Provenance_InteriorDraft_07.indd

by Sawyer, Donna Drew

  most of my life making a home for you and Miss Charlotte,

  and I forgot to make one for myself.”

  “You once told me that 580 Park was your home,” Lance said.

  “You remember that,” Emma said, smiling at the memory.

  “And I remember when I hired you. You were just a girl,

  and when you asked for the major domo job, I remember think-

  ing—when did you become this, this beautiful woman? And I

  remember—” The wind howling outside blew open the kitchen

  window shutters. The rain poured in. Lance and Emma raced to

  the window wrestling side-by-side to close the shutters against

  the elements. When they finally secured them, the two were

  soaked to the skin. Emma grabbed a dishtowel and tentatively

  dabbed at rain dripping from Lance’s face before handing the

  towel to him and grabbing another to dry herself.

  “What did you mean by front of the house, back of the

  house, nothing in between?” They were facing each other in

  the kitchen’s narrow aisle.

  “Just something my Mum used to say,” Emma said, won-

  dering if there would ever be another opportunity to tell him

  how she felt. She had already told him she was leaving, and

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  emboldened by remnants of the rum, she decided she had

  nothing to lose.

  “No, what it means is that I have to go because I have

  feelings for you that are, oh hell, I’m just going to say it. I’ve

  been in love with you for so long,” she confessed. She tried to

  read his face, looking for a reaction to her confession. Lance

  said nothing; his face gave her no clue as to how he felt about

  what she’d just said. “I know that was inappropriate, unprofes-

  sional, even ridiculous, but I’ve gone and done it now, haven’t

  I,” Emma said, ringing the towel in her hand into a tight knot.

  “So, I guess I have to do something about this now,” Lance

  said, still giving her no indication of what he was thinking.

  He reached over and took the knotted towel from her hand.

  “You’ve worked for me long enough to know that I have a

  strict anti-fraternization policy in my household, Miss George,”

  he looked down at the towel now in his hands. Tears started to

  well up in Emma’s eyes as he continued. “I want you to know

  that you have been a valued employee, but because of what

  you just said to me the professional relationship we’ve enjoyed

  all these years can’t continue. Miss George, you are officially

  terminated.” When he looked up, a slight smile inched across

  his face, “Now that you are no longer an employee, I am free

  to tell you I am also inappropriately obsessed with you.” He

  paused long enough for her to take in what he had said before

  he took her in his arms and kissed her.

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  (VII)

  When Emma opened her eyes the next morning, Lance

  was staring at her, his face just inches from hers. Her first

  thought was bliss; she had fantasized about being with him so

  many times, but this was not a dream. She sat up in disbelief,

  not knowing whether to laugh, cry, run, or stay. Lance put his

  arm around her waist and pulled her to him.

  “This is the part where we don’t know what to say to each

  other,” he said.

  “I’m not sorry,” Emma said. Lance let out a breath he didn’t

  realize he was holding, and pulled her closer.

  “Neither am I,” he said. She lay back down on the bed,

  Lance’s chest nestled against her back. His hand brushed

  against her breast and she stiffened slightly. He kissed her

  shoulder, the lobe of her ear, then whispered, “Emma.” She

  wanted to respond but saying Lance aloud seemed strange.

  She was struck by this ridiculous conundrum—when you’re

  lying naked after making love to the man who has been your

  employer for almost two decades, what do you call him? She

  tried to suppress a laugh but she couldn’t.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I was trying to figure out what I should call you,” she said

  turning over to face him. “Mr. Withers doesn’t seem appropriate

  in this situation, does it?”

  “Try Lance,” he said.

  “Lance.” The name seemed odd on her lips and to her ear.

  “Say it again,” he said.

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  “Lance.”

  “That’s who I am now. I am Lance and you are Emma. Not

  Miss George—Emma, the woman I have been thinking about

  in inappropriate ways for quite some time now.”

  “Lance,” she said again. Pressing her naked body against

  him she asked, “How inappropriate?”

  (VIII)

  Emma drew her finger lightly across the sheen of sweat on

  Lance’s forehead. It was well past noon, after the drenching

  rain from last night the island sweltered in the Caribbean sun.

  Even with the sea breeze blowing through the mostly open-air

  pavilion and ceiling fans swirling above, the bedroom was warm

  with the salty aroma of sweat and sex.

  “We’re going to have to get out of bed at some point,” Lance

  said, his eyes still closed.

  “I suppose,” Emma said. He opened his eyes to see her

  forehead, also beaded with sweat, damp, dark curls framing

  her face. So young, so beautiful. Lance thought. Too young, too beautiful, he thought again.

  “Stop frowning,” Emma said, tracing his lips with her finger.

  “Was I frowning?”

  “What were you thinking about?”

