"Was the painting dusty?" he asks, and I have absolutely no idea if he's joking or not. Before I can answer, he leans forward and scoops me up behind the knees, then sets me down standing on the floor.
"I…no…sorry. I was just checking to see if it was a real Homer. I thought maybe it was a print—sorry, I'll get out of your way," I stammer, hurrying to the outlet to unplug the vacuum.
"Did someone tell you it was here?" he asks, stepping toward me as I glance around for my shoes.
"What? I don't understand," I reply, stopping my search to stare at him.
"Did someone tell you the painting was here? Is that why you took the job?"
Color rises to my cheeks. "Wait, are you accusing me of being a thief? I would never…I was an art student. I painted in oils. Winslow is a great oil painter. I was admiring it. Call one of my old teachers at MassArt if you want." I sit down on the chair and pull on my shoes angrily. He stares at me for a moment before moving to the study door and shutting it.
"Just hang on a minute." He takes a deep breath. "I apologize. I've just been a bit on edge since Jody disappeared."
"If I were going to steal something, I wouldn't wait for the middle of the day, then bring in a vacuum and take off my shoes."
"True," he replies, his mouth twitching. Is he about to laugh at me?
"I'm not a thief," I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
"You just…I was surprised in the first place to see you working here, and then when I walked in and saw you on that chair, I jumped to a conclusion. I am sorry."
I nod, starting to feel embarrassed by my anger, and rather shocked to hear an apology cross his haughty lips. "What do you mean? Why were you surprised to see me working here?"
He walks over to his desk and leans on the edge. He moves so effortlessly, like he has perfect control over his body. Probably how he keeps sneaking up on me. I sit up a little straighter, feeling self-conscious of my posture.
"Because of how you look." I raise my eyebrows at him. "Because you're not how I think of a maid looking." I frown. Does he think these are explanations? "Because you're beautiful," he finally says, without a hint of humor in his voice.
"Oh." I bite my lip, feeling the color rise in my cheeks again, though certainly not from anger this time. "Sorry." Wait, no…
"Do you not think of yourself as attractive?"
"Oh, um…not really, I don't know," I reply, bringing my hands to my face. He really doesn't let up. I bet it'd be hell to be in business with him.
"So you went to college for art?" he asks, and I'm grateful for the change of subject.
"For a while," I concede. "Didn't graduate. It's a long story," I add, not wanting to get into it.
"But you worked mainly in oils?"
I nod. "I like the way they can be layered, the texture you can achieve with them. And that so many painters before me had used them…it made me feel connected to something."
He nods to the painting behind me. "I saw this painting at auction and fell in love with it. It's from Homer's time in Gloucester. Something about the two children rowing with these giant schooners behind them…" he trails off, studying it. I run my eyes over his face, thinking how the light coming in from the windows to his right are creating the perfect glow for a portrait. He glances down and catches me staring at him.
"Sorry, I'll leave you to your work," I say, beginning to stand.
He shrugs. "It's alright. I usually interview any new staff personally, but we were in a rush to hire someone else."
"Oh, is this an interview? I thought maybe it was interrogation," I reply lightly.
He narrows his eyes at me. "Cora MacAuliffe," he says, rolling my name around in his mouth in a way that makes me squirm. "The unlikely maid."
"Are you going to ask me my five-year plan?" I challenge him, surprising myself. Where am I getting the balls to be this impertinent to him? Something about his holier-than-thou air really bugs me.
"I wasn't, but now I am," he says, and I can just see the corners of his mouth curving upward. "So, Ms. MacAuliffe, where do you see yourself in five years?"
"I don't know. Still working as a maid, I guess."
"No."
"No?" The absolute certainty in his voice takes me aback, and absolutely gets under my skin. How would he know what I'm going to be doing?
"No," he repeats. "I doubt it very much. Why did you become a maid in the first place?"
"It's a long story."
"That's the second time you've said that."
"That's because it's private. Usually when people say, 'it's a long story', it means they don't want to talk about it," I snap. He raises his eyebrows at me. I press my lips together, knowing how incredibly stupid it is to talk to my boss like that, but also unwilling to completely back down. "I'm…I'm sorry. That was inappropriate. It's just…it really is private. I hope you understand."