The Family Legacy Contract

Chapter Eight

By the time I got home, I'd decided that the first thing I wanted to do was take off my shoes.

They were perfectly sensible shoes, a pair of little black flats I'd bought for a wedding two summers earlier, but they weren't particularly comfortable for cycling, and the backs had begun rubbing against my heels somewhere between the town centre and the bridge.

I leaned my bicycle against the shed, promising myself I'd put it away properly later, and went inside through the kitchen door.

The house was quiet.

Mum was still at work, Dad had mentioned something about helping Mr Patterson repair a leaking pipe, and Ben was presumably upstairs studying. There was a plate covered in foil on the counter, with a note in Mum's handwriting telling me there was leftover chicken in the refrigerator.

I smiled at it.

Even at twenty-three, I apparently couldn't be trusted to locate my own lunch.

I put the kettle on, changed into an old pair of jeans and a soft cotton shirt, and returned downstairs to make myself a sandwich. It was only when I sat at the kitchen table, with my tea beside me and the afternoon sunshine falling across the worn yellow cupboards, that I began to feel a little foolish.

I'd spent the better part of a week imagining what Adrian Williams might have to offer me.

Nothing particularly extravagant, of course. I hadn't expected him to announce that an international corporation was searching for an inexperienced young woman from Willow Creek to take over its European operations. But I'd allowed myself to imagine an office somewhere, perhaps in Chicago or New York, where I could wear proper clothes and learn something useful. A job with regular hours, a salary that didn't depend on how many customers came through the door, and perhaps even the possibility of advancement.

I'd imagined telling Jess that I was finally coming to New York.

I'd imagined giving Mum and Dad enough notice that they wouldn't have to worry about my contributions towards the bills.

I'd even looked at photographs of little apartments, although I knew perfectly well that I couldn't afford one.

And now I was sitting in our kitchen eating a chicken sandwich, having been offered the opportunity to carry a stranger's child.

I took a bite and considered the absurdity of it.

There was something almost impressive about how thoroughly I'd misunderstood the situation.

My phone buzzed beside my plate.

JESS: WELL????

I looked at the message and smiled despite myself.

Another appeared before I could answer.

JESS: Natalie Walsh if you've been offered a fabulous job in Paris and forgotten to tell me I will never forgive you.

I picked up the phone.

ME: Unfortunately, I haven't been offered a fabulous job in Paris.

Her reply arrived almost immediately.

JESS: London?

ME: No.

JESS: Milan?

ME: Jess.

JESS: Oh god. Was it a scam?

I hesitated.

That was the difficult part. It hadn't been a scam, at least not in any way I could identify. Adrian's company was legitimate, his office had been perfectly respectable, and he'd behaved with considerably more professionalism than some of the people I'd interviewed with for ordinary jobs.

Me: Unfortunately, no fabulous job. Complete bust, actually.

Jess: Oh no! What happened?

Me: Turns out I'm not particularly qualified for anything he recruits for. Unless I fancy becoming a surrogate for some ridiculously wealthy family.

Jess: I'm sorry, WHAT?

Me: Apparently there's quite a market for it. Very generous compensation, all expenses paid, the works.

Jess: Natalie Walsh. You went looking for a job and someone offered to buy you a baby?

Me: Technically they'd be paying me to have one.

Jess: THAT IS NOT BETTER.

I laughed, nearly dropping my lunch as another message appeared.

Jess: Please tell me you said no.

Me: Of course I did. Anyway, he's keeping my details in case something normal comes up.

Jess: Good. Although at this point I think you'd have better luck moving to New York and marrying a millionaire.

Me: Know any?

Jess: Unfortunately all the ones I know are either married or eighty.

Me: I'll keep my options open then.

Jess sent me a string of laughing emojis, followed by a photograph of an enormous cocktail she'd apparently ordered after work. Within minutes, the conversation had moved on to her plans for the weekend, and I was grateful for it. The whole afternoon had been disappointing enough without spending the evening discussing it. As far as I was concerned, the meeting with Adrian Williams was simply another opportunity that hadn't worked out, and I was perfectly happy to leave it at that.

It was the work itself that I couldn't quite get my head around.

I washed my plate, wiped down the table and went upstairs to put my shoes away. The business card Adrian had given me was still tucked into the little pocket of my handbag.

I took it out and looked at it for a moment before placing it in the top drawer of my desk. There seemed little point throwing it away.

After all, he might eventually hear about a perfectly ordinary job.

"How did you get on with that gentleman?" Mum asked, passing me a bowl of carrots.

