33. What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?
What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?
Jasper’s office chair had always been perfectly adjusted to his liking.
.. until today, when it felt like a medieval torture device designed specifically to complement his boss’s verbal flogging.
Nancy sat at the far side of his desk, her post-vacation tan forming an ironic contrast to the storm clouds gathering on her face.
“So let me get this straight.” Her skepticism was so intense it was almost material, like Jasper should offer it its own chair. “You disappeared for a week. Nobody had a clue where you were..”
“I was conducting essential historical research,” Jasper replied, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears. What research? Where? His memory offered nothing but a strange collage of feelings: excitement, fear, and something else he couldn’t quite place. Something that felt like... loss?
Nancy’s eyebrow arched so high it threatened to detach from her face entirely. “Historical research. I see. And what exactly were you researching that was so important you couldn’t be bothered to tell anyone where you were?”
Jasper opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. “I was investigating an anomaly. In the county records.” He adjusted his glasses, stalling. “A liquor license for an address that doesn’t exist.”
“A liquor license.” Nancy’s mouth flattened to a horizontal line.
“Yes. For J how was he going to share this space all day every day?
“Is that really necessary?” He tried to keep the desperation from his voice.
“It is. The arrangements have been made. Your new assistant will arrive shortly.”
Jasper wanted to argue. He truly, desperately wanted to argue. But what could he say? Kelly Melrose was the only one who made it possible for him to do the work he adored so much.
“I understand,” he said finally.
“Good.” There was a pause, then she added, “Don’t fuck this up, Hopkins.”
The line went dead.
Jasper just sat there, staring at the receiver as if it might somehow spring to life and explain what the hell had just happened. His mysterious, uncompromising patron was forcing Jasper to take on an assistant. Presumably it was a form of punishment for his unexplained absence.
This was a nightmare. An assistant . Someone invading his space, disrupting his routine.
What if they were chatty? What if they were messy?
What if they ate tuna sandwiches at their desk or played the radio or, God forbid, wanted to discuss sports ?
A horror movie of potential scenarios flashed through Jasper’s mind: sticky notes plastered everywhere, pens without caps, coffee rings on historical documents.
Someone asking him question after question, forcing him to explain and re-explain processes that should be as natural as breathing. Someone watching him, judging him...
Someone reporting back to Kelly freaking Melrose.
The sound of the door opening at the top of the stairs made him freeze. Already? The nightmare begins today?
“Hello?” A voice drifted down. Female, with a slight huskiness that stirred something in Jasper’s memory.
He stood up, straightening his tie and brushing imaginary lint from his sweater vest. Professional. He needed to be professional.
Footsteps descended the stairs, and then she appeared: a woman in a crisp blazer, with dark hair cut in a sharp bob. Her eyes found his immediately. “I’m Delilah Melrose. Your new assistant. We drove here together once... Do you remember that?”
“We’ve met?”
“Yes, you brought me here to inspect a document you found. Inside that portrait of Agnes Bartlett.”
Ohhh. Yes. That part was coming back now.
She’d been with him, right at the conclusion of his Lost Week.
This woman, this achingly beautiful woman, had somehow appeared in his car.
And they’d driven here, and Toby had made rude comments.
.. and then she’d left, just as mysteriously as she’d arrived.
“Hang on, do you... by any chance... know what happened to me recently? I had a concussion or something and... You were there. Weren’t you? I think you were there.”
A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I, um... Gosh, I’m not sure how to respond to that one. I don’t want to get ahead of myself. How about this—” She extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m looking forward to working together.”
He accepted her handshake, and the moment their skin touched, Jasper felt a jolt of... something. Recognition? Déjà vu? Or just static electricity from the carpet? “Welcome to the archives, Ms. Melrose.”
“Please.” Her grip was confident and firm. “Call me Delilah.”
As he looked into her dark, soulful eyes, Jasper had the strangest thought: Maybe an assistant won’t be so bad after all.