"I heard we had a complaint," I said.

"Emma couldn't wait to tattle, could she? Mr. and Mrs. Toronto Yuppies abandoned their kids, then bitched 'cause I'm taking care of mine."

"I hear Mrs. Anderson offered to look after Destiny for you."

"That old bag? She's so fucking senile she'd probably put Destiny out with the recycling and feed her milk to the cat."

Inhale. Exhale.

I reached down to pat Destiny on the head. Sammi swatted my hand away.

"That's her soft spot, you know."

"No, I don't know. I don't have kids, as you're quick to remind me. I don't understand babies. But I do understand this business. Whether or not that couple should have complained doesn't matter because the cus tomer – "

" – is always right," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "You take too much of their shit, Nadia. You wouldn't see me letting people walk over me like that."

"No? Maybe you're right. The next time I've just sat down to a meal and a guest demands after-dinner drinks served by the lake, I'll hand them a beer and point them to the path. Then they'll write an online review complaining about the lousy service. After a few of those, our bookings will drop, and I won't be able to keep a housekeeping assistant on the payroll."

She said nothing, but that told me I'd made my point.

"Do you want this job, Sammi?"

"Fuck, yeah. You think I'd take everyone's shit if I didn't need the money?"

"You don't need to take anyone's shit. You could apply for welf – social assistance – until Destiny is old enough to go to school."

She glowered up at me. "No fucking way. I am not winding up like her." From the venom in her voice, I knew she meant her mother. "I'm going to show Destiny how a real mother acts. I'm going to work for a living and look after us."

"All right then, tell me if this would work out…"

I outlined some changes to her schedule, bringing her in later and having her leave before dinner. Most of her hours would be midday, when guests were out.