It seemed unfair.
Two days later, Arthur appeared at our apartment.
Grace nearly shut the door when she saw a folder in his hand.
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You brought a folder.”
“It contains paper.”
“Arthur.”
He sighed.
“I would like you to consider a proposal.”
“No gifts.”
“It isn’t a gift.”
“No checks.”
“It isn’t a check.”
“No apartment.”
He looked offended.
“I have never offered you an apartment.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I own several buildings.”
“Arthur.”
He lifted both hands.
“May I come inside?”
Grace let him in.
The proposal was simple.
Arthur’s late wife had supported a small community health foundation. Its current director needed part-time administrative help organizing outreach records and appointment schedules.
The hours were flexible.
The pay was slightly better than Grace earned cleaning houses.
More importantly, the office was four blocks from our school.
Grace stared at him.
