15. Truly Rich
Roman
She followed me into the café. To fight me, probably, when I’d only been trying to give her a break. Another reason I didn’t need her, no matter how soft her skin was or how much intelligence shone out of those gray eyes. No matter how brave she might be, or how hard she’d fought to get Delilah out of that van. You didn’t want a stupid woman, or a heartless one, but all that brain and ticker, not to mention her insistence on having her say—or, possibly, winning—would mean a woman who was more trouble than she was worth.
I’d hire her. I just wouldn’t get into any kind of relationship with her, unless it was the kind I could control.
Which wasn’t easy to remember when I held the café door for her and she brushed past me with that bit of sweetness to her scent and those arms and legs, pale as creamed clover honey. Especially since the shirt was pink. How much trouble could a woman be who wore pink?
I knew better.
I ordered my coffee and glanced at her, and she said, “Nothing, thanks.” When I stepped aside, though, she pulled out her bank card and said, “No, I do want something.” And then didn’t even stand with me to wait for it. Instead, she browsed amongst the tui-and-pohutukawa-covered tote bags and tea towels and coffee flasks like the tourist she wasn’t.
I didn’t go over there. The person who blinked first was the loser. When our coffees came, I grabbed mine and headed out to the car. I held the café door for her, but only because she was right there, and bad manners weren’t any kind of asset.
When she’d merged onto the motorway again, she said, “The silent treatment isn’t working.”
“I’d say it is,” I said, “as you just talked.”
“I’m not saying anything nice, though.”
I hid my smile. “I can buy you a coffee. I can afford it. You can’t.”
“What I can afford,” she said, “is my business. ‘If you realize you have enough, you are truly rich.’ Lao Tzu. I forestalled you there. Bet you’ve never met a woman who can quote back at you.” She took a sip of her coffee. A small flat white, about the cheapest thing on the menu, when surely she’d wanted a mocha with whipped cream. After the way she’d hoovered up that fish and chips last night? After all those hours struggling up and down the hill through the mud with her rake? Whatever she’d said, she was thin enough to look fragile when she was tired, and a mocha wouldn’t have come amiss. How thin had she been before?
“Surprised you’re wearing a skirt,” I finally said. Wait, I was talking first. Bad idea.
“Oh?” she asked. “Given my lack of femininity?”
“Yeh, right. Given that you’re meant to be renting some pretty heavy equipment, buying cleaning supplies, all that.”
“You’ve caught me,” she said, breezy again. “I’m actually going to— Wait. I can’t come up with anything shady I’d be doing in Dunedin on Monday morning, in my perfectly normal T-shirt and skirt. Which is a skort. I won’t be flashing the populace, no worries.”
“Oh.” I’d thought I had her there.
“You still have some questions for me,” she said. “I can tell. Fire away.” Not an easy woman to keep on the back foot.
I didn’t shift in my seat. I also didn’t ask her what I’d planned to—about “the show,” about meeting Moyano. I couldn’t find a way to make it my business, was why. I could have looked it up, but so far, nothing about Summer resembled the public version of her story. The only truth I could see was what she’d told me that first night, in the dark, on my bed, with her legs in my lap and my hands on her. Just thinking of how that had felt was affecting me too much. That’s why I said, “What are you planning to do at the house?”
“I told you. Clean it.”
“Not much of a conversationalist, are you?” I asked.
She finally flared up at that, which was why I’d said it. For some reason, I liked her stroppy. She’d driven me mad, but I hadn’t seen her defeated yet. “I am an excellent conversationalist.”
“Ha.”
“I’m—” She seemed to be casting about for something to say. “Fine,” she finally managed, in a clear attempt to recover her dignity. “I could say that youaren’t exactly slaying me with your wit and charm, either, but I won’t. Because you’re my employer and I don’t want to get fired, that’s why.”
“I’m not your employer. We’re doing a trade.”
“Face it. You’re my employer. I won’t even mention the ute.”
“You just did.”
She didn’t say anything to that. It should have been frosty, driving up to Dunedin like that. For some reason, it wasn’t. She was more comfortable fighting, it seemed, than giving in.
Did I like that? Well, yeh. Partially. I wanted her fighting.
And then giving in.
My communicationwith Summer for the next five days consisted of the following:
1) A text of exactly five words. My new phone number. Summer.
2) A second four-word text. What kind of food? To which I answered, Anything you like. Three words. I won.
3) A series of receipts for all the equipment she’d hired and bought, with no message at all attached to them except a running total of what she’d spent. More businesslike than most anyone I’d ever hired, except, of course, Esther.
4) My second text to her, which was, What about the wreckers? And her answer: I paid for that. It was my van and my responsibility. Annoying me again, because how much had that cost, and how low were her reserves now?
My communication from Delilah consisted of a bit more.
