Chapter 8 Samantha
SAMANTHA
I have several hours off before lunch, and I catch my breath. That is when a message comes in. It is simple. It asks if I can deliver a cold beef sandwich to a table in the top-floor hall.
I know I have an easy day ahead, so I decide I may as well enjoy the place while I’m here.
I figure, if I’m here for another few days, I may as well take a tour. My thigh is not hurting too bad. It is also not bleeding anymore. I’m lucky.
After heading outside, I find a tennis court. I then see stables in the distance and horses around the lake.
I enjoy walking around the calm waters and the vast, gentle grounds.
Being away from big cities makes me think about my future and what I want out of my life.
Several gardeners in uniforms work on a formal garden in the distance. They prune rose bushes, which appear to be old, long-stemmed roses.
I say hello, walk about, and smell some of the buds.
Even if it feels like a stuffy prison inside, with Grumpy being cold and inhuman, outside is calming and welcoming.
Two horses come up, and I pat them before walking on. The horses follow me, clearly seeking attention or the touch of another. They nuzzle me for pats; they are cute and playful.
I decide I like the chestnut one because the black and taller of the two keeps his distance like it is him. No doubt it is his.
As I walk back under the trees, I call my mom.
We talk for a while, and she tells me she is well. She always puts on a strong front, but she’d been an orphan and had a tough upbringing.
It is likely a common trait, and I shower her with love, as she does to me.
Mom chats away, as always, about how much she loves teaching piano and doing the odd TV series in LA. She often teaches actors how to play piano for roles. She does, however, dislike her day job in an office.
She sounds exhausted, but the office job enables her to play piano and do what she loves.
She is clearly burning out, so I tell her to hang in there.
She has always refused help, but every few months, I’ve sneaked a few thousand into her mortgage account to bring it down.
Mom is a creative type, and not so great with accounts.
That’s oddly good because she doesn’t realize money is going in. Otherwise, she’d flatly refuse the money and send it back.
As I walk on around the lake edge, geese lift off the water.
I message my brother, as he is into messages more than calls. I give him his space, and he gives me mine. My brother is a good kid, but moving so much while young was hard on him, just like it was hard on me.
He hung out with the wrong kids for a while, but now, he is in the zone. As he started to study architecture, he slowed down and found his flow.
You okay, kid?
Yep, you?
Yes, and thanks for asking.
Glad you left the dick.
Yep, and thanks for the heads up. Next time I’ll be more careful.
Good girl, sis. NY fun?
Yep, and peaceful.
Good. So, no dicks?
I think of ten ways to answer that.
Not anymore.
Then good luck. Miss you!
Love you Kiddo.
It feels good to connect with family. At least they are safe.
I walk on and think of Dad. The man I never got to know or didn’t want to know. He’d left us all when we were young. He had vanished and never kept in contact. Mom, my brother, and I are enough, and we are a tight little team.
After returning to the chateau, I whip up a fancy open sandwich for Grumpy. I then make another dish, like a Spanish omelet. I add capers, pesto, and olives, plus a parmesan sauce with truffles on the side. I then leave them where I’d been asked to.
The navy-clad grump will soon realize I have real skills, even if he doesn’t like it. I walk around the inside of the chateau with the same idea.
That if I am respectful, there is no harm in exploring.
I find an indoor pool, a small cinema, a large ballroom, and an amazing art gallery-type hall.
I think it’s what some call a grand hall, but I also find a great sunroom with hanging ferns.
After pushing on, I find a grand piano in another room. It is down the side of the chateau, overlooking the rose garden.
The room has arched windows, and it is gorgeous, with old landscape paintings covering an oak wall.
Since the age of seven, Mom had taught me piano.
I’m not bad, so I sit. I know Grumpy is three stories above, and I know the house is as strong as they come. There is no way in heck he will ever hear me.
After trying out keys and realizing the piano is perfectly kept and in good shape, I center myself. I then start to play.
