As I was eating my yogurt and drinking another cup of tea, I glanced out my kitchen window and saw the little plastic bowl overturned on the back porch. It seemed my friendly neighborhood raccoon had come to eat last night. I walked outside, righted the bowl, dropped a scoop of food in it, and slid it under the short plant stand against the house. I always left a snack out for Rascal the Raccoon since the first time he'd turned up at my house, skinny and not much more than a baby.
Once that little chore was done, I took a quick shower and dressed but the nausea never returned. In fact, I felt great an hour later when I left the house to go to clean Mrs. Phelps' little home. It would only take me a couple of hours and I would make sure to keep my distance from her if she was there.
Sometimes she would hang around, chatting, while I cleaned, and others she would be out with her book club or on a walk with her little Yorkie puppy named Punky.
Mrs. Phelps was in her eighties and I swore her social life was more interesting than mine.
As luck would have it, Mrs. Phelps was there that morning when I pulled up in front of her house. Since I didn't know if she would need to leave before I finished, I parked at the curb and walked across the paving stones to the front porch. I could hear Punky barking inside and smiled a little to myself.
I gave the door a cursory knock, more to let her know I was there than to get her to open the door, and used the key she'd given me.
I stuck my head inside, keeping the door shut close enough to keep Punky from running out into the yard. I was feeling better, but I didn't think I would be spry enough to catch him if he got away from me.
"Mrs. Phelps, it's Lee!"
"I've told you to use the key and come on in every week, young lady. Why do you insist on knocking and announcing yourself like that?"
I stepped into the house and shut the front door behind me. Her voice had come from the kitchen so that's where I headed first.
When I came around the corner, I found her leaning against the little island in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in her hand. She wore loose exercise pants and a light t-shirt. Her face glowed pink from both exertion and sweat. She must have just come back from her morning walk.
"Well, Mrs. Phelps, I know you've got a boyfriend and I don't want to accidentally walk in on something I shouldn't be seeing," I answered, batting my eyelashes at her.
She scoffed and shook her head at me. "Stop blinking your eyes like some brainless twit. You know darn well I don't have a boyfriend."
"Maybe not today but there's always a chance it'll be different next week."
She rolled her eyes and took a sip of her coffee. Her face was lined and her hair was a soft, snowy white, but her eyes were sharp and shrewd.
Mrs. Natalie Phelps had every one of her faculties about her, but she wasn't above acting like she was forgetful or declining mentally if it helped her get away with something.
I also loved her to pieces.
She reminded me a great deal of my grandmother—pragmatic, nosy, assertive, but, beneath it all, a caring soul. She loved hard, but she often dispensed tough love because she was of the mind that a swift kick in the pants could knock the sense into someone, or the doubt out of them.
Spending time with her was bittersweet as my grandmother had been dead for nearly five years and I missed her like crazy.
"You're looking a little peaked, darlin'," Mrs. Phelps said. "Are you coming down with something?"
I shook my head, cursing the fact that I hadn't put on a light touch of make-up to hide the paleness of my cheeks and the circles beneath my eyes. I rarely did it because I'd rather use that time to sleep or study, but I should have made an exception today.
"I didn't get a good dinner last night and I woke up dizzy and sick to my stomach this morning. I think my blood sugar was too low."
She set her cup to the side and frowned at me. "I've told you time after time that you work too hard for such a young woman. You have plenty of time to get your degree. You shouldn't work yourself into an early grave for it."
I had no idea why, but my eyes welled up at her words. Maybe because they revealed exactly how much she cared about me.
Or maybe it was because I was so stressed out and I knew I would be for at least another twenty-three months.
Either way, I looked down at the floor, blinking rapidly, until the tears faded.
"You have to take care of yourself, Lyria Prescott," Mrs. Phelps admonished. "I am so proud of all you've accomplished in your short time here on this earth, but there's more to life than professional success. You're young. You should enjoy this time as a person and not just as a student. Work a little less, study a little less, and live a little more."
I managed to meet her eyes once mine were dry. "I will, Mrs. Phelps. I promise. I just...well, you know how hard I've worked and for how long. This is so important to me. Men, dating, marriage, children. All those things can wait a couple of years. I know that I will regret it for the rest of my life if I don't do this now."
I could see that Mrs. Phelps wanted to argue with me, but she finally just pressed her lips together and shook her head.
"Anywhere in particular you want me to start on today?" I asked.
She picked up her coffee. "No, dear. Just give it a quick clean, please. The ladies are coming over to crochet later."
I nodded and left the kitchen. Mrs. Phelps kept a basket of cleaning supplies in the hall linen closet, so I grabbed it and headed toward the master bathroom. I preferred to start with the bathrooms and get them out of the way because I hated cleaning them.
I'm sure it was because I almost always ended up cleaning the bathrooms at our house growing up and with four brothers, well, even with three bathrooms and a twice-weekly cleaning rotation, they were always gross. So gross.
Reason number twenty-three not to keep a man around. No way was I cleaning up after another one. I'd done enough of that when my brothers lived at home.
Considering my stance on cleaning bathrooms, it was unbelievable that I cleaned houses as one of my jobs, but it paid surprisingly well and I could listen to podcasts or audiobooks while I worked. While my hands were busy, I could learn something.
Speaking of audiobooks, my professor had included a recommended reading list in her syllabus, so I'd purchased a couple of them using my Audible membership.
I took the wireless earbuds my parents had gotten me last Christmas out of my pocket and stuck them in my ears. A few moments later, I was listening to the narrator read the introduction as I set about making the bathroom sparkle.
Two hours after I arrived, I took one last swipe at the kitchen floor with the Swiffer mop and dropped the used cloth in the trashcan. The house smelled like lemons and fresh air. That was one thing I did enjoy about this job. When I finished, there were obvious improvements from when I started. The furniture shone, the carpets were clean and fluffy, and the bathrooms gleamed white and chrome.
I turned off the audiobook, already mentally organizing the notes I would jot down while I ate lunch at home. Then, it would be time to head into Crave and work for seven hours.
After I tucked my earbuds back into my pocket, I found Mrs. Phelps in the living room, reading the newspaper.
"All finished," I announced.
She looked up at me and smiled. "Well, you look much brighter now. I'd say the activity was good for you."