I became a chauffeur of a wealthy widow because I needed the money; after she accused me of stealing, I found a note of hers hidden in the car and I was stunned.
When you have three kids and two unpaid bills on the kitchen table, pride becomes a luxury.
That’s why I took the chauffeur job from Mrs. Whitmore.
She was a wealthy widow in the seventies, one of those women who lived behind iron bars and used pearls for breakfast. I was hoping it was cold, but it wasn’t.
At first, he only took her to dates, charity meals and to the cemetery every Friday, where she would lay white roses on her husband’s grave.
Then he started asking me questions.
“How old are your kids, Stan?” “
“Do they look like you?” “
“Do they reflect how hard you work?” “Sometimes, after I walked her home, she would invite me over for a drink.” I always sat near the edge of the chair, careful not to look too comfortable. She talked about her late husband, her lonely home, and her four adult children who only visited when they needed to sign something.
I felt sorry for her.
Maybe that was my mistake.
Last Tuesday, her kids were home when I got there. Mrs Whitmore was in the room, pale and shaky.
“I’m missing my diamond brooch,” he said.
Then she looked me in the eyes.
“I think Stan’s got it.” The silence filled the room.
His son smiled. His daughter crossed his arms. I felt my face was blushing.
“Mrs. Whitmore, I would never do that… “
‘Enough’ she interrupted me abruptly. “Take the car to my mechanic and leave it there. The papers are in the glove case. He knows what to do. “And once you hand me the keys, you won’t have to work for me.” I got the urge to throw the keys on the marble floor and leave.
But I needed my paycheck this week. So I drove his Mercedes black through town, furious and humiliated. In the garage, I opened the glove rack to get the documents out. A double note slipped and landed on the co-pilot’s seat. Had my name written on it
(I know you’re all very curious to know what happens next, so if you want to read more, is below !). )
