Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
At least today I won’t have so many hours that I have to kill. I’ve also been visiting a different library every afternoon, and I have a stack of books that I’ve been plowing through, but there’s only so much reading I can do every day. I also don’t want to keep driving around aimlessly, even if I am discovering the city. I want to find something to do that has meaning.
Okay, I might be more lonely than I’ve even realized. You can fill the hours all you want, but in the end, they still feel…empty.
Maybe I should look into some kind of night classes. Get an early start, even if they’re online. Or volunteer. Pittsburgh is an incredibly large city. The empty hours are no one’s fault but my own.
As I start scrubbing away at the bathroom, I ruminate on the fact that I never had this problem in Harrisburg because I had my family. I had friends. I had a whole life there. I failed to fathom how uprooting yourself can make you feel so…adrift.
I’m almost thankful that I can turn my thoughts from that to focusing on solving the problem of how this bathroom is stubbornly refusing to come clean.
I tackle it with every cleaner I have, but the shower glass just won’t shine, and the taps look dull. I wonder if the last housekeeper ever came into this room or if Warrick even meant to leave the door open.
I throw myself into the work, frustrated when I still can’t get the shower looking anything but subpar. The stone floor isn’t looking so hot either.
The shower alone is bigger than my entire old apartment. I think. I’m not great with square footage, but this bathroom is palatial. At least there isn’t a tub in here. I’m already sweating like I’m that poor spit-roasted porker at a rather unfortunate cookout.
There are tons of cleaning supplies downstairs. The house literally has its own little janitorial closet with mops, brooms, and shelves with neatly lined-up products.
I head down there and arm myself with an arsenal, determined not to be defeated.
In the end, I pick something that promises to make everything shine like new. It smells like oranges and lemons and, combined with what my granny would call good old-fashioned elbow grease, it works freaking miracles.
“Look at you,” I gush at the small bottle. “Tiny, bright, and mighty. Total gold. Cleaning magic.”
Feeling satisfied with the bathroom after I scrub the rest down and apply the product to the counter, taps, mirror, and tiles in mixed measures with other products, I turn off the light and head downstairs. The entire top floor of the house now smells like lemon-and-orange-scented heaven. I breathe it in.
Ahhhh. Probable toxicity has never smelled so delightful.
Stashing all the products back in the little closet, I head out to the pool house for a snack, a much-needed glass of water, and a quick power nap before I tackle the pool.
After I have a swim in it, that is.
Granny’s right. The pool is pretty great, especially in this heat. I don’t know if I’d give any of my anatomy for it, but I’m going to appreciate the heck out of it while I have it and the weather is still warm enough to use it.
Winter. Shudder.
The thought of snowy frigidness bowls me over, as does the daunting prospect of how to properly winterize a pool.
I’ve started a list of work-related things I have to discuss with Warrick, and once I’m inside the pool house and draped over my bed with a glass of water filled to the top with ice, I start a new list with the dubious title of Expensive things I probably have no business mucking around with if they want to be in running order for the following season.
Chapter eight
Warrick
My hours are all over the place. I’ve never paid that much attention because I’ve never lived with anyone.
No roommates.
And never a girlfriend.
Amalphia is the first live-in housekeeper I’ve ever had.
It’s not like Amalphia is sitting at home waiting for me, but it does give me a start when I walk through the front door just after eight and find her perched at the kitchen island with her laptop open and one of those long, lined, yellow paper pads off to the side. She swivels around on the black stool as soon as she hears me enter, smiling at me like she belongs right there in that exact spot.
In my house.
In my life.
Which is absurd.
I mean, past a cleaning perspective.
Even if I did spill my gut, heart, and past with her, and even if she did hug me, this isn’t anything more than a platonic work relationship. We’ve both kept our professional distance for the better part of a week. Maybe that’s what’s so jarring about finding her here now.