After the Rain
Page 36
Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other in my high heels, I began to make my way to the restrooms. I had just passed the bar when I felt a firm hand on my arm.
“Eleanor?” Although it was spoken as a question, there was no doubt in the man’s voice, a voice I recognized.
I twirled around too suddenly. My head spun, and I had to strike out my hand to steady myself. I found myself gripping the sleeve of a fine gabardine jacket and looking into the dark gray eyes of my employer, Mr. Beaufain.
I blinked twice, as if I could somehow make him be somebody else. I realized I was still gripping his jacket sleeve and quickly let go. “Mr. Beaufain,” I stuttered, my tongue feeling thick. “I didn’t think you lived around here.”
His eyes were still hard, but I saw the edge of his lips soften slightly in the start of a reluctant smile. “I don’t. I had a business meeting, and I needed a drink.”
I lifted my eyebrows. Even in my not quite sober state, I couldn’t imagine anything in this neighborhood having any kind of business that would interest Mr. Beaufain.
He looked behind me toward the piano, where the stranger was anxiously shifting from one foot to the other. Speaking loudly, he called out, “I’m taking the lady home.”
My cheeks flamed. “You have no right—”
He cut me off. “You’re drunk, Eleanor. And I don’t think you should leave this bar with a stranger.”
Anger flickered to life beneath the haze of the alcohol. “How do you know he’s a stranger?”
He didn’t answer as we both listened to the front door slamming, and I realized I hadn’t even asked the man for his name.
Softly, Mr. Beaufain said, “I’ll drive you home now.”
“I have my own car,” I insisted, still too embarrassed to meet his eyes.
“You’re in no condition to drive. I’d rather make sure you get home safely than lie awake all night and wonder.”
I felt my cheeks flame again as I thought of him lying awake and thinking about me.
“But my brother-in-law will need the car in the morning,” I continued, desperate to leave this scene behind.
“What time does he leave?”
“Nine o’clock,” I replied, sure that this would be the end of it as I gave him my address. My North Charleston neighborhood wasn’t a convenient commute from his south of Broad home. I only knew for sure where he lived because Lucy had once driven me by his house on Gibbes Street. It was old and grand and so far out of my world that it might as well have been on another planet.
He lifted his BlackBerry and pushed a number, then spoke quietly into the phone. After a moment, he lowered it and regarded me with a grim smile. “Done.” He held his hand up, and I dropped my keys in his palm without hesitation. He was my boss, after all, and I was used to following his orders.
I hadn’t heard his conversation because my head and stomach had begun to churn in opposing directions. “Excuse me,” I said. I quickly walked past him and went to the restroom, where I promptly emptied the three drinks of scotch into the toilet. After rinsing my mouth and splashing cold water onto my face, I felt marginally better. I stared at the woman in the dirty mirror, at the spots where the backing had begun to flake off, creating holes in her face. But it seemed like it was my true reflection, the only honest assessment of what I looked like from the inside.
Mr. Beaufain’s black Mercedes was parked at the curb, and the thick scent of leather wafted out as he opened the door to let me into the passenger side. I put on my seat belt, then sat with all of my limbs locked and my hands clutching my purse on my lap. I felt like one of the old women on my bus who feared a mugging from every stranger.
“Here,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket and reaching to place it over my shoulders. The car’s air-conditioning cut through the humidity like a cold knife, giving me goose bumps, but I felt sure that his jacket wasn’t to keep me warm.
I clasped the lapels together, grateful, but still acutely embarrassed. “Thank you,” I said as he started the car and pulled out into the deserted road. I stole glances at him in the passing flicker of streetlights and noticed a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t normally there, and I remembered what he’d said about having business in the area and how he’d needed a drink. Feeling a need to fill the silence, I said, “I’ve never seen you at Pete’s before.”
He didn’t answer right away. “I’ve never been. I was doing a favor for a family member—and I was supposed to meet somebody at the bar.” I felt his gaze on me. “How odd that I’d find you there.”
I blushed again, glad for the concealing night. “I go there sometimes to play. Pete gives me fifty dollars an hour under the table plus tips.” I wanted to slap my hand over my mouth. I didn’t want to remind him of the humiliating scene he’d witnessed.
Mr. Beaufain was silent for a long moment. “I didn’t know you played the piano, Eleanor. You’re very good.”
I stared at him, his strong profile outlined against the side window. Although I’d worked at his firm for over two years and he signed my paychecks, I hadn’t expected him to know more than my name and that I was always available for overtime. Or that I had a sick sister and had to sometimes come in late or leave early but I always made up the time. It surprised me that he’d expected to perhaps know more.
I looked back at my fingers, which were still clutching my purse. “My father taught me when I was little. He wanted me to go to Julliard.” I wasn’t sure why I’d told him this, as if the darkness had somehow transformed the inside of the car into a confessional.
He didn’t say anything. I wondered if it was because he knew what childhood dreams were, knew how easily they disappeared as the realities of getting older crept up like a tidal surge, stealing everything in its retreat back to the sea.
