Chapter 11
eleven
. . .
peony
“Fuck you, Mr. Edgewood,” I mutter to myself as I return to my room, slamming the door closed behind me. Tears still hang heavy in my eyes, and I blink and rub my face to get rid of them. I don’t need to be crying over that asshole. He doesn’t deserve it.
I take both books he lent me and throw them out into the hall, causing the pages to crumple and bend. Then I snatch up the pajamas and shove them into the garbage can.
It’s pointless and stupid, but it helps me vent some of the fury in my heart so all that’s left is regret. Regret that I ever saw Mr. Edgewood last night in the kitchen and reacted the way I did. Regret that I bothered to try to please him.
I’m pathetic, and all for a man I’ve never properly met. Or rather, a monster.
It may only be eight o’clock, but I don’t care. I crawl into bed and bury my head under the covers, angry and embarrassed.
I shouldn’t have thrown a fit in front of Kellen. I know it’ll get back to Mr. Edgewood that he got under my skin.
Eventually, it all fades into a sort of emptiness, a hollow feeling in my belly.
The first thing Andy did was isolate me from my friends. He alienated them one at a time until they wouldn’t even call me anymore. Then he chipped away at Dad, until Dad wanted nothing to do with me, either.
I never got to belong. Even when I tried to make friends around the trailer park, Andy scared them off. Only the mechanic and his wife Mandy stayed friends with us, but that’s because Andy owed them money.
I didn’t realize then that he wanted me to have no connections, nothing to anchor me so he could bind me to him completely. So I could never fight back.
Yesterday, I had started to feel like I belonged here, like maybe I had forged some new roots after Andy. I felt like myself, playing with ingredients and techniques, testing and combining flavors, ready to watch someone enjoy it like my chef heart craved.
But that was silly, immensely silly, on my part. I will never belong here.
The next morning, I wake up before dawn because I went to bed so early and get right to putting on my work clothes. There’s one thing I know how to do and do well, and it’s work. This is how I’ll distract myself from the miserable ache in my chest.
I start on the bottom floor of the east wing, which houses the utility room, laundry room, and a great big storage space. This will take me most of the day to clean, given that it’s actually all in use.
First, I clear off all the shelves and clean them, then swipe the dust off every bottle of cleaner and chemical.
Next is the floor, it takes a good hour just to get the concrete clean again.
Then I work my way around the corners, scraping off every cobweb and spraying the spider repellent I found in a box.
That’s when I realize it’s lunchtime. Grumbling, I abandon my project and head back to the kitchen.
Fine. If Mr. Edgewood doesn’t appreciate my cooking, why bother?
I grab a loaf of bread and slap mayo on one side, then fold up some deli ham and deli cheese that I think Kellen keeps for himself.
I squeeze them between two pieces of slathered bread and hurl the sandwich onto a plate.
When Kellen arrives, he gives the meal I’ve assembled for Mr. Edgewood a sidelong glance.
“Is that for him?”
I just nod. With a thoughtful hmm but no objection, he takes the plate away. Then I make a simple salad for myself and devour it, following it up with a protein shake I find in the pantry.
Before I can go back to work, Kellen appears with the empty plate.
“Thought you might want to see this,” he says, setting it down in front of me. On the plate is a note.
Please accept my deepest apologies, Ms. Austin. I should have attended your dinner last night. It was a mistake, and I hope that you’ll forgive me.
-R
I crumple up the note and toss it in the trash without a second look.
I don’t need his apologies. I don’t care anymore, not about cooking for Mr. Edgewood, not about impressing him. If I don’t care about what he thinks, he can’t hurt me again.
Kellen watches me go, saying nothing.
I spend the rest of the day finishing up in the utility room and then tackling the laundry room, funneling everything out through the sponge. Maybe I can send ham sandwiches up the stairs, but I have to do my job. I can’t truly give him a reason to let me go.
I work until I’m a sweating mess, then head back to the kitchen to prepare dinner.
Two slices of bread. A big dollop of mayo that I don’t bother to spread around. A piece of ham and a piece of cheese, all of it slapped onto a plate.
Kellen studies me, then takes it away without a word.
I make myself something a little nicer for dinner, but just enough that I get the nutrients I need, and set some aside for Kellen, too.
When the plate returns, there’s yet another note.
The ham was divine. The American cheese, a note of mastery. Thank you.
-R
So now he thinks being funny will work. I throw the note away, wash the plate, and head out of the kitchen.
“He is very sorry,” Kellen says behind me. I pause at the doorway, but don’t turn around. “Most morose, if I’m to be honest.”
“What am I supposed to do with that?” I ask, clenching my hands into fists. “Why do I have to care about his feelings when he cared nothing for mine?”
