Chapter ThirteenA hot breeze ruffled the gauzy curtain in the so-called kitchen of the tiny apartment, and Rochelle dabbed at the perspiration on her face. Two burners, miniscule oven, and a sink too small to wash a platter hardly qualified, but it was better than the facilities in the dormitories where the single staff lived.
She circled the three-room lodging, running a cloth over the few sticks of furniture to rid the tops of the ever-present dust. Her first day off in two weeks, and she was stuck in the house cleaning. So much for celebrating her one-year anniversary. But at least she was home. A glance at the ornate, wood-and-brass mantle clock they’d received from Irwin’s family as a wedding present told her he wouldn’t be home from work for another six hours.
Her stomach rumbled.
