Beautiful Affliction

by Celia Loren

  "Yes, Mr. Redmond?"

  "The police need to take a look at your bedroom," he reports, then pauses for a split-second and adds, "If that's alright with you."

  "Of course," I reply. "Please follow me." Jaime and Detective Donohue stand and walk behind me as I lead them down the hallway, and I just catch sight of Mr. Redmond and Mark bowing their heads together in serious discussion. I lead them through the kitchen then up the back stairwell and into my room. "I haven't had a chance to unpack," I explain, nodding to my suitcase. "Do you want me to move it?"

  "That's alright. I just wanted to take a look…sometimes seeing things with fresh eyes helps," Detective Donohue responds, looking around the room, then crouching at the bed. "So you just started yesterday?"

  "Yes." Jaime is looking at me with a frown. I glance at him with an exasperated expression. He was always so overprotective.

  "How have you been getting along?" Donohue asks, his eyes trained on the windowsill now. It occurs to me that looking at the room again might have been a ruse, and really they wanted to talk to me alone.

  "Fine."

  "What do you think of Mr. Redmond?"

  "I don't really know him yet," I hedge.

  "But your first impression," Donohue presses me, glancing up. For the first time I notice a sly intelligence behind his gruff demeanor.

  "Well, I think he wears a different face in private than in public. Publicly, he's the life of the party, but privately, he's serious, driven. I think he expects a lot from people, and from himself."

  "You learned all that in one day?" Jaime asks quietly.

  "I…I have a chance to observe people more than you'd think. Nobody ever notices the maid." Detective Donohue smiles at me. "Why are you asking about him?"

  "Did you know that as of a few weeks ago, he's under investigation by the SEC?" Donohue asks.

  "No. I hadn't even heard his name until recently."

  "Do you have access to his study, to his files, computer…?"

  "I've been in his study. I don't know about the files or anything, though I'd assume they're locked. Is he a suspect?"

  "Here's my card," Donohue says, avoiding my question. "Just in case you need to contact me. Though I'm sure you've got Sullivan's number already," he adds, referring to Jaime by his last name.

  "You mind if I have a word alone?" Jaime asks, and Donohue glances between us.

  "Sure," he finally says with a shrug, and walks down the hallway. Jaime waits until he hears him walking down the stairs, then turns to me.

  "I don't like you working here. You should quit."

  My jaw drops. "You don't exactly have a say in that, do you?"

  "I heard you were working as a maid, but I didn't believe it."

  "Well, here I am," I say with a shrug.

  "You like this kind of work, waiting on these entitled assholes? Washing their dirty underwear?"

  "'Entitled assholes'? I'd think a cop should be a little less prejudiced."

  "You know what I mean. And stop dodging my question."

  "It's good money, and it comes with a room. What more do I need?"

  "You used to need a lot more."

  "As this doesn't seem to be official police business, I think we're done here," I say firmly to him, and turn to the door. "Look, I appreciate your concern, but it's…misplaced. I can take care of myself. Besides, we're not together anymore. You don't get to weigh in on my life decisions," I add more softly. He flinches.

  "I don't like this Redmond guy," he says, running his hand through his hair.

  "He's my boss," I say simply. He studies my face for a moment.

  "Just your boss."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He shakes his head, brushing me off, then clears his throat. "I'm seeing this girl in Boston now."

  "That's good, Jaime. I'm happy for you."

  He nods, then crosses to the door. "I'll, uh, yeah, we'll probably be back around noon, depending on the autopsy results."

  "OK, bye Jaime."

  "Bye, Cora." He opens the door and disappears down the hall. I sit on the edge of my bed, trying to get my bearings. Even though I was the one who broke it off with Jaime, seeing him again brings back so much of our old life together. Everything I've tried to leave behind. I take a deep breath and stand up, moving to the door. I'm a maid now, no matter my past. I have work to do.

  Chapter Seven

  As much as I was looking forward to having the day off yesterday, I'm glad to be back to work. I got my things unpacked, went into town to explore, and then found myself sitting on my hands, my mind dangerously unoccupied. I prefer to keep busy.