I was good as a young teen, but I did not want to continue all the way. I had won some competitions, but I did not think I would be the best. That was when I gave up.
After playing a few pieces I’ve always enjoyed, including Bach and some Vivaldi, I hear footsteps.
My fingers miss some of the keys, and I spin to find Grumpy.
“Oh, shit! Sorry, I…”
“No, it’s fine,” Grumpy says while watching, intrigued. He crosses his arms and watches me from the distance. “Please, continue.”
I do, even if it feels strange.
Grumpy walks around the room from afar, and he listens and observes. Although I’ve been caught out, there is nothing I can do now. I may as well enjoy it.
I also know I’m wearing more rough clothes, including a black singlet, my black jeans, and my casual white Converse. Screw it, I can play, and in the day, I played well.
Deciding to let loose, I finish the piece.
I then calm my energy and close my eyes. I undo my slightly untamed hair and shake it out. I then get into it and start the old complex classic.
As Vivaldi flies from my fingers, I start to find flow. I play with precision on the perfectly tuned piano.
I then crank it and start to really find my rhythm. I have not played in such a large room and with such a well-tuned classy piano. If not now, then when?
And if the smug bastard fires me over this, and if this is the last time we ever share space, it would be me—and only me—in control.
With my wild hair flying like a mad woman and with fingers speeding over the ebony and ivory, I work precisely through the classic.
For some reason, I am in the zone, and my hands whip up and down the keyboards, overlapping and moving with precision.
I then start on the complex finale. As I push through the final and complicated section, putting the piece to bed, I drop out of breath.
My God, I feel alive.
Really fucking alive.
Calmly, I stand and close the piano lid. I then walk towards and past him.
Grumpy is looking as grumpy and gorgeous as usual, and just when I reach the large door, he claps.
“Very, very good, and it’s nice to see it in use.”
I am unsure what to say, so I turn and bow. I also smile, feeling good.
“And thank you. The Spanish omelet was great.”
We share a look, and then he speaks again as he walks up to me. “One thing. Where on earth did you learn to play so well?”
“My mother taught, and well, she still teaches.”
Grumpy nods and looks down at me, intrigued. “You’re actually very good.”
“At?” I ask, pushing it.
The grump shakes his head, smiles, and leaves. Sighing, I tell myself to get my act together. Why do I always feel the need to push all his buttons?
But is it him? Or is it me?
Or is it us?
That night, an hour before I’m about to serve Grumpy, the bell rings, and I receive a note.
On Zoom calls tonight. Please deliver food same time. Apologies.
I flick the pen between my teeth, then I write and send back:
Your wish is my command.
I finish preparing one of my favorites. Venison with quail and an odd berry and chocolate sauce.
Again world-class.
I doubt he’s had it; it was in vogue a decade ago with Italian, LA, and London eateries for a season.
I deliver it on one of the large silver trays. It will stay warm with the silver dome over it. If he eats it around the right time, it will be warm, and it will be memorable.
After cleaning up and cooking my own simple dinner, I kick back in my temporary room, his old bedroom.
My bell then rings as I read one of the books from his bookshelf.
Rolling over the bed, I pull the weird card out.
What magic is this, Witch? That was one of the best meals I’ve ever had.
I beam proudly and feel my heart pick up.
This may work out after all. All I have to do is keep my big mouth shut and follow the rules.
I write fast, and I send it back.
That is another secret. In Europe, it’s called the Rulebreaker.
Oh, my God, what’s wrong with me?
But again, is it us?
I start to get nervous, knowing I crossed the line with the message. That is when the bell rings. Grinning like a fool, I roll over twice because the bed is so big. Snatching the message, I read.
You and your wicked delights may well be my downfall.
I hold the note and beam. I look up at the ceiling on the huge bed, feeling alive.
“Oh God,” I say, knowing this could go either way.
Amazingly, or end in tears. Deep down, I know that is how my life seems to go. I just take things all the way, and sometimes they work. Other times they crash, horrifically.
He just makes me do naughty things. And I cannot control myself around him.