"Very well, thank you."

"Did he have anything interesting?"

"Not immediately. He explained how the recruitment process works and asked me a lot of questions about my experience."

"That sounds promising."

"Well, it's a process," I said, picking up a carrot. "He said he'd keep my details on file and be in touch if something suitable came along."

Mum nodded thoughtfully.

"That's good, sweetheart."

"Yes."

"What sort of positions does he recruit for?"

"All sorts, apparently. Different clients, different requirements."

"Anywhere around here?"

"Not necessarily. A lot of the opportunities involve relocating."

She looked at me.

"Relocating?"

"Possibly. It depends on the job."

For a moment, she concentrated rather fiercely on the potato in her hand.

"I suppose that would be quite exciting for you."

"It might be."

"Somewhere like Chicago?"

"Maybe."

She smiled, although there was something uncertain about it.

"Well, we'll just have to see what happens."

"Exactly."

I was rather pleased with that answer. It was vague enough to discourage further questions without being an outright lie, and I hoped that if I didn't mention Adrian again, everyone would eventually forget about him.

Dad came in a few minutes later, carrying a small cardboard box filled with assorted screws he'd apparently collected from Mr Patterson's garage.

"How was the interview?" he asked, setting the box on the counter.

"Fine. Nothing available just yet."

"Ah. That's a shame."

"Not really. He'll keep me in mind."

"Good. Never hurts to have someone looking out for you."

I smiled and returned to the carrots.

And that, thankfully, was the end of it.

Ben appeared in the doorway just as Mum was carrying the roast potatoes to the table, his hair still damp from the shower and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

"That smells amazing."

"Then you can make yourself useful and bring the gravy over," Mum replied, setting the dish down on a folded tea towel.

He obliged, stopping on his way to steal a potato from the edge of the roasting tray.

"Benjamin!"

"What? I'm helping."

"You're eating."

"I can do both."

Dad laughed from his place at the table, where he'd been attempting to read the newspaper while waiting for dinner. He folded it neatly, although not before I noticed the rather spectacular photograph of a politician looking furious about something, and reached for the serving spoon.

"Come on, everyone. Before your mother decides we're not grateful enough and takes it all away."

"I've considered it," Mum said, settling into her chair.

Sunday dinners were something of a tradition in our house, although they were rarely confined to Sundays. Mum liked having everyone around the table, and whenever the budget allowed for a proper roast, she made enough food to feed twice as many people as actually lived there. Tonight there was chicken with crisp golden skin, potatoes roasted in garlic and rosemary, carrots glazed with a little honey, and a generous dish of green beans that Ben regarded with considerably less enthusiasm than everything else.

I passed him the beans.

"Don't look so delighted."

"I wasn't."

"Your face says otherwise."

"My face is expressing a perfectly reasonable preference for potatoes."

"Your face can have some vegetables," Mum informed him.

He sighed theatrically and helped himself.

Outside, the last of the evening sunshine lay across the garden, catching the tops of the fence posts and turning the kitchen curtains a warm shade of gold. The window above the sink was open just enough to let in a little breeze, carrying the smell of freshly cut grass from somewhere down the street. Dad had put the radio on earlier, and a familiar old song played quietly from the counter, occasionally interrupted by the soft crackle of poor reception.

For a while, conversation revolved around the ordinary things that filled our days. Mum told us about a customer who'd attempted to return a half-eaten birthday cake to the supermarket because he claimed it hadn't tasted sufficiently like chocolate. Dad described an argument between two men at a building site over the correct way to install a doorframe, an argument that had apparently lasted longer than the installation itself.

"Who was right?" I asked.

"Neither of them."

Ben laughed.

"How is that possible?"

"Because they were both looking at the wrong set of plans."

"You're joking."

"Wish I was. They'd been arguing over a door that wasn't even supposed to be there."

Mum shook her head, smiling as she reached for another potato.

"Well, at least you got a day's work out of it."

"That's one way of looking at it."

Dad said it lightly, but I noticed the small hesitation before he reached for his glass. Work had been irregular lately, and although he rarely complained, I knew he'd spent most of the previous week waiting for a contractor to confirm whether they needed him for another job.

Ben, apparently deciding he'd had enough vegetables to satisfy the requirements of family dinner, pushed the remaining beans around his plate.

"My interview's in three days," he announced.

Mum looked up immediately.

"Wednesday. I know, sweetheart."

"Three days," he repeated, as though the number had only just occurred to him.

"Are you nervous?" I asked.

"A bit."

Dad raised his eyebrows.

"Only a bit?"