  Mondays are Ms. Mueller's day off, so I'm in charge of cooking for Mr. Redmond and his mother, though tonight Aaron is driving her to dinner at a friend's. He told me confidentially that she is not the best driver, and that Mr. Redmond prefers him to take her when he can. As soon as he brings Mr. Redmond home, he swings into the kitchen.

  "Do you want some food to take with you?" I ask him.

  "No, thanks. Her friend's house is near my favorite bar in town, so I'm going to eat there," he replies as he heads back to the guest house to find Mrs. Redmond.

  Following Ms. Mueller's step-by-step instructions, I've managed to create a roast chicken that looks large enough to feed an entire family, rather than just the single person I need to set the table for tonight. I head into the dining room and take the silver flatware out of the side table as I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. A moment later, Mr. Redmond appears in the doorway, looking more casual than I've seen him, in jeans and a charcoal grey sweater. I quickly look back down at the table and try to avoid thinking about what his shoulders would feel like through that fabric.

  "You don't have to do that," he says softly.

  "Sir?"

  "Eating alone at such a big table is depressing. If it's just me, I prefer to eat at the kitchen table."

  "Oh, of course."

  I wish I'd had someone train me more extensively, there are so many details I don't know. I replace the silverware and head back into the kitchen as Mr. Redmond disappears back toward the foyer. I find the more casual flatware in a drawer in the kitchen, and set a place for him at the round glass table set in a nook next to the wall of windows to the backyard. He reappears with a bottle of wine in his hands just as I'm taking out a plate from the cabinet. "I could have gotten that for you, Mr. Redmond."

  "It's alright. It always feels strange to me to be waited on," he says as he takes a wine key out.

  "Really?" I ask. "I mean…" That didn't come out right.

  "What?" he asks me as he works the corkscrew down. He doesn't seem to be annoyed, so I continue.

  "I just, it seems strange for a man who doesn't like to be waited on to have, you know, a round-the-clock wait staff."

  He grins. "True. The servants, the parties, all the pomp and circumstance, it's a show, really. One that my mother very much enjoys, but still. My family and the company was bankrupt not too long ago. This house and everything that goes with it reminds investors and businesses that we're back on top. That they can trust us with their projects and their money," he pauses for a moment as he takes out a wineglass—no, two wineglasses—from the cupboard. "The parties, like the one your first night here, they're not parties for me. It's for the business. They're displays. I feel a great deal of pressure to…for my family…" he trails off and seems to be struggling for words. I stand frozen, shocked that he's telling me so much. "I can let the stress get to me."

  Oh. Is he apologizing for the way he spoke to me the first night? I can't believe he even remembers.

  "I…I understand," is all I can think to say in response. I stare at him as he pours the white wine into the glasses. There's no one else in the house but me.

  "Have you ever had good wine?" he asks. "I mean, not to assume—"

  I smile. "No, it's alright. I haven't. Anything even in a bottle instead of a box was pretty rare in my family."

  "Try thi
s," he says, pushing one of the wineglasses toward me.

  "I am working…"

  "Your boss says it's OK." I bring the glass to my face and sniff it, then laugh at myself.

  "I don't even know why I did that! I've just seen people do that on TV."

  "Well, you did it just right," he says with a shy smile. I take a sip. "It's a Chardonnay, from the Burgundy region of France."

  "It's…good?"

  His smile broadens. "I can't really taste the difference either. I have this wine guy who comes by every now and then and fills up the cellar. I picked up this one while I was over there, though."

  "But if you can't tell—oh, right, the show." He nods. "And you're part of the show, as well."

  "How so?"

  "I think you already know what I mean."

  "I'd like to hear your take on it."

  "Well, how you're different when you're alone."

  "You mean, when I'm with you?"

  "Right, that's what I meant."

  "I'm sure a psychologist would love to dig into that statement."

