Isaac changes the station as an advertisement comes on, and the song "Common People" by Pulp starts blaring through the speakers.
"In that case," he asks, shrugging, "I can just drop you off and immediately leave if that works better for you?"
"I... what?"
"Look... I get it," he tells me. "You’re ashamed of something at home, but you’re afraid that you’ll have to invite me in for giving you a ride. What if I pretend to be an asshole and disappear in a hurry before you get a chance to do that?"
... he’s right. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of bringing him in and Mom being ‘at work.’
He smiles comfortingly as if he’s reading my mind, and then he takes the next exit off the highway toward my neighborhood.
"Isaac?" I whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
His only answer is a slow, understanding smile as he pulls onto my street and slowly passes by the decrepit, rundown houses and their tarped-over windows. My house still has glass in its windows, making us one of the luckier families on the street.
Isaac pulls up in front of my house and I quickly grab my backpack and leap out. His passenger seat is completely soaked and I flush in embarrassment.
"Sorry about the car," I apologize, but he just laughs, his green eyes somehow gleaming brightly in the dull gray light, and points over my shoulder at the front door of my house.
"Get inside out of the rain," he tells me. "Warm up, relax, and I’
ll see you in class tomorrow."
Before I can say another word, his tires squeal as he shoots away from the curb and speeds off down the street, leaving me alone with my bewildered thoughts and the burning memory of his gorgeous green eyes.
I’m in a lot of trouble.
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Chapter X
Irene
The rental company’s movers are here to take away my temporary furniture. There goes the bed, disappearing out the door as two burly men in gray overalls carry it away. Next goes the rickety desk and the end table. Wait... that lamp belongs to Cassie, and I quickly stop the movers before they walk off with it. Other than that, all I'm bringing with me to my new place are my book, my laptop, and a few boxes of clothes.
Wow, that’s all I actually own.
It’s almost depressing, really. I’m twenty-five and I own just as little as when I turned eighteen and the foster system kicked me to the curb.
No... there was no curb kicking; that’s not fair to my foster mother at all. Clara Hartley was very good to me while I was in her care. There’s only so much someone can do when she’s assigned a sixteen-year-old, though, and it’s not like she w ^#82t&r tas going to adopt me at her age. She was old enough to be my grandmother.
I sometimes feel like I should go back and visit her again, but I always stop myself. I remember my last day living with her, when she dropped me off at my dorm for my freshman year of college with little more than my suitcase of clothes and my scholarship letter.
"Good luck," she said, and then she gave me a hug before getting back in the car.
Not "call me when you’re moved in," or "keep in touch." Just "good luck" and nothing more. Fostering me was just a kind gesture and a way to keep me off the streets. She wasn’t my mother. My mother was a prostitute from New Haven, and she’s the last person I ever want to see again.
The taxi honks its horn downstairs. It’s time for me to go.
"Cassie, are you going to be okay dealing with the rental guys?" I ask. "They’ve tried to take your television twice now."
"I can deal with them," she answers, and I catch her wiping away a tear.
"Oh come on," I groan. "Don’t do this to me."
She sniffles and I hold back another groan. I’m going to start crying too if she keeps this up.
"Look, I promise I’ll keep paying my rent," I tell her. "You’re not going to be stuck with any extra—"
"It’s not about the rent, Irene," she mopes. "I’m going to miss you!"
"I’m only moving across town, Cassie," I tell her, and I quickly turn and stop the rental guys from taking the television for the third time. "It’s like ten minutes away. You’re going to see me again, promise!"
"Can I come and help you move in?" she pleads. "I don’t want to just say goodbye and watch you get into a taxi."
"Will that make you feel better?"
She nods and sniffles.
"Okay, fine. I’m going to go in the taxi, and you follow in your car behind us. I’ll give you the grand tour of... well, wherever I’m going to be staying. I haven’t actually seen the room yet."
****
It’s a good thing that Cassie came along, actually, because no sooner do I get the last box out of the moving van and onto the sidewalk than it speeds off down the street. I didn’t even get a chance to tip them.
"God, what the hell did you pack into this? Bricks?" whines Cassie as she struggles down the path carrying what is probably the lightest box of them all.
"Yep, I’m stealing your apartment one box of bricks at a time. You caught me."
Columbus is sleeping in a square of warm sunlight just inside the door. His ears twitch as we stomp in and drop heavy boxes onto the gleaming hardwood floor, but that’s as far as his reaction goes. The dog couldn’t care less about there being a stranger in the house—he doesn’t even open his eyes. He's neither guide nor guard, apparently, and I wonder what he actually thinks is his role. I bet it involves sausages.
"Wow, Irene," whispers Cassie in awe. "You’re living here? My god, look at this place! I’ve never seen a house so amazing!"