First, there were about twenty photos of electronic equipment I recognized, sent without a word, then another text. Whoops. I meant that to go to my fence. Worried yet? Which made me smile and text back, Worried for the man who marries you, maybe. To which she replied, How extremely sexist of you. Maybe I’m like Summer and don’t have sexual feelings. Interesting how she says that instead of “I’m asexual,” don’t you think? Almost suggests she’s not asexual. Or, of course, maybe I’m like you and just plan to use the guy and toss him aside.
I replied, How do you know what I do? And she answered, Google is my friend.
I believed the two of them were related, anyway.
Two days later, I got another Delilah text. You’re probably gnashing your teeth all day, wondering what Summer’s doing and whether she’s divined your control-freak instructions for cleaning up your house. No worries, she’s driving both of us like mad on it. It’s not going to take two weeks, though, hate to tell you. She won’t slow down, and what am I supposed to do when she’s heaving soggy Oriental rugs around and staggering under piles of baseboards that she’s carrying with her bandaged hand just so she can hold a hairdryer on another section of your wall?
I answered that one with, I appreciate your hard work, to which she replied, Ha. You know you want me to slow her down. Delilah might only be eighteen, but she wasn’t stupid.
And finally, the text I got on Friday morning. She got a job. Waitressing at night, so she can work on your house during the day. She says that this way, she can pay you back for the truck that much sooner, and you know Summer can always get a waitress job, especially in a bar, because men spend twice as much when she’s there. You should’ve charged her six thousand, since you were lying anyway, because she’s panicking. Means I’m on dinner duty tonight. Don’t expect much.
That one, I stared at. I had a meeting in four minutes and no time for staring, but here I was. Finally, I typed, Where?
The Lambing Shed, Delilah answered. In Owaka.
Right.
Summer
I wove my way between tables in the wood-paneled dining room with my tray, then did the Server Dip to deliver a ribeye steak with chips and steamed vegetables, which didn’t tempt me, and another plate of maple-cured salmon, asparagus, and kumara in a Thai curry sauce, which did. I hoped there’d be leftovers of the salmon at the end of the night.
“Cheers, love,” the woman with the salmon said. “You’re busy tonight, eh.”
“Even though there’s no rugby on now,” I said.
The man laughed. “You’ve cottoned on to that, have you? How long have you been in En Zed?”
“Over ten months,” I said. “So far so good.” I could’ve stood there and chatted, but I could see more plates on the service hatch, so I smiled and left. The smile wasn’t for the tip, because there wouldn’t be a tip. It was because I liked serving, at least in New Zealand. I’d never done it growing up, but it beat cleaning motel rooms. Not too different from being Barbie, really, or Cinderella. Helpful and cheerful, that was me.
I was carrying another tray, of drinks this time, with my unstitched hand, feeling proud of my balance and my strength, when I caught sight of Roman coming through the front door.
And he caught sight of me.
Whoa. White shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show thick forearms. Black trousers tonight covering those muscular thighs. Bronze skin nearly glowing in the late-afternoon sunlight that streamed in through the windows, black hair cropped close, and an expression on his not-quite-handsome face that had me trying to catch my breath. Way too intense.
“Going to give us those drinks?” one of the twentysomething guys at the table asked. “Or d’you need help with the tray?”
“Oh. Sorry.” I was flushing, I could tell, as I went around the table, not looking in Roman’s direction. He looked … mad. Why?
No. Wrong question. If he was annoyed by something in his life, why was that my problem? Why did I need to care? We’d made a deal. I was fulfilling my end of it, and he was fulfilling his. I didn’t need to rescue him, and he didn’t need rescuing anyway, any more than I did. If I wanted a guy, I should find a nice, normal, easygoing one, not some titan of industry.
The biggest of the guys said, “Hi. I’m Colin.” With a grin and an arm hooked over the back of his chair, and a little manspreading, too, as he tipped his chair back a little on two legs. Nothing threatening about it, really, just an attempt of the “Why not try?” variety, from a man who did look, yes, normal and easygoing and like no titan of industry ever, in his canvas shorts and work boots and Catlins Electric on the back of his T-shirt.
“Hi, Colin,” I said. “Here’s your beer.”
His smile stayed the same. “When are you done here?”
“Closing time’s 7:45,” the guy next to him said.
“I’ll wait for you, then, shall I?” Colin asked.
OK, this was what I didn’t love so much about serving. I said, “Nice try, but no, thanks,” in my most Barbie-cheerful voice, and set down another beer with a vague smile. I wasn’t even wearing a skirt! Huge white bandages on your shins and knees could startle people, so I was wearing jeans instead despite the summer warmth. Jeans and the pink T-shirt, not exactly come-on-over-big-boy-and-get-some-of-this fashion.
Colin said, “I’ll hang around anyway. That way, if you change your mind, I’ll be here. What?” he asked the guy next to him, who’d given him a look. “She’s not wearing a ring, and I said ‘in case.’” I could have pointed out that he hadn’t said “in case,” but I didn’t, because I wasn’t having this conversation.