  "Not that I'd give one a chance," I murmur, as I take another sip of wine. He looks around the kitchen and then at the roast chicken. "That is an enormous bird. Ms. Mueller is always making too much food. It would be a shame for it to go to waste."

  "Oh, it'll keep."

  "Right…I was asking if you'd like to eat with me."

  "Oh. Oh! I…I'm sure I'd just be bothering you."

  "I wouldn't have asked if I thought that would be the case."

  "Um, alright. If you're sure," I reply. "Well, let me get another plate." I set another plate for myself as he takes out a large knife and begins to carve the chicken, and then we head for the table and sit. I feel my stomach flip as we sit next to each other, the way it used to when Jaime would come pick me up for a date. Except magnified by about a hundred. "Did you go to Paris? When you went to France, I mean?" He nods. "I've always wanted to go the museum of modern art there. The stuff is so much more off the wall than anything I've seen here."

  "Oh…" he stares off into the distance for a moment. "Le Centre Pompidou? Is that the one you mean?"

  "Yes! You went there?"

  "Yes…I can't say I, you know, really 'got' all the pieces."

  "Well, the secret is, the artists themselves don’t always 'get' their own work."

  "That would explain a lot. So you did more modern work? Sorry, I know you don't like to talk about it."

  "Um, I had been experimenting with portraiture with a modernist influence." I frown, looking at my almost empty wineglass as a troubling thought occurs to me. "You know, if I were you, and my last maid had disappeared, then found dead, I would be sure to do a background check on my new one."

  He leans back in his chair, his face serious. "I get this disconcerting feeling around you sometimes that you're always a step ahead of where I think you are. You're right. I asked Aaron to do one. I was planning on reading it, had it on my desk even, but then you seemed so reticent to talk about your past that I felt I'd be…intruding, I suppose. Aaron had already read it, anyway, and he assured me that there was nothing in it that I should be alarmed about."

  "Ah." Interesting. Friendly Mr. Sarka has looked through my past and determined that I'm not a security threat.

  "Are you alright?"

  "Yes, sorry. It's just…a strange feeling. Thank you, though. For not reading it." I take another bite of chicken, wanting to change the subject. "So, are all rich people so friendly with their attorneys?"

  He guffaws, surprising me. "I don't know, to be honest. But Mark was my friend before he was my attorney. We went to Harvard together, and then I hired him as the company's general counsel."

  "And Ms. Harrington is his girlfriend?"

  "Fiancé. Actually, Kristine and I dated for a while when I was just out of college."

  "Oh, really? And it didn't work out?" He gets up to refill our wineglasses.

  "She dumped me. It was right after college, and the company was going down the drain, and we had just lost the house. Not the best time for me."

  "And that's when she chose to dump you?"

  "Don't repeat this…but that's why she chose to dump me."

  "Oh, dear. Well, you had her eating crow not too long after, right?"

  He laughs. "Not that she was the motivation, but yes."

  "And after she dumped you, she started dating your friend? You were OK with that?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.

  He shrugs. "Well, I did hold a candle for her for a while. But Mark's my best friend, and I didn't want to stand in their way. Plus, Kristine has complete tunnel vision when she sees something she wants, so I'm sure she would have made it happen even without my approval," he adds with a grin, then picks up the wine bottle. "This is empty. I'll run down and get us some options."

  "OK, sure."

  "Be right back." He disappears downstairs again and I finally have a chance to take stock of what's happening. Why does this feel like a date? Sweaty palms, check. Dinner, check. Both wine and conversation flowing, check. Or does he eat like this with Aaron and Ms. Mueller, too, when I have my day off?

  Mr. Redmond reappears in the doorway holding two bottles. "OK, one from Argentina and one from Australia. You pick." He holds out the bottles to me.

  "I have no idea."

  "Let's try both."

  An hour later, and we're well into both bottles. I feel a delightful buzzing in my head, a high that's somewhat due to the several glasses of wine I've had, but more to the man sitting across from me. I take a long sniff of my glass.

  "Do I detect a note of…Cheese Whiz?"

