Beautiful Affliction(13)

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 this," 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."