The call connected almost immediately.
I expected a ringing tone.
Instead, there was a small click, followed by silence.
I held the phone close to my ear.
For a second, I wondered whether the number was disconnected.
Then a man spoke.
"Harrington Estate Management."
His voice was deep and controlled.
He sounded as if he were sitting at a desk in a quiet room, not answering an unexpected call in the middle of the night.
"My name is Arthur," he continued. "How may I help you?"
I tried to answer.
My teeth were chattering too badly, and the first sound that came out of my mouth was barely recognizable as a word.
I swallowed and tried again.
"I'm calling about the notice."
There was a brief pause.
"Which notice, please?"
"The one asking for a stepmother."
I heard a faint rustling sound on the other end.
It reminded me of someone moving a sheet of paper across a desk.
"May I ask your name?"
"Catherine Miller."
Another pause followed.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep my legs from shaking.
The man spoke again.
"Miss Miller, your number isn't listed with the information I have available."
"I understand."
"And you sound very cold."
I looked at the wet pavement.
"I am."
"Are you calling from outside?"
"Yes."
"Where are you?"
I could have made up an answer.
I could have told him I was at home, warm and dry, and simply interested in the position.
That might have sounded more respectable.
But I had already spent years hiding the parts of my life that other people found inconvenient.
I didn't have the energy to begin doing it again.
"I'm at a bus shelter on Commonwealth Avenue," I said. "I've been outside for a while."
He didn't interrupt.
I took a breath.
"I graduated from Cornell with a degree in English literature. I graduated with honors, and I've spent the last four years managing a household."
My voice shook.
"I also helped raise my nephew from the time he was a baby until he was four."
I stopped to catch my breath.
"I don't have a criminal record. I don't have children of my own. And I don't have anywhere to live tonight."
The last sentence came out more quietly than the others.
I had said it.
There was no way to take it back.
I waited for the man to tell me that the position wasn't suitable for someone in my circumstances.
I waited for him to ask whether I had references.
I waited for him to say that the advertisement had already been taken down or that the family was no longer interested.
Instead, there was silence.
Not the uncomfortable silence I had grown used to at the Vance home.
This was different.
Arthur seemed to be considering what I had told him rather than preparing a response designed to put me in my place.
Five seconds passed.
Maybe more.
I looked at the phone to make sure the call hadn't ended.
The screen showed that we were still connected.
Then Arthur spoke.
"Would you be able to come to Greenwich tomorrow morning?"
I blinked.
"Greenwich?"
"Yes. Twelve Pine Hollow Road."
I knew the name of the town, though I had never been there.
It was across the state line, more than thirty miles from where I stood.
"At what time?" I asked.
"Nine o'clock."
I looked down at my shoes.
They were soaked through, and the cold had made my feet ache.
I tried to picture myself getting to Greenwich the next morning with a suitcase, no clean clothes, and a phone that might not survive another call.
"I think I can get there," I said.
It was not a confident answer.
It was simply the best one I had.
"I would need to bring my credentials and references," I added. "And my belongings."
"Yes, Miss Miller."
I hesitated.
"How do I get there?"
"Take the six-fifteen train from South Station to Stamford."
He delivered the instructions as if he had made similar arrangements many times before.
"A driver will meet you at the platform. He will be carrying a black umbrella with a silver handle. His name is Thomas."
I repeated the details under my breath.
Six-fifteen.
South Station.
Stamford.
Thomas.
A black umbrella.
The instructions were so ordinary that I found myself clinging to them.
They were concrete.
I could follow them one at a time.
"Will someone actually be there?" I asked.
The question sounded childish as soon as I said it.
Arthur didn't laugh.
"Mr. Thomas will be expecting you."
I looked back toward the shelter.
My suitcase was waiting beneath the bench, and the rain had begun to collect around its wheels.
I had no idea whether the man on the phone was telling me the truth.
I had no way to verify the advertisement.
But he hadn't asked me to pay a fee.
He hadn't asked for my bank details.
He hadn't demanded that I explain why my marriage had ended or why I was outside in the cold.
He had given me an address and a time.
For the moment, that was enough to make the possibility feel real.
"Is there anything else I should know?" I asked.
"Bring whatever documentation you have, Miss Miller."
"All right."
"And make certain you arrive on time."
"I will."
There was a short pause.
Then he added, in the same composed voice, "You should also find somewhere warm until your train departs."
I almost laughed.
I had fifty dollars and a suitcase.
If I knew where to find somewhere warm, I wouldn't have been standing beside a utility pole in the middle of the night.
Still, I appreciated that he had said it.
Not because it solved anything.
Because he had noticed.
"I'll do my best," I answered.
"Very well. We will expect you at nine."
The call ended.
I held the phone against my ear for another moment, listening to the silence.
Then I lowered it.
The battery indicator was red.
A few seconds later, the screen went dark.
I pressed the button to wake it, but nothing happened.
My phone had finally run out of power.
I stood beside the pole, staring at the blank screen.
For the first time that night, I had an appointment to keep.
It was a strange thing to feel grateful for, but I was.
I walked back to the shelter and lifted my suitcase by its handle.
The safety pin at the corner of the zipper caught against my sleeve.
I freed it carefully.
I had used that bag when I left West Virginia for college, carrying my grandfather's book and the belief that hard work would give me choices.
Now I was carrying a few changes of clothes and whatever remained of my life with Ryan.
I had no guarantee that Greenwich would be any better.
I might arrive and discover that the notice had been misleading.
The people at the estate might decide I was unsuitable.
They might take one look at my wet coat and my damaged suitcase and send me away.
I had no reason to believe they would welcome me.
But I had an address.
I had a train to catch.
And I had no better option.
I began walking toward South Station.
The rain continued to fall, and the wheels of my suitcase made an uneven sound against the pavement.
I thought about my mother in her hospital bed.
I thought about my father leaving for another overnight shift.
I thought about Ryan sitting beside those divorce papers, looking at me as though the past four years had been an inconvenience he was finally free to remove.
I couldn't change what had happened in that room.
I couldn't make Ryan regret his decision.
I couldn't force Eleanor to see me as anything other than the woman she believed had failed her son.
But I could decide what I did next.
That was a small thing.
It was also the first decision that had felt entirely mine in a long time.
I tightened my grip on the suitcase.
By morning, I would be in Stamford, looking for a man with a black umbrella and a silver handle.
I didn't know what waited beyond that meeting.
I only knew that I had to give myself the chance to find out.
The woman who had signed those papers was still cold, still frightened, and still broke.
But she was walking.
For that night, it was enough.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: I Reached South Station Before Dawn With a Broken Suitcase, a Dead Phone, and One Appointment I Could Not Afford to Miss
My Husband Asked Me to Sign Two Papers, and Before Midnight I Had Lost My Marriage, My Home, and Almost Everything I Owned
Part 4 of 12