I have, but I can’t tell her that. She doesn’t know about my old c abamaz life and there’s no way I’m going to open that can of worms now. The decadence reminds me uncomfortably of Isaac’s mother’s mansion. It doesn’t have that same feeling of flagrant display, that aura of "look at me I’m so rich" that his mother gave the place, but it’s still giving me a sense of déjà vu.
Cassie’s eyes sparkle as she gazes in wide-eyed delight at the glittering chandelier. She’s like Cinderella at the ball, stepping into the royal palace for the first time. I recognize that look—it’s how I felt when I first saw Isaac’s mansion. I almost want to warn Cassie that the fairy tales never tell you how much it hurts when the clock strikes midnight and suddenly it’s all just pumpkins again.
The door to my room is directly at the top of the stairs. Terrence has left the key in the lock for me, and I take in a short, excited breath as the door slowly creaks open and reveals my new home. This was clearly the servant’s quarters once upon a time, but it’s like a little slice of heaven to me. The tiny room has a high, sloped ceiling, more shelves than I’ve ever had in any apartment before, and a cushioned window-seat built into the enclave beneath a trio of tall bay windows. The branches of the tall maple outside obscure the view of the Mystic River, but as the leaves rustle in the breeze, it only makes me fall in love with the room even more. My smile quickly spreads from ear to ear as I imagine how beautiful the room’s going to look in a few weeks when the leaves start to change.
"It’s a little small, don’t you think?" asks Cassie, putting her box down on my new bed. Is she kidding me? This room is amazing! It has inlaid bookshelves lining a wall, the perfect little nightstand for my reading lamp, all the closet space I could possibly need... and that window looking out over the river, oh God it's going to be pretty with the fall leaves!
"It’s perfect," I tell her. "I can work with this. It’ll be awesome by the time I’m done with it."
It takes us three more trips to get all the boxes up to my bedroom, and Cassie babbles non-stop about Terrence’s beautiful estate the entire time. The chandelier, the woodwork, the etched glass windows... maybe she’s the one who should live here instead of me. She’s fallen so totally in love with it that she's admiring the carved details on the banister while all I want is a roof and a paycheck.
Cassie finally go
es silent as the last of the boxes makes its way into my closet, and then she starts to cry.
"Oh, Cassie..."
I lean in to give her a hug and she squeezes me back tightly as she sniffles into my ear.
"I’m going to miss you, slutface," she whimpers. "Promise you’ll come visit?"
"I promise," I tell her. "Just let me get my feet under me and figure out what I’m doing, and then I’ll make sure we spend lots of time together, okay?"
She gives me such a tight hug that I feel as if I’m going to pop.
"Seriously, Cassie," I wheeze. "We’ll be down at Ollie’s Bar and making fun of our bosses again soon enough—it’ll be just like old times."
She releases me from her death-grip and nods as she wipes her teary eyes, and then before I can say anything else, dives back in for another hug. She’s so adorable.
"Good luck," she whispers. "Don’t lead him into traffic, okay ctraom her de?"
I laugh and shake my head as I wriggle free from her embrace.
"And look out for open manholes," she blurts out, joining in on my laughter. It’s always seemed so strange to me that laughter can be infectious, but for as long as she’s giggling, I can’t seem to stop.
"I’ll call you next week to let you know how I’m getting on," I tell her as I show her down the stairs and to the front door. "I’m sure I’ll do something terrible, and you can mock me mercilessly for it then."
"Oh, that’s a given," she chirps brightly, already cheering up. She starts down the path and then waves to me over her shoulder. I wave back to her from the doorway until she finally reaches her car, and then I close the door.
The door actually echoes as it swings shut, and then the house is dead silent but for the ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the foyer, its copper pendulum swinging languidly back and forth. It’s almost eerily quiet now.
"Well... might as well make myself at home and figure out where things are," I say to nobody in particular. I need to hear something, even if it’s my own voice.
Columbus is still asleep in the sunlight, and he doesn’t even move as I step over him and wander through the first arched doorway on my right and into the living room. Or is it the sitting room? No, the next room to the east is the sitting room, judging by the lavender and ivory color coordination and the dusty teacart that clearly has never once been used. I stand in the doorway between the living and sitting rooms, glancing back and forth between them, and I can’t help but believe that nobody’s used either room in years. No amount of antique vases and paintings of vaguely Victorian figures will ever make an unused room feel lived-in. Only lying on a couch with your feet up, occasionally spilling drinks, and laughter can bring rooms to life, and it’s been a long time since this part of the mansion has experienced any of those.
