“Just a thought,” Emma said with some trepidation. “I understand why it’s a bad idea to accept used clothing from clients...”

 “It can be disastrous,” Riley said.

  “I was wondering, if it was managed and there was a receipt from the donor so there wouldn’t be any misunderstanding...”

 “I don’t think it’s a good idea to have our clients think we’re needy, Emma.”

 “I understand, but the client doesn’t have to know where donated clothing goes. In fact, we could send out a notice to clients saying that if they choose to donate to a variety of worthwhile outlets from shelters to dress for success organizations that help to clothe people for job interviews...”

 “The clothes you were forced to throw away wouldn’t have made it into donation, Emma,” Riley said. “That screwed up fifteen-year-old girl’s clothes wouldn’t have been donated. She was making a statement when she put them in the garbage.”

 “You know about that, huh?” Emma said.

 “There’s very little I don’t hear about,” Riley said. “I’m sorry, Emma. I think it’s a bad idea.”

 “If someone came to you and said, ‘Would you like to donate these nice clothes?’ what would you think?” Brazil asked. “You’d think, ‘Why’s that cleaning woman picking through my trash?’ that’s what.”

 “Our clients want to think their cleaners don’t need charity. They like thinking we don’t see their castoffs, that we don’t notice things like that.”

 “Tempting though, ain’t it?” Brazil said.

 “It is,” Emma said.

 “Look the other way, Emma,” Riley said. “Anything else on your mind?”

 She shook her head.

 “I’m glad it’s going well for you. Makenna tells me you’re doing a very good job.”

 “Thank you,” she said. “The team does a very good job. They’re good girls. Women.”

 “That’s all I have for you,” Riley said. “I just wanted to check in with you. And here’s your check,” she added, handing Emma an envelope. “From now on Brazil will have your pay deposited in your account and Nick will give you the stub showing your deductions. Welcome aboard.”

 “Thanks,” she said. And took her leave.

 * * *

 Emma had been in touch with Adam every day without fail. On those few nights they weren’t together, they talked on the phone. Tonight Emma was going to Adam’s house for dinner. When she was there, which had only been twice so far, she put her car in his garage so that if Riley drove by she wouldn’t see it. When she arrived, he was busy in the kitchen, slicing and dicing, garlic being sautéed in the pan on the stove.

 “It already smells wonderful.”

 “I have something to tell you,” he said. “My mother asked me if I happened to have a phone number for you. She’s planning to call you. I gave her the number. I hope you’re okay with that.”

 “Will she tell Riley?” Emma asked.

 “You can ask her not to, Emma. I don’t think Riley finding out we’re seeing each other will be as much of a problem as you think.”

 “It will be a problem for her, I guarantee it.”

 “I hope you’re wrong, but we’ll do things your way. My mother wants to see you. She knows Riley has your number and she didn’t ask her.”

 “I don’t know what’s going to piss her off more—us being together or hiding it from her.”

 * * *

 Every time Emma’s phone rang, she jumped. She looked at the caller ID and it was either Adam or Lyle. Then on Wednesday while she was working, her phone vibrated in her pocket and she didn’t dare answer it, even though the home owners were not home. When they took their break between houses, she listened to the message.

 “Emma, it’s June Kerrigan. Adam gave me your number and I’ve been looking for a time I could ask you to dinner when it would be just us so we could talk, catch up with no interference from eavesdroppers or others. Maddie is having a sleepover Friday night so her mother will have to stay home with them. How I got out of sleepover duty, I’ll never know, but finally the house is my own. Can you come to dinner? At about six? When you were a little girl you loved my fried spaghetti—it was your favorite and your little feelings were hurt if we had it without you. If I make fried spaghetti, will you come? I think I’ve waited long enough!”

 Tears came to her eyes and she sniffed loudly enough that Shawna turned from the front seat and asked, “You okay, girl?”

 “Yes, sorry. I just got the sweetest message from an old friend...”

 “It your birthday or something?” Shawna asked.

 “No,” she said, laughing. “She’s going to make my favorite dish from when I was a little girl—fried spaghetti with pesto, black olives and pepperoni.”

 And both women oohed and ahhed.

 On Friday afternoon, immediately after work, she went to the flower shop. She’d called Lyle and asked him if he’d make a Christmas centerpiece for her to give to someone special. When she got to the flower shop the guys were both there. With the holidays upon them, they were keeping the shop open a little later and Lyle hadn’t gotten around to her centerpiece.

 “Who’s getting my masterpiece?” Lyle asked.

 “You have to promise not to tell,” she said. “June called me and invited me to dinner, just the two of us. Adam gave her my cell number.”