Page 10 of Later Bloom

When her aunt smiles then, it’s taut. She inhales fast and deep. “Yeah, good question. Let’s get on with it.”

They cross the lawn side by side until they pass the sunroom and reach the bright red door at the front of the house. Louise pulls out a single key from her shirt pocket and yanks at the old doorknob until it finally gives in. “There’s also an entrance at the back. Produce deliveries will come through there every Monday. There are five bedrooms in the house.” Inside, the layout isn’t too different from Louise’s place, centring a staircase that splits the space in the middle. “All of them are booked for the opening in four days. I’ve set up a little check-in area right here.”

In the sitting room off to the right, next to the staircase, an outdated laptop sits on a tall lectern. A few items are gathered at its foot: linen sets still in their plastic packaging, pillows, tall jugs of what must be dish soap.

“Kitchen’ll be my neck of the woods, since I’m taking care of the meals and all, and I was thinking of having you on check-ins and room service, turnover, cleaning.”

Aubrey wants to point out that she doesn’t know much about any of that. She doesn’t. Louise seems too stressed already, zigzagging from one room to the next at an unsteady pace. And the internet is free.

Nearly every inch of the space is wallpapered, the seams betraying the age of the home. It’s hard to take everything in at once—the cast iron radiators, the fireplace in the living room Aubrey knows she’ll fail at starting a fire in, the dark wooden doors with a nearly orange hue. The kitchen and its adjacent laundry room contrast starkly with the rest of the decor—all shades of off-white, appliances in desperate need of an upgrade, slanted cupboard doors that should add more charm than they do. This space isn’t as old as the rest of the house. It must’ve been renovated somewhere in the seventies, in cheaper, now outdated materials. In places, the checkered linoleum floor is chipped.

“Guests won’t come back here,” Louise explains as she grabs a damp rag from the sink and runs it across the counter almost by reflex. She’s looking everywhere but at her own hands, and Aubrey wants to tell her to breathe. Louise reminds her of her mom right now, of when she gets like this around the house. The feeling sits, a little uneasy, in Aubrey’s throat. Like home.

“Upstairs, then,” Louise says, dropping the rag to head to the staircase.

“Right.” The bedrooms are small but quaint, with beds too big for the space and mismatched furniture that tries very hard to be charming. Louise hardly sets a foot in each of them, already onto the next corner, the next nervous click of her tongue.

"I’ll do breakfast and dinner, prepping the meals, dishes and such. We don’t do lunch. You’ll have to make the beds, keep up with general cleaning, maybe take bookings—I mean, it’s a work in progress. I’ve got to be at the hospital during the day, usually, so that’s why I need someone to help out around here.”

“The hospital?” Aubrey stills.

“Yes, right. I work some hours there these days, at the cafeteria. Part-time food service worker, that sort of thing. I told you about that.”

Aubrey watches Louise fluttering from one door to the next, fluffing up curtains, tugging at comforter corners. Puzzled, she says, “I don’t think you did.”

“God, sorry. It’s just been so hectic around here—you don’t mind holding down the fort while I’m gone, yeah? It’s not so hard, I bet. I’ve got everything written down, and we’ve got four days to set things up, do a couple practice runs.” Louise breathes in and out. Then she finally stands still in the middle of the hallway, where she turns to face Aubrey and says, “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

“What?”

“About this.”

“Well, I’m already here. Bit late to turn back now.” It’s a funny quip, but the truth is Aubrey doesn’t give herself time to think about any of it. Instead she counts the bedrooms, one, two, three, four, five, takes stock of the linen and trash bins and the little things she’ll have to remember to keep up with. If she can memorize thirty-seven different candle scent combinations, surely she can figure this out too.

“Mm.” Louise eyes her with care. A small frown runs between her eyebrows, and Aubrey wants to reach out and smooth it. “Let’s sit down and look over a proper schedule.” On her way down the stairs, Louise runs a hand across the nape of her neck. She’s wearing a linen button-down and has her hair up in a messy chignon. Tendrils stick to the back of her ears. “God, it’s like I’ve run a marathon,” she huffs.

They take a seat in the sunroom. It’s filled with binders, an array of mismatched upholstered armchairs, and cardboard boxes overflowing with too many books. It’s evening now and the sun is low, filtering through the windows at an angle that highlights every speck of dust in the air. A window is open and birds are chirping outside.

“Alright,” Louise says as she drags a binder over and clicks her pen. Aubrey watches her in silence. “Few things to start with. I’ve mapped most of the tasks you’ll be taking on, so all you’ll have to do is check them off as you go. There’s the trash collection schedule, here, and on Monday mornings Arthur comes for weekly produce deliveries, like I said. Easier than going to the market, trust me. Ten mouths to feed is a lot.”

“Arthur,” Aubrey repeats in an accent even she can’t identify, a sort of joke to herself she wouldn’t be able to explain, because what sort of name is Arthur? But Louise looks up with an air Aubrey can’t pinpoint, and she says, “Well, Artie, I guess. Some people call him Murphy. Family name.” Then she returns her attention to the binder and adds, “You’ll like him, I think. He’s your age, very sweet guy. Pretty cute, heart in the right place.”

The laugh Aubrey tries to suppress morphs into a snort. “Oh, good,” she jokes.

Louise is quick to irritation. “I do mean it.”

“No, no, I know. It’s just, it’s funny when people say that. That I’ll like someone. It sets a weird sort of expectation, doesn’t it? Like, now when I meet him for the first time, I’m just thinking how I should definitely like him.”

“Well, I like him. And I just mean, he’s not awful or anything.”

“I generally assume people aren’t, unless informed otherwise.”

“I know, yeah. Arthur’s just a really nice young man. And I think it’d be nice if you liked him. You should talk to him.”

“Young man—Louise, Jesus! Showing your age like this.”

“Oh, piss off. I’ve not been trying to hide anything, I’ll have you know.”

“You never speak like this!”