Page 22 of Pining for You

“But you got hired at the restaurant. And John is willing to hire you.”

“Working as a waitress isn’t the same as working in a planning office, or handling other people’s money.” Okay, yes, I was responsible for collecting money from the patrons at the diner, but I waved that away because the amounts were so different. “I’ve gotten lucky because the people around here remember me from when I lived here as a kid. They know me through my father, but I’m scared everything’s going to blow up in my face again.”

“Is that why you don’t want the Prunery job? Because it means you’ll be meeting more people? Maybe some vacationers who might recognize you.”

I hadn't been worried about that until this very minute. Unaware of the newest fear she’d piled onto my shoulders, Amanda continued. “Chlo, you work—worked—in a restaurant. No one recognized you. No one stood up and accused you of anything, did they? People don’t look at the help. They don’t look at their waitress or the person who is pulling the brush across the lawn and shoving it into a weed whacker?—”

“Wood chipper,” I corrected her

“—and think ‘oh look, it’s that woman who was married to that lowlife who scammed people a gazillion miles away. I don’t want her to doing blue-collar work on my property.’ Trust me, they won’t even look at you.”

As I debated pointing out that Guelph really wasn’t that far from Port Paxton, especially when it came to the internet, Amanda patted my hand. “Believe me, there are plenty of women who sit across from me week after week, right where you are sitting, who couldn’t tell me what my name is or what color my eyes are. They won’t look at me in the face. We’re talking women who have been customers for years.” She started with the whole cuticle trim thing she did. (Which was the reason I came to her when I’d first moved back. My cuticles had been a disaster and I had never figured out how to manage them. Still hadn’t, no matter how many times she’d tried to teach me.) “Seriously, Chlo, people don’t notice as much you give them credit for.”

I huffed a laugh; I couldn’t help it. “Maybe I should train as a nail technician. We could start up our own salon.”

“If that’s what you want to do, then do it. Count me in.”

I didn’t want to become a nail technician, but I needed to figure out what I wanted to do when I grew up. But for now, I needed a job. Any job. I couldn’t afford to be picky.

Should I take the Prunery job? Physically I could handle it. Lifting fifty pounds wasn’t an issue. Neither was wielding a chain saw. However, as I hadn’t admitted to Amanda, Dad might decide that since I worked for Pine Ridge Prunery, my feelings about doing outdoor work and property maintenance had changed, and that I no longer cared that much about my degree or working in an office. Then he’d pester me about taking over for him permanently.

Same with Grandpa and taking over his tree farm. If—when—I turned them down, again, I’d be treated to another of Dad’s unending lectures questioning how I could I be so selfish in not wanting to inherit the family business.

My family was my rock, but that didn't mean they never felt like a hard place.

The fact was, I hadn’t had a choice as a teen. It was like, as the only child, it was preordained that I would take it over, that I would head up the next generation of tree farming, property managing Pogues. Back then I’d hated living in Port Paxton with its one cinema, single bowling alley, and a dozen churches of various denominations, with the whole town knowing exactly who you were and who to report your hijinks to if they caught you doing anything the busybody neighbors didn’t approve of.

Now? I’d discovered I liked the slower pace of the area. I loved listening to the birdsong, especially in the spring, identifying each genus as they returned, starting with the unique trill of the red-winged blackbird, sighting the first robins hopping across the spring lawn. I love watching the overwintering male goldfinches gradually change from their winter khaki colours to bright yellow, darting from tree branch to tree branch.

“So are you going to take the job?” Amanda asked yet again, her hand resting on the bottle of bright-pink nail polish I’d chosen when I first arrived at the salon this afternoon.

I blinked when I realized she’d already finished the base coat and I hadn’t even realized it. Wow, I must have really zoned out. But her question brought me back to the decision facing me.

I needed to be adult about this. I didn’t want to work outside in all types of weather, fighting off bugs while dripping with sweat in the summer, freezing my ass off in the winter. But working as a groundsperson would give me—and my bank account—breathing room. If I looked at it as a temporary job, it would give me the opportunity to do some night classes at the local college and hopefully find a new career. Something that wouldn't have future employers doubting my trustworthiness because of my ex. Something that would let me keep my nails. Put on make-up, do my hair, slide my feet into high heels, and feel like a woman, instead of wearing overalls, a hard hat and steel-toed boots.

With a deep breath at the sacrifice I was about to make, I shook my head and placed my hand over the bottle of polish I’d chosen. “Change of plans. Cut my nails shorter—these aren’t going to work at this length.” Broke my heart to say, but it was a temporary measure, right? I could always grow them back later. “And tell me I’m doing the right thing.”

“It’s a job, and a good paying one at that. They’re hard to find. So yeah, I think you’re doing the only thing you can at the moment.”

She picked up her nail scissors. “How short do you think you need them to be? We could still do nail polish, even if your nails are short.”

By the time I walked out of her salon, my nails were so short that when I’d tapped my fingers on Amanda’s table, my nails barely touched the wood. It hadn’t taken much to convince me to go with a neutral polish to protect them from the wear and tear they were about to face. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, I told myself, even though I knew they’d probably be chipped and the polish would need to be removed by the end of my first shift, but if I wore gloves, maybe it would survive more than a day?

Baby steps.

Once I was settled in my car, I pulled out my phone and found John’s card, thumbed in his number. Surprisingly he picked up, instead of his wife as I’d expected.

“About that job offer…”

BRAD

After working nearly seventy hours last week, not including the hours I’d spent with Ellie on my business proposal, my eyes felt like I’d poured grit on them when I pulled into the PRP parking lot. Which is why I had to blink several times when I noticed Chloe’s truck parked a few spots down from me. What the heck was she doing here? After checking in with the office to pick up the job list for the day, I wandered into the work shed and found Chloe wearing a pair of PRP overalls, chatting with Finn at his workbench.

Before I could head to her, John came to stand by my side. “I see you’ve noticed your newest apprentice.”

“My apprentice? Chloe?”

“Yup. I just hired her as your new groundsman. Person. Whatever.”

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