  "Ah, madam has an excellent palate. The '67 Sauvignon Blanc is known for its aftertaste of Cheese Whiz." We both laugh, and catch each other's eye. The first silence in a while settles over the table. He clears his throat.

  "Well, it's getting late."

  "Right," I reply. Time to get back to work. I stand up faster than I mean to and feel my head swim.

  "You alright?" he asks as I lean forward, pressing both hands onto the tabletop. He stands and gently rests his fingertips on the top of my right hand.

  "Mm, just felt all that wine go to my head all of a sudden." I look up at him and become very aware of the skin-to-skin contact on our hands. Standing this close together, he towers over me. It's overwhelming really, between his looks and the rugged sexuality that practically oozes off him. I sway slightly and he places both hands on my waist.

  "Whoa, there," he says softly, but his eyes have a softness and need in them that I recognize. I watch my hands reach up and come to rest on his chest as though they belong to someone else, but those are certainly my palms his heartbeat is pounding against. He freezes for a moment, his full lips slightly parted, and I panic. Have I overstepped? Misread the signals?

  But then he bends down and his mouth covers mine. A bolt of pleasure runs through me as his arms wrap around me and I'm lifted to my tiptoes. Our bodies press against each other's and my lips open to his probing tongue. My hands reach up to the back of his neck and I knead my fingers into his dark hair. I feel his long fingers spread out along the small of my back, gathering the material of my uniform, and then bunches it roughly into his fist.

  Suddenly he emits a guttural sound and pulls his mouth and body away from me, sending me rocking backward onto the soles of my feet. I almost gasp with shock and blink my eyes open in surprise.

  "I'm sorry," he murmurs throatily. "You're drunk."

  "I—no, it was me, I, um…" I trail off as embarrassment overwhelms me. "I should clean up." He gives me a curt nod and strides quickly out of the kitchen and down the hallway.

  Fuck. Fuck. What did I just do?

  Chapter Eight

  I know I've got zero chance of getting to sleep anytime soon, so I park myself at my desk and try to write a list down of all the details that I've learned in the last couple days. I've got to get my mind off what just happened, and this wine buzz is fading fast. So far I have:

/>   Mrs. Redmond—Krug Grand Cuvee / vodka tonic, 3 ice, 1 thin lime wedge

  Kristine Harrington—red wine only, Cava or Pinot, no Merlot, Mark's fiancé

  Mr. Redmond—eats in kitchen when by himself

  Not like I'm really going to forget that last one. Ugh, what was I thinking? Even if he was interested, it was still inappropriate of me. But then again, I felt the way his body responded. That was an honest reaction. Those were his hands around my waist, holding me against him. And as far as kisses go, that was the absolute top. Could I really have been all alone in that feeling?

  I glance down at my pad of paper and find that while my mind's been wandering, I've drawn a profile next to my short list. A man's profile. Mr. Redmond's. I slowly move my pencil over, shading in the darker areas under his eye and cheekbone, then defining his dark lashes and eyebrows, and getting the slight hitch in his nose just right. There. I slide my hand over, penciling in his hair, then his ear and extending his neckline further down. I add in the top of the sweater he was wearing tonight, using crosshatching to fill in the texture.

  I lean back to study my work, then feel an overwhelming sensation of guilt. I remember the last time I made art of any kind, and I don't deserve the happiness it gives me. And, even if Mr. Redmond had actually been interested in kissing me, I don't deserve to do that either.

  A sound from the hallway causes me to jerk my head around toward my door. I pause for a second, listening. I heard Aaron and Ms. Mueller come home already, so I don't think it's them. A shiver runs through me as my thoughts turn to Jody Hall. I'm not easily frightened, but I am staying in her old room.

  I take a deep breath and stand, then move quickly to the door and yank it open. A small figure turns and jumps in surprise in front of the open linen closet.

  "Oh, shit! Sorry, I was trying not to wake anyone up," a woman's voice whispers and moves toward me. "You're the new maid?"

  "Cora," I say, trying to get a better look at this person as she moves from the darkness of the hallway toward the light emanating from my desk lamp.