Kellen’s mouth opens to speak, but then he closes it again, as if reconsidering.
“You are right.” He tips his head, offering me a faint smile. “Action over words.”
Exactly. I nod in agreement, then stride out.
rupert
Ham sandwiches.
It is, I must admit, a rather brilliant and exquisitely painful way to punish someone. The bread is plain white, the kind that tastes like sugar and baking soda, and the ham is little more than bulk-processed bologna. To call it ham is an insult to hams everywhere.
And worst of all, not a spread of butter to be seen.
Kellen is forced to admit that Ms. Austin is using his ingredients, which I rake him over the coals for even bringing into my home.
“I have already apologized to her,” I growl, stomping around my rooms while Kellen watches from the doorway. “What more does she want from me?”
“Perhaps she wants nothing from you.”
I glare at him over my shoulder. “That’s not an acceptable answer. There must be something.”
Kellen shrugs. “She is hurt. Who knows how long you’ll pay for it? Perhaps forever.”
“Forever?!” I thunder. “She can’t do that. I’m… I’m her employer!”
“Saying that will surely improve your case,” Kellen says dryly.
I want to smash my fist through the coffee table, but I know that won’t help, either. The coffee table isn’t the one making me ham sandwiches and ignoring my apologies.
I grit my teeth and snarl again, storming across the room. There must be some solution for this, some way to express to her just how much I regret missing her dinner. It was my opportunity to meet her properly, and we could have had a lovely conversation while she showed me her skill and technique.
I slow down at the window, resting my forehead against the cold glass. I’ve kept the curtains open ever since Ms. Austin cleaned my rooms. The sunlight gives me a headache, but I realized that it’s because I don’t get enough the rest of the time.
“Rupert,” comes Kellen’s gentle voice from behind me. “Do you care about Ms. Austin?”
I turn and squint at him. “Of course I do. Her well-being has become quite important to me.”
He nods, as if this answer isn’t surprising in the least. “Then you will figure out the right thing to do. If you want what’s best for her, if you truly care about her, you’ll know.”
Those words, while sounding very wise, still inspire no answers.
“I will add,” Kellen says as he heads for the door, “that Ms. Austin is working harder than ever at her job. I found her up at six this morning, already at it. She still is now, I believe.”
I peer out the window again. The light has long faded, now only a hazy shadow on the horizon.
“She is afraid I’ll fire her.” I shake my head and sigh at the realization. “She will do her small part to rebel, but ultimately, she is afraid. What happened to her, do you know?”
Kellen shakes his head. “I don’t. She has told me some things about her life, her career, but not why she was sleeping in her car. I think that whatever transpired, it’s a private and tender subject for her.”
Perhaps she is a wounded soul, too. I shouldn’t have been so callous with her.
What can I do to possibly fix this?
The rest of the week passes much the same, and I eat many, many ham sandwiches. I am frustrated, yes, but I can’t be arsed to go downstairs and cook something for myself.
Is she daring me? Trying to lure me out? Or simply putting me in my place? I wish I knew. Instead, all I can do is stew in my misery and self-loathing. This could have been prevented if I had just gone to her dinner.
Sleep eludes me. I go on late-night hunts, venting all my frustration through my teeth and claws. But it doesn’t bring me any solace, nor does it calm my soul.
All I wanted was to meet her, to know her, and I might have lost that chance forever.
I continue to write her a note with every plate, hoping she might respond.
A delectable feast for the taste buds. Wonder Bread truly does make the world a better place.
I know you are peeved with me, Ms. Austin, but I hope we can discuss it.
I would like you to take the day off, and please, stop working by six p.m. or Kellen will have a word with you.
This last missive she seems to understand, and the following morning, Kellen reports that Ms. Austin has not come to fetch her cleaning equipment.
Good.
It is that afternoon when I spot her leaving the house into the chilly afternoon.
Even though it’s sunny, the breeze is blowing briskly and throwing fallen leaves all about.
She wraps her cardigan tighter around herself as she takes a leisurely walk through the gardens, stopping occasionally to admire a flower or a bee.
I watch her, riveted, as she makes her way around the koi pond and over the bridge, then takes the path away from the house.
She looks cold, but persistent. I get the sense that persistent is a lot of what she is.
As Ms. Austin disappears into the trees, I call up Kellen immediately, and we look together through a clothing mag for what I would like to buy for her.
He says he can have it overnighted, so I choose a solid green coat with a fur-trimmed hood that I think will look good with her dark hair and eyes. Then he makes the call.
I hope she doesn’t think I am trying to buy her affection. I simply want her to be warm and happy and able to walk the grounds without her teeth chattering.
And perhaps I can include something with the gift.