Page 61 of Jane Deyre
Ten minutes later, I’m in some gypsy limo heading back to Thornhill. Way overpaying.
It turns out the driver, Manuel, is a really good guy. An immigrant from El Salvador, he’s a little over forty and the father of two little girls and a boy. He’s been in America for two decades and lives in Lennox. I have no clue where that is. He tells me life has been good to him. Much better than it was in his country.
“Go up La Brea,” I tell him from the back seat. That’s the fastest way to get to my godmother’s house. As we head north, Adele’s last words whirl in my head.Bring me home a present, Papa.I can’t go back to Thornhill empty-handed.
“Hey, Manny. What kinds of things are your kids into?”
His son is into all things baseball; his older daughter music, and his youngest nature. My ears perk up.
“Does she collect anything?”
He chuckles. “She has a snail collection.”
Seriously?
“I have nothing to do with it, but it’s a pain in the petunia for my wife.” Though accented, his English is perfect. Having lived abroad for several years, I always find it astonishing that foreigners can speak perfect English while most Americans cannot speak a word of another language. In fact, most of them can barely speak proper English. It’s pretty appalling.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“They’re indoor snails. They live in a terrarium. My wife is constantly having to clean it. Keep it moist. Make sure the fruits and vegetables they eat are kept fresh so they don’t rot and stink up my daughter’s room. And rid the eggs so they don’t hatch into hundreds of baby snails. More than the Salvadorian army!” He laughs again. “Though I’m sure my daughter would love that. She’s really into baby animals.”
“So, where do you get one of those things?”
“We got ours on Amazon. But you can buy one at any big pet store. You know, like a Petco.”
I immediately google Petco Los Angeles on my phone.
Luck! There’s one right here on La Brea a few miles away.
“Hey, bud, would you be cool with me making one stop?”
“No problema. Just tell me where.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m back in the car. With a huge gift-wrapped box.
Mission accomplished.
CHAPTER 30
Jane
Ican’t bear to tear myself away from Thornhill. From Adele. Fromhim.
Over a quiche and salad lunch in the dining room, I feel sadness eating away at me. I hardly touch my food while Adele eats hers voraciously and shares the discovery of her new snail.
“That’s wonderful, darling,” says Edwina, with genuine enthusiasm. “I feel your spirit in my old bones. Everywhere!” She turns to her chief of staff. “A child makes a house come alive all at once. Don’t you agree, Alice?”
Evading the question, Ms. Fairfax pats her thin lips with her linen napkin. She sets the napkin down and glowers at me. “Please have that child keep those vulgar creatures far away from me.”
Adele makes a face at the witch. The dour woman sneers at her and then goes back to picking at her greens. It’s not likely she’ll encounter the snails anytime soon. Before lunch, I asked Grace to help Adele and me move the potted plant to the side of the house. Close to the servants’ entrance. An area I’m sure Ms. Fairfax never frequents. It weighed a ton, but we managed. It took quite a long time because we had to keep stopping to take breaks. Rest our limbs. Catch our breaths. I was surprised by how much Adele helped. The little girl possesses strength both in character and body. I’m so going to miss her. Another pang of sadness stabs me.
Edwina notices I’ve hardly touched my quiche. “Jane, dear, are you not feeling well?”
I quirk a half smile. “I’m just not hungry.” The truth is I feel terrible. I dread packing my bag. Saying goodbye to her and sweet Adele. And more than dread sending Mr. Rochester a text notifying him of my resignation. He’s probably on his way to New York and won’t get it until he lands in the early evening because of the three-hour time difference.
Edwina lifts her flute of champagne. “Dear, you really must eat something. You’re going to fade away.” She takes a sip. “You’re way too thin as it is.”
Ms. Fairfax rolls her eyes. She’d probably like me to fade away to nothing. The truth is, I may. I haven’t gotten my first paycheck. I have no idea where my next meal will come from. Or the next or the next or the next.