“It’s Mary, isn’t it? Or Mara?”
“Martha, sir.”
“Okay. I’m looking into my father’s cases. Meet me at the office in ten minutes.”
He left before I could answer. Mr. Whitaker had once promised that I would always be looked after, but I assumed he was just comforting an elderly housekeeper. I straightened my apron and walked into the office, where Julian stood behind his father’s desk, patting a white folder in his palm.
“I’ll be brief. We no longer require your services.”
“I don’t understand. Your father said I would always have a place here.”
“My father is dead.”
His words touched me more deeply than I expected. He pushed the envelope onto the desk.
“There’s four hundred dollars in there. A week’s compensation. More than most housekeepers would get.”
“My position?”
“You’re an employee, Marta, not a member of my family. I want you to leave before sunset.”
Eighteen years of meals, medicine, solitary vacations, and late-night conversations had been reduced to four hundred dollars. I asked if I could have the little radio I kept in the closet. Julian said I could have anything that really belonged to me. Near the window hung a framed photograph of the mansion at sunset. Mr. Whitaker had given it to me years before.
“He told me I could have this photo.”
Julian just looked at it.
“This cheap thing? Take it and go.”
I pressed the frame to my chest, not knowing that it contained the only thing that would protect me. Upstairs, I folded my apron, put the radio inside, and wrapped the photo in a tea towel. Miguel, the gardener, saw me leave through the side door.
“Where are you going;”
“At my daughter’s house. Julian kicked me out.”
