bin.
Life went on. It wasn’t easy. But it went on.
I picked up more clients. By the second year, I had nine houses a week. Mondays were the Garcias and the young couple with the twins. Tuesdays were the dentist’s office and old Mr. Pham.
Wednesdays were two houses in the new development out by the highway. Fridays were a real estate office and a woman named Tiffany who liked her throw pillows arranged in a very specific
zigzag pattern.
And Thursdays were Mrs. Whitaker.
She was never my biggest client, and she wasn’t my highest-paying. But she was the one I could always count on. The Garcias canceled when they went on vacation. The real estate office cut me back to every other week when the market slowed down. Tiffany fired me once over the throw
pillows and then hired me back a month later.
Mrs. Whitaker never canceled. Not once. Not in eight years. Even when she went to visit Susan in Oregon for two weeks at Christmas, she left a note and a check on the counter.
Carly — I’ll be away. Please come as usual. The plants need water and the house needs someone in it. — M.W.
I came as usual. I watered the plants. I dusted the piano. I didn’t know what she meant by the
