Steam filled the shower. I couldn’t remember if I’d shampooed my hair or if I was at the conditioning stage. An errant thought hit, an errant thought that grew into speculation. I’d allowed myself to cross the friend threshold, and now my thoughts burst forward like a sunshine through storm clouds, or maybe more like a virus through the body.
Could I be brave enough? Would he allow it? Women were supposed to have the upper hand with this kind of thing, right?
As I dried off, steam still clung to the mirror. I opened the door to the bedroom to let in some air while I dressed and brushed my hair.
My thoughts bounced around my head like those little rubber balls children get from vending machines. If I tried to act on this insane thought, what was I supposed to do? Knock on his bedroom door and say please? Where was his bedroom? The room under the stairs was his office, so where did he sleep? Did he ever sleep?
I had to figure that detail.
It was past noon by the time I made it downstairs. I placated Hanna by eating something. I couldn’t remember what it was five minutes after having finished.
She took the dishes to the kitchen, and I started toward the stairs.
The door opened, and one of the men who usually patrolled the grounds walked in holding several black suits on hangers and covered in plastic.
Hanna walked out of the kitchen while drying her hands on a towel.
“Let me help.” I took Alec’s dry-cleaning from the man, and he left.
“I can get it, dear,” Hanna said.
With a smile, I waited for her to lead.
She hesitated. Then she walked back through the kitchen and around the corner. I thought all the nicer rooms were on the side of the house where mine was, with the ocean view. There was a second set of stairs in the hall that led to Hanna’s and Ben’s rooms. These stairs were much narrower, and the artwork on the wall was all prints, not originals like in the other parts of the house.
As we passed another landscape, looked like perhaps the moors of England, I realized I’d seen no family photos, no photos of people at all. Not even a Polaroid on the refrigerator. Nothing. I’d have pegged Hanna for one to frame every last school picture.
Hanna turned right at the top of the steps, and I followed.
Then she stopped.
This couldn’t be Alec’s room. Based on how close to the next door it was, it couldn’t be very big.
“Thank you, dear.” Hanna took the hangers from me, slipped into the room, and closed the door behind herself.
Okay, it had to be Alec’s room. It was definitely all his dry-cleaning, and it made sense that she wouldn’t let me, a virtual stranger, into his private space.
I continued down the hall. Now I just had to decide if I was going to come back this way tonight.
“Hanna!”
I leaned over the railing to look into the downstairs. Ben was rushing up the hallway with his hand bundled in a rag. “Hanna!” he yelled again.
I’d never heard him be so loud.
I ran back to the room where I’d left Hanna and knocked on the door. She appeared a second later.
“Ben’s hurt,” I said.
She slipped out of the room and hurried toward the back stairs. “My room, Ben,” she called. She hooked around the railing at the bottom of the stairs and down the narrow hall, probably originally built as servants’ quarters.
I followed.
We caught up with Ben in the hall. Hanna opened a door and, with a hand at his elbow and back, guided Ben through a floral-themed bedroom to a small bathroom.
“Sit,” she said.
He sat on the toilet lid. Blood was starting to seep through the thick rag.
She pulled a box out from under the cabinet. “What happened?”
“Still trying to get the lawn mower fixed. Cut my hand on the blade.” His voice was calm, but his face was as pale as his mustache.
Hanna took his hand and started unwrapping the rag. I moved closer to offer help. I had a strong stomach for blood, and I worried that maybe Hanna didn’t.
“Adriane, dear, would you get the alcohol from that box?”
I hesitated at how calm she sounded, at how her voice didn’t falter as she looked at the gash plastered with blood. Then I opened the box she’d set on the counter and found the alcohol among the many first aid items, everything from bandages and splints to lidocaine and cortisone.
I handed her the alcohol and some gauze.
Her hands were steady. “Thank you, dear.” She turned to Ben and put some alcohol on the gauze.
She held his now-unwrapped, calloused hand in her thin hands. I watched for her to grimace, for any sign of queasiness. She dabbed the gauze on Ben’s skin, slowly cleaned off the blood. Then she leaned closer and examined the wound. The slash across his palm continued to ooze blood. Hanna wiped it gently away and kept examining.
