Beautiful Affliction(17)

Mrs. Redmond—Krug Grand Cuvee…





Chapter Nine





The problem with kissing your boss when you're a live-in maid, is that, you know, you LIVE IN THE SAME HOUSE, I think to myself over and over as I go out of my way to avoid him. I've managed to pull it off for the last few days, except for serving him at dinner, of course. At dinnertime, he's only made contact with me when absolutely necessary, and I've done the same. There's nothing I can do about my body's reaction to him, unfortunately. After such a long break, it's like my hormones are determined to make up for lost time. But at least we haven't been alone together again.

I make my way across the foyer from the kitchen to do a final sweep for glasses before I turn on the dishwasher. I've noticed Mr. Redmond often has a glass of whiskey in his office at night, though I want to make sure he's not in there now. I slow down as I walk toward his door. I can see that it's open, and there's no sound coming from inside. He must have gone to bed already.

I walk in quickly, and stop short. He's sitting behind his desk with his face in his hands.

"Oh, sorry, I—" I stammer, retreating to the door.

"It's alright," he says, raising his head.

"I didn't think anyone was in here. I just came to pick up your glass," I say, pointing to the empty lowball glass in front of him. He pushes it toward me and I use the opportunity to glance at his expression. He looks exhausted. "Um, are you…are you alright?"

He clears his throat. "I was about to go to bed when Aaron called. Autopsy results came in today and his contact in the department let him know. Jody was murdered. Smothered."

"Oh my god." I pause for a moment, not knowing quite what to say. "You were… close then?"

"No…I just…I feel responsible."

"I…how so?"

"An employee of mine…someone who worked in my own home…murdered."

"You're not responsible for us. Especially, I mean, she was on her day off. What are you supposed to do? Give each of us a twenty-four hour armed guard?"

"I should have let Aaron put up the cameras when he wanted to. Then they'd have a more precise time for when she left. It just felt so 'big brother' to me. When people come here, I want them to feel a sense of tradition, not never-ending surveillance. Well, anyway, he's having them put in in a few days." He stands and walks over to the bar cart with his glass, pouring himself a couple fingers of Laphroaig.

"You have to stop that kind of thinking. If you let just a little bit of it in, it'll spread in your brain like a poison." He turns to me with his eyebrows raised. "Or something like that," I add with a small smile.

"You drink whiskey?"

"Not really."

"Well, do me a favor and have some now. It'll make me feel less pathetic if I'm not drinking alone."

"'Pathetic' isn't really a word I'd associate with you, but alright," I acquiesce. He gestures toward the two armchairs in the corner by the window as he hands me a glass.

"I hope you don't think I just enjoy getting you drunk."

"The thought hadn't crossed my mind," I reply. A blush begins to spread across my cheeks as I wonder if he's going to bring up the kiss, but he sits down silently, tilting his glass from side to side so that the liquid swirls inside.

"Maybe I shouldn't feel so responsible, but I do," he finally says. "I inherited this company from my father when it was in shambles. His deathbed wish was for me to build it back up. Make it greater than it had ever been before."

I wince. "That's a lot of pressure. How did he die?"

"Lung cancer. He was a lifetime smoker. I think he could have lasted a little longer, but he just gave up. He felt like a failure for losing the house, and almost losing the company." He looks up and stares at me, his eyes boring into me until I shift nervously. "Why do I feel so comfortable talking to you?"

"I have no idea," I whisper.

He blinks, and I'm realized from his gaze. "My sister likes you," he states, taking a sip of his whiskey.

"I like her. Very much."

"I know she's…not everyone's cup of tea, but she's still just a kid." I can't help but smile. He narrows his eyes at me as I try to hide it behind my glass.

"Sorry, it's just that's exactly what she said you thought of her."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, she said you thought of her as still being twelve years old. I mean, what is she? Nineteen? That's just five years younger than me."

He frowns. "But Whitney is… well, she's just different. She needs protecting." I don't say anything in response, recognizing the stubborn look of an older sibling on his face. "How'd your parents feel about you going to art school?"