The voice from behind me was so deep and so unexpected, I jumped. And grabbed my tray with two hands just in time. Without thinking, though, because it made my stitched palm give an almighty throb.
“Hi,” Roman said, loud enough that everybody heard it. “Came to wait for you. Good day?”
I still wasn’t looking at him, but was moving around the table instead, focusing on delivering the last two beers. I could see Colin, though. He’d brought the chair back down on four legs and wiped the interest off his face like he was thinking, Hope you didn’t hear that.
“Hi,” I said to Roman, because I couldn’t just leave him standing there. “I won’t be done until eight-fifteen or so. Too long for you to wait, and no need.”
He put an arm around my waist, and I froze. He came close as if to kiss me, the scent of him reminding me of that top-shelf bourbon with its caramel apple and spice, underlain by something clean and cool that must be his natural scent, because I realized I’d smelled it before, on the bed with him in the dark. Rain, maybe. Could a man smell like rain? I’d grown up in Seattle, and that was how he smelled. Like rain and, possibly, evergreens. Whatever it was, all of Roman—the touch, the voice, the scent—swirled in my head so I could hardly think. He murmured in my ear, “Why? And why didn’t you tell me?” And that was worse. In all sorts of ways.
I stepped out of earshot of the table and said over my shoulder to him, “I’m working.” I didn’t get anything back, so I turned to look and found that he hadn’t even followed me. He was up at the bar, placing his order. After that, he slid onto a barstool and didn’t look at me.
I wasn’t going to let this shake me up. That hard expression on his face when he’d walked in, that hand on my waist, that breath in my ear, weren’t going to rock me, because I didn’t need to sway with every shift in a man’s mood anymore, and anyway—no. Just no.
His eyes followed me as I moved between serving hatch, bar, and tables. He wasn’t even looking at his phone, and everybody looked at their phone. He didn’t fidget at all, in fact. He sat still. And watched. Like he had the right. Like he had something to say about this. Like everything I did not need in my life anymore.
I could tell my color was even higher now, and my hands wanted to tremble. Why was I reacting like this? What had all my alarm bells clanging? He was getting some dinner on the way to the house for the weekend, that was all. I hadn’t been one bit scared of him driving up to Dunedin on Monday. So—why?
He hadn’t looked at me like this on Monday. He hadn’t done this.
Katrina, the pretty German girl who was working on the back patio tonight, said in passing, “That man has been staring at you.”
When she came back the other way, I said, keeping on with cleaning off a table, “He’s my boss. At my other job.”
“Oh.” She took another look at Roman. “Is he appropriate?”
I had to admit it. “So far.”
“He looks a bit scary,” she said. “To me. Maybe that is not so bad, though. Would you like me to deliver his meal?” She nodded at the hatch, where the cook was ringing the bell yet again and looking irritated.
“Oh!” I jumped for about the nineteenth time since Roman had come in. “No. I’ll do it.” No choice, because I didn’t run away anymore.
“Pity,” she said.
I grabbed Roman’s dinner—the salmon I’d wanted, which had better not be the last one—and swerved around the bartender to deliver it.
Roman looked up, still with no smile, and said, “Thanks.”
I glanced around. The table of guys was giving off about-to-leave signals. I’d need to bus their table in a couple of minutes, but nothing else was happening out there. The tables were clearing out, as it was nearly seven-thirty. In other words: the middle of the night, in Owaka time, despite it still being light outside for a couple of hours more. I’d be home well before dark, which was just as well, because there was no dark as dark as the Catlins night, although no stars as bright.
I got exactly one word out. “Why?”
“Why what?” He wasn’t eating, but leaning back a little instead, one arm resting on the polished wood of the bar top, which only emphasized that forearm muscle, the kind made up of layers, like some kind of geology exhibit. It was just about that hard, too. And then there were the biceps showing under the white shirt, and the shoulders.
“Why are you giving off all that testosterone?” I asked. Ah. Finally some more words. “Exactly where do you get off? Especially when you must know it’s wasted on me?”
“Wasn’t wasted on those fellas over there,” he said, and gave a tip of his head. “You want to know why I did it? That’s why.”
I forced myself to breathe as I checked over there. Yes, getting up to go. I had about one minute to bus the table if I wanted to keep this job. “I could handle them. I’m not your property, and I didn’t need your help.”
“Yeh, right. If that bloke was waiting when you got off work?”
“I have the cook walk me to my car. I’ve been living in this body for thirty years, and I’m not stupid. And that isn’t why you’re here.” I stared at him hard, and he stared back, giving nothing away. Well, he was a company director. A CEO. He’d been staring at people for about twenty years. And all right, I’d looked him up eventually. Tell me you’d have been able to resist.
He didn’t answer, even though I waited. “Fine,” I finally said. “We’ll discuss it later. I need to get back to work.” And did.
I’d talk to him at home. At his home. This wasn’t the time or the place.
Too bad Roman hadn’t got the memo.