“It’s never too late, you know. To become what you want to be. My daughter tells me that all the time.” His cheek creased slightly as if he were trying to remember how to smile. I’d never met his daughter or even seen her, but Lucy had told me that she’d been very sick as a baby and lived with Mr. Beaufain and not her mother. I’d never thought to wonder why.
“What does your father say now?” he asked.
His question caught me by surprise. “He drowned. When I was thirteen.” I turned away from him, feeling the sting in my eyes and the spray of salt water as I remembered sitting on the pier and waiting and waiting, even after the storm became so bad that the sheriff had to carry me to his car. “I stopped playing after that. And then Mama sold the piano . . . later.”
I didn’t continue, the memory too painful even in the plush confines and dark anonymity of a confessional.
“I’m sorry,” he said, pulling up to a red light with his left blinker flashing. His voice seemed deeper in those two words, as if he understood the weight of grief, the years like strands of yarn that wound around themselves tighter and tighter until it was impossible to find where they’d begun.
“It was a long time ago,” I said quietly. I smelled his jacket and the clinging scent of his cologne and felt oddly comforted by it. A plaid hair ribbon lay in the console between us, reminding me of what he’d said about his daughter.
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
His face softened in the dim light, making him appear younger than he was, and I realized that seeing him now like this, away from the office, made me notice how handsome he was, how his eyes betrayed his emotions if one looked close enough.
He gave me a half smile that I was beginning to recognize. “Her mother named her Genevieve, but I usually call her Peanut.”
A chuckle erupted from the back of my throat before I could call it back. There was something sweet about this serious man in the black suit calling his daughter Peanut.
“What’s so funny?” He didn’t sound offended.
He slid the car up to the curb in front of my house, and I wondered at the stab of disappointment in the pit of my stomach. I stared down at my hands, embarrassed a
gain. “My father called me Ellie. He was the only one. Everybody else calls me Eleanor.”
“Ah,” he said, and I knew he understood.
He made a move to open his car door, but I stopped him.
“That’s not necessary. I’m fine from here.”
It looked like he might argue, so I quickly opened my door and stepped out into the muggy night air, my head surprisingly clear. I leaned down into the car. “Thank you, Mr. Beaufain. I really do appreciate the ride, although it wasn’t necessary. You’ve got a long drive back to Charleston.”
“I’m glad I was there.” He smiled softly. “My name is Finn, by the way.” His face was serious suddenly. “I was wondering . . .” He stopped as if measuring his words, then said, “Do I pay you enough?”
It took me a moment for his question to register. “Yes. Of course,” I stammered.
He shook his head slightly. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out the way I intended. I suppose I wanted to ask you if you’d be interested in some extra work. Different from what you’re doing now, and just a few hours a day. But I’d pay you well.”
The thought of never having to go back to Pete’s Bar brought back my light-headedness. “What kind of work?”
His gray eyes were contemplative under the domed light. “I don’t really have a job description yet, but it would be as sort of a companion to an elderly lady—my great-aunt. She’s in the hospital now, but will be coming home in the next week.” He spoke a little faster, as if he needed to work harder to sell me on the idea. “She has a large house on Edisto Island that she won’t leave, and I don’t like her being there by herself all day long.”
Something warm and soft like hope fluttered in my chest, then just as quickly died. “I would have no way to get there and back.”
“I can provide transportation.” He said it suddenly, as if he’d just made up his mind.
I stepped back from the car, imagining I could smell the wet scent of the ocean. “I grew up on Edisto. I might know your great-aunt.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “It’s late. You should go inside. We can talk about this tomorrow.”
I felt unsettled under his gaze. “Yes,” I said. “I’d like that. Good night, Mr. Beau . . .” My voice trailed away. I felt odd calling him by his first name, but it seemed just as strange calling him by his formal name now, too. So instead I let the silence fall between us.
“Good night, Eleanor. I’ll see you in the morning. And don’t worry about your car—it’ll be here.”
“Thanks again,” I said, then turned and hurried up the peeling porch steps, suddenly aware of how shabby our house must appear to him, and grateful once again for the darkness, which hid from sight all the things best kept hidden.
I felt him watching me as I turned the key in the lock and let myself in, not looking back as I closed the door. I listened as the soft hum of the engine disappeared down the street, hearing, too, the sound of quiet footsteps above me and then the creak of bedsprings.
I inhaled deeply, smelling the stale scent of fried chicken and the faint, expensive cologne that clung to the jacket I’d forgotten to give back. I pulled it closer around my neck as I switched off the hall lamp and made my way up the stairs.
Far away the sound of distant thunder rumbled in the sky, and I stared out the darkened window of my bedroom, feeling the storm brewing. For the first time in a long while, I thought of my childhood home and the sound of the wind blowing from the ocean to tease the house’s eaves and make them sing the mermaid’s songs. My father had taught me that so I’d never be afraid of storms. And until the day he’d died, I’d believed him.
Knowing I wouldn’t sleep, I sat down on the bed, keeping the jacket on my shoulders, and allowed myself to think of possibilities while I waited for the rain to come.
Table of Contents
Praise
Also By
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Author
Conversation Guide
Questions for Discussion
Preview of The Time Between