The kitchen, on the other hand... someone definitely lives here. It’s a sleek, modern room with recessed lighting and dark stone countertops, and a whole forest must’ve gone into its making. The architect opted for wooden cabinets, wood-paneled walls and hardwood floors, and it takes me forever to find the refrigerator because he even went so far as to wood-panel the refrigerator door and build it into the décor. I might never have found it if not for the ice dispenser carved into the woodwork.
The fridge is empty except for a pack of sliced deli turkey of unidentifiable expiry, a pitcher of iced tea, and a laminated schedule for the chef and grocery delivery. He had the week off and will be back on Monday.
Columbus whines behind me, and when I turn around and look down at him, he lifts one paw and begs for a treat. It just figures that he’s awake now that I’m in the kitchen.
"So now where do I go?" I ask him, tossing him a slice of turkey. He inhales the treat and, of course, says nothing. "This place is practically empty. Does your master actually live here?"
He flops over on his side and then falls asleep on the kitchen floor, and I sigh and head back to the grand foyer. There’s still one door on the first floor I haven’t tried, and when I yank open the heavy, brass-trimmed double doors to the south wing, I stop dead in my tracks in surprise.
The elegant décor of the house ends across the threshold, replaced instead by indus ctea
I wander in and look back and forth in amazement at the glass-walled laboratories on both sides of the hallway, each one like a strange, technological zoo exhibit gleaming beneath its recessed fluorescent lighting. It’s as if I stepped out of a historical classic and into a science fiction novel. Microscopes, beakers, large devices with more buttons and lights than I’d know what to do with... I have no idea what half of this stuff even is, but there’s an awful lot of it.
A scientist in a full-body suit that looks as if it’s meant to ward off zombie plagues glances up at me through the glass and then returns to whatever he’s working on in a tiny Petri dish. This is downright surreal.
A woman loudly clears her throat behind me, and I nearly leap out of my skin and spin around.
Charlotte, Terrence’s lawyer, glares at me with piercing blue eyes, tapping her foot with her arms crossed. She looks just as unhappy to see me now as she seemed when she gave me Marcus’ card a week ago.
"You can’t be back here, you know."
"Sorry about that," I apologize. "Terrence said I had free access to..."
"To the house, yes," she interrupts. "But not to the laboratories. Our clients have secrecy agreements regarding their research and—no offense intended—you have no idea what any of this stuff is and have no reason to be back here. I’ll show you out."
"I can show myself out just fine, Charlotte."
"Follow me, please," she says coldly, pointing to the door.
Charlotte’s heels click loudly with each step as she escorts me back down the long, glass walled corridor. She’s a good six inches taller than I am and walks with a long, confident stride, and I have to hurry to keep up with her.
"Have you given any further thought to my offer to represent you against Verta?" she asks, not bothering to look at me. "I can’t do it myself since I’m representing them—conflict of interest and all—but my partner would gladly take..."
"No thanks," I interrupt, shaking my head. "I appreciate it, but I’m not big on the whole litigation thing and I’m better off with Terrence anyway."
She doesn't say anything, but her eyes narrow and the corner of her mouth twitches for one brief moment. As quickly as the emotion broke through, she covers it up again and restores her cool, professional façade.
I was envious of Charlotte’s appearance when I first met her—envious of her perfect skin and slender physique that somehow only has curves where magazines say a woman ought to have them. Now that I have a chance to look at her more closely, though, what I notice more than anything else is the cold, harsh face defined more by straight lines and sharp edges than gentle curves. If she’d just smile once in a while and maybe turn off whatever alien device she’s using to generate that ‘I’m better than you’ aura she’s projecting, she’d make a much better first impression.
"Hey, before I go, can I quickly talk to Terrence?" I ask as we reach the doorway back to the rest of the house. "I just want to let him know that I’ve moved in and—"
"He’s busy," she cuts me off. "I’ll pass along your message."
"But—"
"Irene," she says coldly, "my job is to protect this company and Terrence’s assets, not to help you."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I ask, staring incredulously at her.
"It means that I didn't want you living here but had no say in the matter," she hisses at me through gritted teeth, practically skewering me with her pointed glare. "You’re a liability to Terrence at best, so don’t push your luck."
Before I can say another word, she shoots me an irritatingly polite smile and then shuts the door in my face.
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Chapter XI
Irene
There’s a knock at my door just before e
ight o’clock the next morning, and I fold over the page in my book and hop down from the window seat. He called me over the intercom on my nightstand and woke me up about an hour ago, and although I wasn’t expecting Terrence to be up quite so early, it’s a work day and I’m ready and waiting.
"Coming!" I call out as I throw on my shoes.
I have no idea how I’m supposed to dress while working as his assistant, so I’ve opted for a simple black polo and gray slacks. It’s vaguely professional in a retail sort of way. I can’t imagine that Terrence is looking for arm candy; at least, I certainly hope he isn’t.
Chasing Wishes Page 9