Finally, I asked, “Is he all right?”
She wiped his palm once more then stood straighter. “Not too bad. He’ll heal.” Then she spoke to Ben. “Hold this with a little pressure.”
I realized Ben still had the rag in his other hand. I scooted past Hanna, took the rag from Ben, and wrapped it around itself to conceal most of the blood. Then I set it on the tile floor and held his hand, gauze gently pressed to the wound.
Ben smiled a little. “Thanks.” He still looked pale.
Hanna had moved over to the box on the counter. She was threading a needle.
She’s going to put in stitches herself?
As Ben watched her prepare the needle, his smile faded.
“So,” I said to Ben, “the mean boss won’t let you buy a new lawn mower?”
He looked at me, away from Hanna and the needle. “Nah. Alec would let me get one.”
“He’s just too stubborn to listen.” Hanna wiped something on his palm, maybe something to numb.
“Ain’t nothing wrong with the mower,” Ben said.
“That’s why you have it laid out across the garage floor.” I smiled at Ben. I’d peeked in the open garage during my walks.
“I can fix it,” he said. “I can fix anything.”
“Some things aren’t worth being fixed.” Hanna picked up her needle. Then she set his hand on the counter and steadied it.
Ben looked away.
“Have you ever had stitches?” I asked.
“Not since I was a kid.”
Hanna pushed the needle through his skin, and he flinched slightly. He kept looking at me.
“You know you should just buy a new lawn mower,” I said. “Alec wouldn’t care.”
“He’s been telling me to.”
“Why don’t you?”
He started to shrug then stopped. “I like savin’ him money.”
Hanna rolled her eyes as she pulled the thread.
“There’s a Rolls Royce in the garage,” I said. “And I don’t even want to know what the rest of those cars are.”
Ben grinned. “Yeah, I know.”
I kept him talking for a few more minutes, until Hanna tied a knot in the thread and wrapped his hand in clean dressings.
Hanna stepped back and admired her wrapping. “All done.”
Ben stood. “Thanks.”
“Tell me if it starts hurting. I’ll give you something.”
“Sure.” He headed toward the door.
“And get rid of that mower,” I said.
He grinned at me over his shoulder. “No promises.”
Hanna rolled her eyes again.
I helped her put her kit away then ended up back in my room. Now that Ben was all right, my thoughts resumed circling around the same topic, the same question.
Alec didn’t come to dinner, of course, and I stayed up late pretending to be engrossed in a book. I lingered in the kitchen both to stay away from Hanna and to be able to watch the drive to see when a car approached. It was extremely late, much later than I usually stayed up—Hanna and Ben had gone to bed—when I saw headlights, two sets. Through the dim outside lighting, I saw as he approached from the garage followed by two men—Anthony and Vincent.
Vincent didn’t seem to like me. I didn’t know why he didn’t like me, but it didn’t matter right now. I remained motionless in the hopes they wouldn’t notice me.
Alec barely paused as he passed by the kitchen. “Good evening, Adriane.”
I didn’t have a chance to respond before he was already walking away.
Anthony passed with a polite nod.
Then Vincent stopped. He met my eyes with a cold gaze.
I opened my mouth either to pretend a polite greeting or to ask him what in the world his problem was.
“Vincent.” It was Alec’s voice, a command.
Vincent walked away.
Their footsteps, it sounded, continued down the short hall under the stairs. A door closed.
I went to my room shortly after and listened carefully for when Alec came upstairs. Hopefully, he came up the front stairs, or else I’d never hear him.
My debate continued, shifting between planning and berating. It was after two in the morning when quiet voices drifted upstairs as the three of them came out of whichever room in which they’d been meeting.
I cracked the door, not enough to see but just enough to be able to hear faintly. I was starting to be able to distinguish the difference in their voices.
Anthony sounded worried. “Are you sure you—”
“Yes.” Alec said, and Anthony fell silent.
Alec dismissed them with, “Goodnight.”
There was a pause before footsteps—only one set. The front door closed.
“Is it really worth it?” Aggravation edged Vincent’s voice. “It doesn’t need to be done this way.”
