I was incredibly grateful.
For illustration purposes only
I was also, if I’m honest, a little ashamed of how grateful I was for his support.
“You know he doesn’t have to do all that,” Rachel, my co-worker and friend, said to me the morning before the pool party, cornering me in the office kitchen with two mugs of coffee.
“He’s just being kind, Rach.”
“Alison,” she lowered her voice. “I love Harold. But you’re a young widow on his payroll, and he’s practically living at your house. People are talking. Not mean talk. Just… talk.”
“They can talk.”
“I’m not worried about them. I’m worried about you. About how it looks. About what it does to your standing here.”
I waved her off and went back to my desk. But her words stuck like a burr in a sweater.
That afternoon, Harold invited the whole firm to his house for a pool party.
He’d told me to bring Mia because he knew I had no sitter.
“She’ll love the pool,” my boss had said. “And she loves my kitchen, anyway. She keeps trying to steal Mike’s old travel mug off my counter every time you two visit.”
