Chapter 2
The next morning, I called Eleanor before I could talk myself out of it.
I stood beside my motorcycle in the apartment parking lot, helmet tucked under my arm. My first delivery was already running late, and the electric company had left another message on my phone. I knew what I should be doing: checking the address, starting the engine, making money.
Instead, I listened to the phone ring.
“Emily?” Eleanor answered. Her voice sounded brighter than it had the day before.
“Good morning. I said I’d call.”
“You did. Thank you.”
“I can come by before my café shift, if that still works.”
“It does. Alexander and I are at his office. Would you be comfortable meeting us there?”
I glanced at the delivery bag on my motorcycle. “I can make it work. But before we talk about the job, I need to ask you something.”
“Of course.”
“Yesterday, you said my grandmother asked you to do something. I don’t want to accept an opportunity because of a story I haven’t heard. Or because you think you owe me.”
There was a pause.
“I understand,” Eleanor said. “Come in, and I’ll answer what I can.”
The Carter Holdings building downtown had a polished lobby, quiet elevators, and enough glass to make me feel like every part of me—including the fraying cuff of my jacket—was on display.
A receptionist directed me to a conference room on the seventh floor. Eleanor was waiting at the table, a cup of tea in front of her. Alexander stood near the windows, reviewing papers.
He turned when I entered.
“Emily. Thanks for coming.”
I set my helmet beside the chair but kept my delivery bag at my feet.
Eleanor reached for my hand. “Before anything else, you wanted the truth.”
“I did.”
She glanced at Alexander, then back at me. “Your grandmother and I met when I was frightened and overwhelmed. She didn’t tell me what to do. She listened until I could hear my own thoughts again.”
I sat down across from her.
“And what did she ask you to do?”
“To let people help me without letting them take over my life.” Eleanor’s fingers rested beside her teacup. “There’s more to the story, and I meant what I said yesterday. I’ll tell you properly. But I don’t want to make it sound as if you inherited some obligation from her.”
“I don’t want one.”
“Good,” she said, with a small, relieved smile. “Because I don’t want one from you.”
The tightness in my chest eased a little.
“I’m glad you told me,” I said. “I still want to hear the rest. But I needed to know you weren’t asking me here because you think my grandmother left me a debt to collect.”
“She didn’t,” Eleanor said. “And neither do I.”
Alexander pulled out the chair beside her. “Would it be all right if I explain the work now?”
I nodded. “Yes. If we talk about the actual job.”
He sat and slid a folder across the table. It held a short written proposal, not a glossy brochure. The first page described a temporary role: community adviser for the Parkinson’s family-care center he was planning.
“I’m proposing a six-week paid trial,” he said. “Up to eight hours a week. You’d attend planning meetings, review the center’s plans from a family and community perspective, and help us identify people willing to tell us what would actually make a service useful.”
“Would I be expected to speak for everyone with Parkinson’s?”
“No. You can speak for yourself. If you help us hear from other people, they’ll speak for themselves too.”
I looked over the page. “And the hours?”
“We’ll schedule them around your existing work as much as possible. You would not be on call, and you would not be expected to provide caregiving. This is an advisory position.”
“How much does it pay?”
He named an hourly rate. It wasn’t enough to make my overdue bill disappear overnight, but it was real pay for real work. The proposal also said I could keep my café job and that the trial would not automatically turn into a longer contract.
I read that line twice.
“You wrote down that I can leave after six weeks.”
“I did.”
“And if I disagree with you?”
“You’re allowed to.”
“That’s easy to say before the disagreement happens.”
“It is,” Alexander said. He didn’t argue. “So let’s put that in writing too. You can document concerns in your own words. I can’t edit them into approval.”
I looked up from the paper. “You’re comfortable with me telling you that the center plan is wrong?”
“I’m comfortable with you telling me what you believe. I can’t promise I’ll agree with every recommendation. I can promise you won’t be punished for making one.”
“That’s not quite the same thing.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”
That answer landed better than a perfect promise would have.
I glanced at Eleanor. “You want me involved because I helped you yesterday?”
“Partly,” she said. “You helped me without treating me as if I’d stopped being a person who could make choices. That matters. But I’m not asking you to recreate yesterday on demand, or to take care of me.”
She let the words settle before continuing.
“I want you involved because you noticed something the rest of us had missed. Whether you take the job or not, you should know that.”
My gaze dropped to the folder. There was a place for my signature, but I didn’t touch the pen.
“What happens if I sign and discover I’m not good at this?”
“Then we talk about what isn’t working,” Alexander said. “You’re not agreeing to fix the entire project by yourself.”
“And if I decide the work isn’t worth the pay?”
“Then you stop. You’ll be paid for every hour you’ve worked.”
The answer was practical. It didn’t ask me to trust him with my whole future—only to consider a six-week job with written boundaries.
I thought of my manager’s impatience, the delivery miles ahead of me, the electricity bill waiting at home. I also thought of my grandmother telling me that compassion didn’t require wealth. She hadn’t said that kindness meant ignoring your own needs.
“I’m willing to try it,” I said. “But I want the agreement to say I can disagree without being labeled difficult. And I want meetings scheduled ahead of time. I can’t just drop my other shifts.”
Alexander pulled the proposal back toward himself. “Both are reasonable. I’ll add them.”
“And I’m not a spokesperson for every person with Parkinson’s.”
“Agreed.”
“And I don’t want the story about my grandmother used in publicity.”
“No publicity without your permission,” he said. “That belongs in writing too.”
He made a note on the page. Eleanor watched him, then looked at me.
“You don’t owe us a yes,” she said.
“I know. That’s why I’m saying yes to a trial—not to everything that might come after it.”
For the first time since I entered the building, Alexander smiled. It was small and tired, not the kind of smile people put on for photographs.
“That sounds fair.”
He turned the page toward me. The changes were written by hand, to be added to the final agreement before I signed. I read them, then signed only the acknowledgment that I’d received the proposal. We agreed to finalize the terms before my first paid meeting.
I put the pen down.
“Then I guess I’m a community adviser.”
“For six weeks,” I said.
“For six weeks,” he agreed.
My phone buzzed against the table. A message from the café manager reminded me that my shift started in thirty minutes. I stood and reached for my helmet.
Alexander’s phone rang before I could pick it up.
He checked the screen. His expression changed—not dramatically, but enough that Eleanor noticed.
“Is it the board?” she asked.
He nodded and answered.
“I’m with Emily now,” he said. “Yes. She’s seen the proposal.”
He listened. His eyes moved to the written plan between us.
“No,” he said. “I haven’t promised anything on behalf of the company.”
Another pause.
Eleanor’s hand closed around her teacup. I stayed where I was, helmet in one hand.
Alexander’s voice lowered. “You can’t suspend a position that hasn’t been approved by the board.”
He listened again, jaw tightening.
Then he looked at me.
“They’re challenging the center’s current design,” he said after ending the call. “And the chair wants me to stop all new appointments until the board reviews it.”
My signed acknowledgment lay on the table between us.
“Does that mean the trial is canceled?” I asked.
May you like
Alexander didn’t answer right away.
“It means,” he said, “the board may try to shut this down before we’ve even had our first meeting.”
