Moonlight on Butternut Lake by Mary McNear Page B

facing the desk. And then, as Mila sank down gratefully into it she observed, “I see you broke your heel.” Mila nodded, still trying to breathe normally. “I hate heels,” Ms. Thompson remarked as she filled a glass of water from a pitcher. Mila hated them too, but she’d been trying to look at least semiprofessional when she’d gotten dressed to come here today.
    Ms. Thompson handed her the glass of water and then sat down on the edge of the desk, facing her. And Mila murmured “Thank you” and sipped the water, and when she trusted herself to speak again, said, “I know you need to leave now. You said there was somewhere you needed to be this evening. I’m sorry if I’ve made you late for it.” She stood up then. The interview, she assumed, was over before it had even begun.
    But Ms. Thompson gestured for Mila to sit down again, and, fixing her with her penetrating eyes, she asked, “Ms. Jones, why was it so important to you that you see me now?”
    Mila, disarmed by her directness, stumbled a little. “I, I’ve . . . I’ve always wanted to be a nurse,” she said. “Since I was in the third grade. Since before that, really. I’ve always wanted to take care of people. And working as a home health aide would let me do that while I prepare for—”
    But Ms. Thompson cut her off with an impatient gesture. “That’s all very noble, Ms. Jones,” she said. “But this is what I would have expected you to say if we’d met on Monday morning, as I suggested. But when you told me you needed to come in this evening, I assumed it literally could not wait.”
    â€œIt couldn’t,” Mila said honestly. She knew there was no point in even trying to lie when she was on the receiving end of Ms. Thompson’s laserlike focus.
    â€œGood,” Ms. Thompson nodded approvingly. “So why don’t you forget the formalities. And forget, too, the speech about wanting to be a nurse. Which, by the way, I believe. After we spoke on the phone an hour ago, I called Mary Meyer for a reference. She said she’s been teaching your certification class, in one form or another, for thirty-five years, and that you were one of the best students she’s ever had, ever, and that you would make an excellent hire for this agency, not to mention an excellent nurse one day. So, as I said, it’s not that I don’t believe you when you say you want to be a nurse. It’s just that I don’t believe it’s the reason you had to come see me right now, late on Friday just before closing, instead of on Monday morning, like I suggested over the phone. Am I right?”
    Mila nodded, and then, without warning, her eyes glazed over with tears, and the view of Ms. Thompson, sitting on the edge of her desk, swam away, as if she were suddenly looking at her under water. Mila wiped impatiently at her tears, wondering whyshe’d chosen this moment, of all possible moments, to cry. She needed a job, damn it. Behaving like some blithering idiot wasn’t going to get her one.
    When her vision cleared again, though, Ms. Thompson wasn’t sitting on her desk anymore. She was sitting on one of the office chairs next to Mila, holding out a box of tissues. Mila took one and blotted her tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
    â€œDon’t be sorry,” Ms. Thompson said calmly. “Just tell me why you’re here.”
    Mila hesitated, rehearsing another lie. But then she looked at Ms. Thompson’s expression, which was firm but not unkind, tough but not judgmental, and she made a split-second decision. A decision she would be glad she’d made for the rest of her life. She decided to tell Ms. Thompson the truth. “I’m in an abusive marriage,” she said simply. “And when I tried to leave my husband once before he found me. Now, he says he’ll never let me leave him