ROSEANNE
I stood across the street from Ms. Manoban’s building, staring up at the tall structure. It was intimidating and spoke of wealth—all tinted glass and concrete looming over the city, reminding me of the woman who lived within it. Cold, remote, unreachable. I shivered a little as I looked at it, wondering why I was there.
The building was about a ten-minute walk from the home, and I was on time. It hadn’t been a good visit with Penny today; she had been upset and agitated, refusing to eat or talk to me, and I ended up leaving early. I was disappointed. She had been good all week, and I had hoped today would be the same; that I’d be able to talk with her as we used to, but it hadn’t happened. Instead, it just added to my stressful, odd day. I left the home feeling despondent, and unsure as to why I was going to see Ms. Manoban.
Ms. Manoban.
She had already confused me asking me to her home this evening. Her behavior the rest of the afternoon proved to be equally bizarre. When she returned from her meeting, she asked me for another coffee and a sandwich.
Asked me!
She didn’t demand, she didn’t sneer or slam her door. Instead, she stopped in front of my desk and politely requested lunch. She even said thank you. Again. She hadn’t come out of her office the rest of the day until she left, when she stopped, asking if I had her card. At my murmured, “Yes,” she nodded her thanks and left, not slamming the door.
I was beyond puzzled, nerves taut, and my stomach in knots. I had no idea what I was doing at her home, much less why.
I inhaled a calming breath. There was only one way to find out. I straightened my shoulders, and crossed the street.
Ms. Manoban opened her door, and I tried not to stare. I had never seen her look this casual. Gone was the tailored suit and crisp white shirt she favored. In its place, she wore a cozy sweater that draped softly over her frame and fitted leggings that accentuated her silhouette. Her feet were bare, and for some reason, I wanted to giggle at her long toes, but I tamped down the odd reaction. She indicated for me to come in, stepped back, allowing me to pass. She took my coat, and we stood staring at each other. I’d never seen her look uncomfortable. She gripped the back of her neck, clearing her throat.
“I’m eating dinner. Would you join me?”
“I’m fine,” I lied. I was starving.
She grimaced. “I doubt that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re too skinny. You need to eat more.”
Before I could say anything, she grasped my elbow and led me to the high counter separating the kitchen from the living space. “Sit,” she ordered, pointing to the high, padded stools.
Knowing better than to argue with her, I did. As she moved into the kitchen, I looked around at the enormous, open space. Dark wood floors, two large, chocolate brown leather sofas, and white walls highlighted the vastness of the room. The walls were undecorated, aside from a massive TV hung over the fireplace—no personal photos or knickknacks. Even the furniture was bare—no cushions or throw blanket anywhere. Despite its grandeur, the room was cold, impersonal. Like the set of a magazine spread, it was well appointed and pristine, with nothing giving a clue about the woman who lived in it. I glimpsed a long hallway and a set of elegant stairs that I assumed led to the bedrooms. I turned back to the kitchen—it was similar in style and impression, dark and light combined, and void of personal touches.
I repressed a shiver.
Ms. Manoban set a plate in front of me, and with a smirk, opened the lid on a pizza box. I felt a smile tug on my lips.
