I opted for my ivory Dolce pantsuit—a castoff disguised as a Christmas bonus from the costumer. The meeting was held in a rented Burbank office. Interviewing with a third party is typical, as these clients are far too busy for such minutiae. The burnt-orange man in the summer sweater barely looked up as he detailed the job.
“He works all hours and likes to have somebody on hand. Are you OK with a live-in position?” Without waiting for my answer, he went on. “Truth is, he’s lonely. But I didn’t say that.”
Coaxing me out of my $1200/month shithole wasn’t hard. And I understand lonely. I’m a parentless only child. My father sold his first novel and moved us here from Ohio when I was ten. Within a year, he’d performed the clichéd disappearing act with some surgically enhanced starlet. My mom succumbed to breast cancer a few years back—shortly after my college graduation. Oh, and I haven’t had a decent date since Bush No. 2 was in office.
The gates part before I announce my name to the box. As I step out of my car, the main house’s enormous, ornate doors fling open.
“You’re a vile, decrepit, shitstain of a man!”
A surprisingly refined-looking woman in a quaint peasant blouse bursts out. She furiously shakes a leather satchel, littering the ground with yellow papers.
“Good luck, girly,” the woman scoffs, dropping the bag at my feet.
I watch her speed through the closing gates before turning toward the house. A handsome, gray-haired man in a stately monogrammed bathrobe appears in the doorway. After surveying the paper trail, he shrugs and grins sheepishly.
“Hello, Erica,” he says.
This week's Trifecta Writing Challenge: The entry must be 33-333 words and include the word "quaint" as defined below:
a: unusual or different in character or appearance: ODD
b: pleasingly or strikingly old-fashioned or unfamiliar <a quaint phrase>
Word count: 333