After a tour and some final questions on Rebecca's part, we say our goodbyes. As I retrieve my bag and portfolio from her car, she asks, "Are you sure you don't need a ride back to my office?"
"No, thank you," I say. "I've got a family appointment, and I'm going to meet them. I'll have someone pick me up. Thank you so much for showing me this. It's lovely." It's sort of a lie, but a small one. I just know I can't leave here yet.
She waves as she gets into her car. "We'll be in touch."
"I look forward to hearing from you."
I watch her car until it disappears, and then start walking. I don't call a cab yet, because I'm going to find out why James is here building a house for the place interviewing me. It seems too convenient to be purely coincidence, but then again … I've heard of stranger things.
It takes me maybe fifteen minutes to get back to the house-and by that time I'm wishing I'd brought different shoes. I hear the sound of a drill from inside, and wonder if I should just ask him about it when I see him tomorrow-No, if I don't ask him now it'll just burrow into my brain and drive me crazy before we even get to dinner tomorrow. And if there's something he's been keeping from me, maybe tomorrow is off the table. I realize that it's just late afternoon, and wonder if he came here straight from my house.
I push open the door and see the first floor is mainly completed, though the finishing touches haven't been added yet. The sound of work is coming from the back of the house, and I wander through it, looking for him. The house is well done, with clean lines and lots of open space.
Finally, I find him. He's on a ladder installing a heavy iron and glass light fixture to the ceiling. I don't want to startle him when he's working with something so heavy and breakable, so I hang back, waiting until I see that it's secure.
Finally, he releases his hold.
"James," I say, and just like I thought he might, he jumps while scrambling to see who said his name.
There's confusion on his face that's quickly replaced by a genuine smile. "Hey there. What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," I say. "My interview was with The Harrison Foundation."
He hops off the ladder and comes over, all smiles. "That's great! You didn't mention who it was with. How'd it go?" He kisses me, and I find myself pulling away.
"I didn't know that you were a contractor."
He raises an eyebrow at me, and his voice is playful. "You thought I made a living as a pool boy?"
"Caretaker," I say, blood rushing to my face as I realize how ridiculous I sound. "You do this on the side?"
"I do that on the side," he says. He takes off the work gloves he's wearing and stretches. "I think I mentioned I'm filling in for one of your guys this week. I took it for the extra money."
A bunch of little things click into place all of a sudden. "That's how you made all those great suggestions on my design. How you knew that they would work. Why didn't you tell me what you really do?"
He shrugs. "It never came up. I mean the way we met … we talked about you and your fight with your dad and what you wanted to do with your life. And after that-"
"I didn't ask." A surge of shame washes through me. I assumed because he was doing the job of a caretaker that that's all he did-that that's all he was qualified for. I didn't ask because I assumed that I already knew the answer. And there are a hundred assumptions that line up behind my assumed answer that led me to those conclusions.
I'm no better than that rich girl who tried to sleep with him just for the thrill, because I didn't care to go any deeper.
"Vera?"
"I'm sorry." Tears start burning my eyes. I try to blink them away. I turn away from James, even though there's a zero percent chance he didn't already see them.
"Hey," he says, and I feel him come up behind me. "You're okay. I knew we were going to talk on our date. Cover all the first date topics. We're still going to, right?" He hugs me from behind. "You've had a crazy week. I don't think less of you for not asking."
"You probably should."
"No," he says, "I shouldn't. We all come from a certain worldview. Some things are built into it. And we learn those limits, we grow as people."
I close my eyes and relax against his chest. Take the lesson, move on. Open up. Try. Okay. Actually, I won't have to try, because I know deep down that I will never forget the shame of this moment. I will never forget the kind of assumptions I made about him.
"Okay," I say out loud.
"Good."
"Actually," I say, "do you think we could have our date tonight?"
He turns me around to face him. "Why?"
"Because I don't think I can wait until tomorrow to ask all the questions I have now."
A lazy smile drifts across his mouth. "There you go being all impatient again."
"You bring it out in me."
"Do I?" I notice his eyes are focused on my mouth.
I tilt my face up, giving him the hint. "You bring a lot of things out in me."
He kisses me, soft, slow and deep. We don't come up for air, and my head spins. I grip his arms to keep from falling down.
"You win," he says, finally breaking away. "As long as you're okay with stopping by my house quickly so I can change."
"Fine with me." Who am I to argue with a chance to watch him change? That's a sight I don't think I'll ever get tired of.
I try not to sulk on the way to the mystery restaurant-James still won't tell me where we're going. He also made me stay in the car at his house. "Do you really think that if you come inside that we're going to make it the restaurant?" he'd said. I mean … he had a point … but still.
I sigh audibly in my seat now, and James laughs. "I'm sorry."
"You should be," I say, putting on a mask of disappointment. "You denied me a chance to ogle you."
"Don't worry." He puts his hand on my leg. "I plan on giving you many more chances."
We pull up to a restaurant that borders the beach. It's Italian, and I smile that he made a point to choose my favorite. We're seated right away at a table overlooking the beach, and a soft breeze off the ocean plays through my hair. The late afternoon sun slants toward us and the beach is practically shimmering.
I glance over the menu, and even though I feel like I should be adventurous, I opt for comfort. I order the baked ziti, James orders fettuccini and a bottle of wine. Good wine.
"So," James says when the waiter leaves, "you said you had a bunch of questions. Shoot."
I grab a piece of bread from the basket and spread butter on it to buy myself some time. Now that I have the opportunity to ask, I'm not sure what to ask first. I guess I'll start with the most immediate. "What do you really do?"
"I'm a contractor. Specifically I try to focus on low-income housing, but there's not always work in that area. I take the contracts I can get and do my best to stay in that vein. The Harrison Foundation has given me several contracts. They're a good company. It would be great if you worked for them."
"I hope so," I murmur. "But if that's what you do, then why are you cleaning my pool?"
The waiter stops by with our wine and pours us each a glass. I savor the first sip while waiting for his answer.
"Contracts don't last forever," he says, "and when there are none to be had, I still need a job. So I take on occasional landscaping gigs. I haven't had to do it in a while, but I have a friend named Mike whose dad is having surgery this week. He likes working for your dad-he gives nice bonuses. Mike didn't want the company to give his place at your house to someone else, so I said I'd fill in for him while he's with his dad."
Wow, I think to myself, his willingness is amazing. And he's so kind.
"Mike also works on my crew when he can, so it's the least he can do."
"You have a crew?"
He takes a sip of wine and smiles. "If you can call them that. They're mainly friends who are good with their hands. When I have extra money in the budget, I bring them on to help. Makes the job go faster, and they get paid."
"That's really nice of you," I say, shoving another piece of bread in my mouth. His actions are staggering, really. I know that my father would never even consider doing something like that. There's a twinge in my chest as I realize it. I need something else from him, something lighter, and the first words out of my mouth are, "How old are you?"
He laughs at the abrupt shift in topic. "I'm twenty-seven."
"Do you have siblings?"
His face falls. "Maybe."
My breath catches, and I know I've stumbled onto something serious without meaning to. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"
James holds out a hand. "It's okay. My family history is complicated." He takes a deep sip of wine, and it seems like he's bracing myself.