Alec didn’t answer. I swore I could feel the anger emanating off him like heat from a flame.
“I just mean—” Vincent started.
Alec still said nothing. The look of him must’ve been enough to stop Vincent’s sentence.
“Yes, sir,” Vincent said.
Vincent left, but Alec didn’t move. I assumed he was trying to calm his anger.
I waited for several minutes, unable to step away from the door.
Then his quiet footsteps sounded on the wood of the stairs. I had the exact cant of his stride memorized.
He paused upon reaching the top. I couldn’t guess why.
Then a minute later, he continued down the hall.
My internal struggles recommenced. What was worse—living with the regret of never having tried or having one perfect night and agonizing over the memory? And what would I do after? I would obviously have to leave before he woke, to save both of us the discomfort, and after that, I knew myself well enough to know I would avoid him. I knew that would be painful, but I also knew the real pain would come when I left. I wouldn’t leave his house until it was safe and his conscience was clear in letting me go. Then I would probably feel the need to go farther. I couldn’t trust myself to stay away without some sort of distance.
I would likely never see him again.
It was becoming more of a challenge to hide what I felt. If I was going to do this, I should do it tonight, before hiding was any more difficult.
I found a simple cotton nightgown, white with no embellishment. It fell past my knees and was loose at the waist but fit snugly across my breasts. There were three buttons at the top of the already low neckline, which I left undone. I flipped my hair over my shoulders, and it brushed along my cleavage. This slight tactile sensation made me think about what the touch of Alec’s fingertips, or perhaps his lips, would be like. I felt my nipples harden and rub against the thin fabric as I breathed, as I tried to calm my breathing.
I did not look in the mirror.
The thought that was still eating at me was the possibility of rejection. I’d heard women talk about how almost any woman can get a man’s attention once, that men generally have a strong drive and will usually take most opportunities. But Alec was strong-minded. If he truly didn’t want a woman, I was certain he’d reject her.
It was a risk.
One I was willing to take.
I peeked into the hall to be certain no one was around, and then walked silently through the shadows. I turned the corner toward his room.
My mind couldn’t help but to wander. I began to see images—at first his surprise, and then understanding, and hopefully his arousal. I saw kissing and removal of clothes before lying down. I hoped he wouldn’t feel the need to talk or to ask why. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hide my true motivations.
My feet stopped.
I couldn’t do it.
I wouldn’t trick him like that, hide the truth from him just to have what I wanted.
Only a couple feet from his door, I turned, somehow feeling pride, shame, and disappointment all in that one turn.
The click of a door opening—his door.
I managed not to jump.
“Adriane?”
I turned half way to look at him over my shoulder. “I’m sorry I woke you. I was just feeling restless.” It wasn’t a complete lie.
As I looked at him, my resolve wavered for a second. His expression was beyond kind but with a little concern—for my sanity, no doubt. He still wore his slacks and dress shirt but barefoot, and his shirt was untucked and unbuttoned. His hair was a little disheveled, and what absolutely killed me was the slight sheen of his skin, as if I’d woken him from an intense dream. His skin seemed to glow in the faint light, and his eyes took on that deep, shadowed effect. Why did he have to look like that? He was perfect in every other way. Why this, too?
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
So as not to seem rude, I turned to face him properly. “No. I was just restless. Please go back to sleep.” And please don’t look at me too closely.
He took a step closer. Thankfully, it was dark. I ran my fingers through my hair to casually pull it back.
He took a breath.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
I crossed my arms, pretending I was cold, but really trying to hide my chest. I worried, though, that I only succeeded in creating more cleavage.
Did his eyes just flicker? No, it was too dark to see his eyes clearly.
“I’m fine,” I said, “just a little cold.” I turned to leave.
He didn’t respond, and I continued my escape. Once my door closed, I pressed my back against it, head leaned and eyes closed. My heart pounded. It shouldn’t be legal to look like that.
Faintly, I heard his door close. Then I jumped at a loud pounding sound, like someone punching a wall, and his voice, though muffled from distance. “Dammit.”
It was only maybe ten minutes later that I heard his footsteps. The sound of his shoes, no longer bare feet, quickly moved down the stairs. It was only three in the morning