridays were a real estate office and a woman named Tiffany who liked her throw pillows arranged in a very specific
zigzag pattern.
And Thursdays were Mrs. Whitaker.
She was never my biggest client, and she wasn’t my highest-paying. But she was the one I could always count on. The Garcias canceled when they went on vacation. The real estate office cut me back to every other week when the market slowed down. Tiffany fired me once over the throw