  “You.”

  “Wow, didn’t last long,” she said.

  “You said you love me,” Lance said, turning serious. “How

  do you know that?”

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  “I just do,” Emma said.

  “How do you know with such certainty?”

  “I’ve seen so many women come and go in your life; surely

  there was someone you loved,” Emma said.

  Lance took a few moments to answer, “No, I never let a

  relationship get that far, I’d always end it before it got to that.”

  He sat up and looked through the open window to the blue

  Caribbean Sea, perfectly framed by palm trees and Jamaica’s

  cerulean sky.

  Emma sat up and turned his face to hers. “Why? Why did

  you always want to end it?”

  “I’m not sure. What about you, have you been in love before?”

  “I tried, but you were always in the way. You were the

  measure of every man and no one seemed up to the challenge.”

  “You told me you loved me so easily.”

  “It wasn’t easy but it was worth the risk,” Emma said.

  “Why?”

  “Do you want me to innumerate all of the things that

  are—what did you call it earlier—inappropriate?”

  Lance got up without answering her question, walked into

  the bathroom and closed the door. Emma pulled the sheet

  up to her chin, suddenly conscious of how exposed she was.

  She closed her eyes tightly and rolled over in the bed facing

  away from the bathroom door. I said too much, she
thought.

  Presumptuous, too honest, stupid—she berated herself.

  “Emma?” She hadn’t noticed Lance return, “Sorry, bath-

  room break,” he said as he sat down on the bed and took her

  hand, “Be patient with me,” he said. “I’m not certain what I’m

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  doing, being here, like this, with you. I know this is wrong but

  somehow it doesn’t feel that way. I can’t tell you I love you.

  I’ve been selfish all my life, I’m not sure I’m capable of—” he

  didn’t finish that thought but said, “I want to find out what

  happens next—for us.”

  “Well, that’s something isn’t it,” she said.

  “It is,” he said. “For me, it’s something.”

  (IX)

  “So how do you like your coffee?” Lance asked as he helped

  prepare their breakfast of fresh fruit, eggs and toast. It was the

  first time he had helped to prepare a meal; he liked sharing the

  unfamiliar task with Emma.

  “No coffee for me, I hate coffee,” Emma said, screwing up

  her face in disgust.

  “You had coffee last night.”

  “That was for medicinal purposes if you recall.”

  “I see,” he smiled remembering last night. “How can anyone

  hate coffee? Especially this coffee, Jamaican Blue Mountain.

  Next to Ethiopian coffee, I think it’s some of the best in the

  world. I love coffee.”

  “I know, I’m the one who keeps the coffee larder stocked—

  here and in New York.”

  “Oh, right,” he said, remembering she had the advantage

  of knowing most of the mundane details of his life. He had

  much to discover about Emma George.

  “So your preference is tea.”

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  “I’m British, remember? Strictly tea, a love Miss Charlotte

  and I share,” Emma said as she opened the tea caddy, choosing

  a package of Earl Grey.

  “Tell me something, why do you seem to be the only person

  on earth who gets along with Charlotte?” Lance asked, in awe

  of Emma’s ability to deal with his formidable grandmother.

  “I understand her because we have a shared experience.”

  “What experience could you possibly share with my grand-

  mother?” Lance asked as they carried their breakfast to the patio.

  “We understand loss,” Emma said not looking at Lance.

  “Miss Charlotte lost all of her family when she was twelve, and

  had to make her own way. I was sixteen when I lost everyone, my

  mother, father and my brother in the London Blitz. Something

  happens to you when there’s no one to look out for you; when

  you are all you have. Miss Charlotte and I understand the fear

  of vulnerability.”

  Lance sat back in his chair. “Charlotte, vulnerable? You’re

  kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m not. People deal with the fear in different ways.

  Miss Charlotte keeps everything in here,” Emma said putting

  her hand over her heart, “to keep from being hurt. That’s why

  she keeps people at arm’s length. I have a special place for her

  in my heart because I understand she fears losing everything,

  again. I had to find a way to manage that same fear. Instead

  of putting up barriers, I tore them down; I forced myself to be

  fearless. When I got on that boat and came to New York from

  London, I was a war orphan, I was the only one I could count

  on. I was then, and I am now, all I really have in the world.”

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  “You still feel that way?”

  “I have to,” Emma said. Her answer made him

  uncomfortable.

  “What am I? Vulnerable or fearless?” he asked.

  “Both,” she said. “You’re like Miss Charlotte, erect-

  ing barriers to keep anyone from knowing the real Lance

  Henry Withers. I believe you’re fearless in business—you

  know money gives you power—it is the way you put distance

  between you and everyone else. But your art collection is

  the biggest barrier. All the emotion you don’t show people

  you put into your collection. I see the way you collect —you

  fall in love with each piece, and the way you care for it—I’ve

  seen you, what’s the word, commune with it.”

