She promised she wouldn’t move.
Margaret walked in and looked at her.
Willa pushed her glasses higher on her nose.
“I like your house. It has a lot of windows.”
“It does.”
“How many?”
Margaret thought for a moment.
“I honestly don’t know.”
Willa’s eyes widened.
“Can I count them?”
I immediately answered:
“No. You promised to stay in that chair.”
But Margaret looked at Willa and then at me.
“She can count them.” So Willa spent the day exploring the house with her sketchbook. She counted every window and sketched each room: the kitchen, the piano, the claw-foot bathtub.
When she finished, she set the drawing on the table.
“Forty-two windows.”
Margaret examined it carefully.
“And one attic window is broken. There’s a bird’s nest in it.”
Margaret continued studying the picture.
“You can keep it,” Willa said.
Margaret’s voice softened.
“I’d like that very much.”
I figured the drawing would eventually end up forgotten in a drawer.
I was wrong.
Life continued moving forward.
My cleaning business expanded. I picked up more clients, but Thursdays always remained Margaret’s.
She wasn’t my wealthiest client or the one who paid me the most, but she never canceled.
Not once.
Even when she traveled to Oregon to see Susan, she still left my weekly check behind.
Please come as usual. The plants need water and the house needs someone in it.
Back then, I assumed she simply wanted the house to appear occupied.
Years later, I understood what she really meant.
My divorce became final.
My ex-husband moved away.
Willa slowly stopped asking when he was coming to visit.
Then, during my third year working for Margaret, Willa suffered a serious asthma episode.
We spent the entire night in the emergency room.
Three weeks later, the medical bill arrived.
It was more than I earned in two months.
That Thursday, Margaret found me mopping the kitchen floor.
“Is Willa all right?”
I stopped.
“How did you know something happened?”
“You’ve mopped that same square three times.”
I glanced down.
She was right.
So I told her what had happened.
Margaret didn’t pity me or offer me money.
She simply said:
“I’m glad she’s okay.”
Then she added:
“Carly, you’ve worked here three years. You can call me Margaret.”