"All right, quite a lot."

"That's more like it."

Ben smiled, but I could see the tension behind it. He'd been unusually quiet over the past few days, spending more time in his room and emerging occasionally to ask questions that none of us were particularly qualified to answer.

"I keep thinking about how many people they've interviewed," he admitted. "They've got applicants from all over the country. Some of them probably go to schools with proper engineering programmes and laboratories and everything."

"Some of them probably do," Dad agreed.

Mum gave him a look.

"Daniel."

"What? I'm not going to tell the boy something that isn't true."

He turned back to Ben.

"But they didn't invite you because they felt sorry for you. They looked at what you've done and decided they wanted to meet you. That's worth remembering."

Ben considered that, then nodded.

"I suppose."

"And besides," Dad continued, "you've already built more things that actually work than half the people I've met on building sites."

"That's not exactly a high bar, considering your story about the door," I observed.

Dad pointed his fork at me.

"Very funny."

Ben laughed, and some of the stiffness left his shoulders.

"What happens after Wednesday?" Mum asked.

"They said we should hear within the week if we are shortlisted."

"Three weeks!" she exclaimed. "Goodness, so many steps."

"Tell me about it."

"Well," I said, reaching for the gravy, "at least you'll have a break where nobody can reasonably expect you to practise interview questions over breakfast."

Ben looked at me with genuine relief.

"That might be the best part."

"I wouldn't count on it," Dad said. "Your mother will find something else to worry about."

"I heard that."

"You were meant to."

Mum threw her napkin at him, and he caught it with a grin.

For a little while, Ben seemed to forget about Wednesday altogether. He told us about a friend from school who'd accidentally submitted an assignment with the teacher's marking instructions still copied into the document, and Mum laughed so hard she had to put down her fork.

I liked seeing them like that. Dad with his sleeves rolled up, Mum laughing at something ridiculous, Ben talking animatedly with his mouth half full despite being told not to. It was easy, when I was rushing between shifts or working out how much money I could put towards the bills, to forget that our house was more than a collection of expenses that needed paying.

After dinner, Ben helped me clear the table while Mum went to fetch the apple crumble she'd made that afternoon. Dad stood to put the kettle on, and as he moved his newspaper aside, a white envelope slipped from between its folded pages and landed on the floor.

I bent to retrieve it.

The electricity company's name was printed across the top.

I hadn't meant to look at the amount, but it was visible through the little window beneath the address, accompanied by the words Payment Overdue.

It was more than I'd expected.

Dad reached for the envelope before I could say anything.

"Thanks, love."

"Is everything all right?"

"Of course."

He slipped it back beneath the newspaper and gave me the easy smile he used whenever he wanted to end a conversation before it began.

"Just a bill. Nothing exciting."

I nodded and carried the plates to the sink.

There wasn't much point questioning him in front of everyone, particularly when Mum was already bringing dessert to the table and Ben had begun arguing that his portion ought to be larger because he was still growing.

But I thought about the envelope as I washed the dishes, and again later when Dad went upstairs to change out of his work clothes.

His wallet was lying on the little table beside the back door, where he usually left it with his keys and whatever loose change he'd collected throughout the day. It was an old brown leather thing, softened and cracked around the edges, with a small tear near the fold that he'd been promising to repair for at least a year.

I glanced towards the kitchen.

Mum was putting the leftover crumble into a container, humming along to the radio, while Ben had disappeared upstairs.

I took my own purse from my handbag and counted out the five perfect hundred dollar bills I hadn't deposited yet.

For a moment, I hesitated.

Dad would be furious if I tried to hand it to him. Not properly furious, of course, but he'd insist I keep it, remind me that I worked hard for my money and tell me that supporting the family was his responsibility.

He'd said much the same thing the last time I'd offered to contribute more towards the mortgage.

I opened his wallet and tucked two bills behind the receipts, where he wouldn't immediately notice them.

Then I closed it and put it back beside his keys.

It wasn't going to solve everything. I knew that. But perhaps it would mean one less thing for him to worry about this week.

"Nat?"

I turned.

Mum was standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a tea towel.

"Coming," I said, picking up my handbag.

She smiled.

"There's a little crumble left if you want some more."

"Maybe later."

I followed her into the kitchen, where the dishes were drying beside the sink and the radio had moved on to another old song. Upstairs, I could hear Ben laughing at something on his computer, and a moment later Dad called down to ask whether anyone had seen his glasses.

"They're on your head!" Mum shouted back.

There was a pause.

Then, "Right. Found them."

I laughed and reached for the tea towel.