  “What are you talking about Emma? I enjoy my col ection-“

  “No it’s more than that. The way you look at a painting – like

  you’re pulling something from it or being pulled into it – one

  or both, I don’t know. I think that’s the only time you let all

  of your barriers down, where you reveal yourself. You also use

  art to keep people focused on what you have, not who you are.”

  Lance looked away from her. “So you’ve spent the past

  seventeen years analyzing me.”

  Emma got up from the table, walked over to him, taking

  his face in her hands. “I see you; without the art, the money,

  the power, the privilege. I see you, Mr. With—Lance,” she

  said, still getting used to calling him by his first name. “And

  I’m not afraid of what I see.”

  “Maybe you should be.”

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  “I know how to take care of myself. I’m good at it. I’m

  fearless, remember?”

  (X)

  “You’re going to wear that? You look like a rich tourist.”

  Emma, in cut-off jeans and a bright cotton sleeveless shirt,

  made a face as Lance came into the living room.

  “I am a rich tourist,” he said as he patted his pocket looking

  for his sunglasses.

  “No, for the next two weeks you’re not. You’re just a guy, not

  the gentry. Get rid of the Rolex, those fancy leather sandals, the

  silk shirt and linen slacks—they all have to go. The places we’re

  going, you wear jeans and a tee shirt, sneakers or flip flops.”

  “I don’t wear jeans or tee shirts. I only wear Italian leather

  shoes or sandals. I don’t even own that other kind of attire,”

  he said as if she’d asked him to go into Montego Bay naked.

  “Attire? Good Lord Mon!” she said, invoking the island

  dialect. “Work with me here. Surely there is something in your

  closet that does not scream, ‘Hey, over here, rich guy!’”

  She took his hand and led him back into the bedroom.

  Rummaging through his closets, she dismissed outfit after

  outfit, then turned to him with her hands on her hips.

  “I’m renowned for my impeccable wardrobe,” Lance said.

  “I learned about fashion when I lived in Paris.”

  “Paris can’t help you here. Don’t move,” Emma said as

  she headed toward the service area of the house. She returned

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  with a pair of cotton khakis and a bright green, yellow and red

  Jamaican flag tee shirt.

  “You and Kingsley are about the same height, he’s thicker

  around the waist, you’ll need a belt. We’ll have to make do with

  the shoes, all I could find were work boots and your feet are a

  couple of sizes larger than his,” she said, then added, “and for

  that I’m grateful.” Lance laughed, e
njoying this Emma. She

  began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “You want me to wear my gardener’s clothes,” Lance said.

  “Just for today, I don’t think he’ll mind. They’re clean—

  Winsom washed before she left and I’ll wash them before they

  get back. He’ll never know.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Lance asked.

  “I’m not,” Emma said. “We’ll buy you some ‘relaxed attire’

  at the market but in the meantime these will do.”

  “You want me to wear the gardener’s clothes?” Lance asked

  again as Emma pulled the tee shirt over his head and stood

  back to admire the effect, then handed him the khakis.

  “I want you to experience this island like you’re a part of

  it, not apart from it. Eat a little ackee and saltfish, drink Red Stripe, listen to reggae, get some sun on that pasty skin, dance

  on the beach—you dance don’t you? If not, maybe we’ll smoke

  some ganja—that’ll loosen you up,” she said, assessing his new

  outfit. “You can keep the sunglasses and we’ll get you a hat,

  no one will recognize you—not that any of your people will

  be where we’re going.”

  “Emma, let’s just stay here and enjoy each other; order in,

  go out on the boat, visit some galleries.”

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  “That’s what Mr. Withers would do but you’re Lance, you’re

  still Lance right? He’s with Emma, on her vacation. Trust me,”

  she said, planting a kiss on his lips. “You are about to have the

  time of your life.”

  •

  Emma showed Lance another side of Jamaica and life.

  He’d been coming to the island for more than a decade and

  had rarely been outside of Round Hill’s guarded compound.

  Instead of dining in the island’s best resorts and restaurants,

  she took him to the open-air markets where they ate from

  carts and shopped for food that she showed him how to cook.

  He was even surprised to find some interesting art among the

  local artists selling their work on the streets.

  Emma didn’t drive and Lance had not driven a car in

  years but after several harrowing attempts, he finally mas-

  tered driving on the left side of the road. They visited Ocho

  Rios and climbed Dunn’s River Falls, ate jerk chicken, peas

  and rice and drank Red Stripe at rustic local restaurants that

  Lance declared better than the faux island fare at the starred

  restaurants he usually frequented. They swam naked in Negril

  and made love on the beach. He bought a hat, several pairs of