"A chimpanzee could be trained to sit and answer a telephone. Besides, you said you have an answering service."
"But how do I know they get all the calls? Besides, there are other things to be done."
"Such as?"
"Correspondence. You'd be surprised how much."
"Who's doing it now? You?"
"No, a friend of mine."
She gave him another I'm-on-to-you-mister look and he sighed in exasperation. "She's about eighty-seven and myopic and uses a vintage typewriter. The capitol T is always half a step up from the other letters. And she has a crooked S."
Narrowed green eyes glared up at him suspiciously. "Was that a subtle play on words?"
"No, I swea
r, but I'm glad you caught it anyway. It means you're not a totally hopeless case."
She ignored that and gazed around her. "You don't even have a typewriter."
"I'll buy one. Any kind you like."
The thought of being more productive was intriguing and challenging, but she knew she couldn't accept his offer. With a defeated stoop to her shoulders, she shook her head. "I can't, Cage."
"Why not?"
"Your parents need me too much."
"You hit the nail on the head. They need you too much. Do you think you're doing them any favors by waiting on them hand and foot? They're middle-aged, but if they don't have a purpose in their lives, they'll grow old very fast. They need to get their lives going again, but they won't ever do that if they become so reliant on you.
"I've never had a child, so I don't know what it's like to lose one. But I can imagine that the temptation would be to curl up and die yourself. If you keep catering to Mother and Dad, that's what they're likely to do."
He was right, of course. Every day the Hendrens seemed to shrivel up more. And as long as she was convenient for them to rely on, they would use her until all their lives had been wasted.
"How much would you pay me?"
His face broke into a strong, wide grin. "Mercenary little bitch, aren't you?"
"How much?" she demanded, not nearly as piqued by his vulgarity as she should have been.
"Let's see," he said, rubbing his jaw. "Two-fifty a week?"
She had no idea if that was fair or not, but she wanted to leap at it anyway. Still, she hedged, pretending to be considering it. "How many paid holidays do I get?"
"Take it or leave it, Miss Fletcher," he said sternly.
"I'll take it. Nine to five with an hour and a half off for lunch." That would give her time to go to the parsonage and take the meal with the Hendrens, though the thought of eating lunch out every day was much more exciting. "Two weeks paid vacation, plus all the holidays the postal service takes. And I'll work only until noon on Fridays."
"You drive a hard bargain," Cage said, frowning. Actually he was thrilled. If he'd had to double the salary and meet any conditions, he would have done so to get her free of the parsonage and out from under his parents' control.
"I won't set foot in this place until it's been cleaned up. I mean clean."
"Yes, ma'am." He clicked his heels together.
"And the calendar has to go."
He looked toward the closet door and his face drooped in comic disappointment. "Aw, shoot! I was really coming to like her." He shrugged. "Ah, well. Anything else?"