FS-S1-Kobo

by S. K. Falls

  As the Volvo lurched in a stomach-twisting way, I wondered how the people who worked up there got to town and back every day without totally destroying their cars. It might be better for me to start bringing my old bike if I got the job, assuming Mom had kept it.

  Finally the path cleared a bit and I realized I wasn't driving up anymore but straight. This must be the top of the hill, the plateau that used to be covered in trees. Now there was an enormous set of wrought iron gates that stood open. Past them was an expanse of lawn, lined with a black wrought iron fence.

  I drove toward the mansion at the north end of the lawn, which looked like something off of a movie set. Three stories tall and made of velvety grayish-brown stone, it had windows that sparkled in the sunlight and were at least three times the size of the windows in my mom's house. There was a rounded tower-like addition to the left, and the upper right corner was outfitted with a spacious balcony.

  I got out of the car and stood with my head tipped back, looking at the grandiosity of it. They'd cleared many of the trees and bushes away from the perimeter of the house so it looked like it could belong virtually anywhere—from eighteenth century England to modern-day Beverly Hills. Timeless.

  Hearing the massive front door open, I scurried up the stone stairs. It wouldn’t do for my employer to see me standing there, mouth agape at all the splendor around me.

  A wizened old man stood in the doorway smiling. He wore an old-fashioned black-and-white suit like I'd seen butlers wear in old movies and his white hair was long and wavy, like noble men wore in the old days. It was almost as if he were in costume.

  "Ms. Beaumont, I presume?" he asked in a thick French accent, holding out a white-gloved hand.

  "Yes." I smiled and shook his hand, which was extremely warm even through the fabric of the glove. When I’d made the appointment online, I'd assumed I'd be speaking with an impeccably dressed young assistant, the kind companies hired to portray themselves as cutting-edge and trendy. Yet, this man seemed to belong in some other time.

  "I'm Oscar Dubois." He walked in and I followed.

  The floor in the entry foyer was all dark gray marble. A large circular table dominated the center; on it was an even larger display of cascading white flowers. There was an enormous spiral stairway beyond the table, and the stairs were covered in thick, luxuriant cream carpet. Whatever sort of outfit this was, they clearly had money, and lots of it. The eighty-grand salary was becoming easier to understand.

  When we’d ascended to the second floor, Oscar led me down a long hallway and finally into a large office, lined with bookcases. The wall behind the desk was all windows, and they looked over the wooded path I'd just driven through. My cheeks flashed red as I realized that Oscar would’ve been able to see me creeping up through the vegetation, my poor car stuttering and heaving while it struggled with the altitude. That meant he'd likely seen me ogling the house as well, since he had a clear view of the driveway. So much for poise and professionalism.

  "Please sit." He gestured to a sleek chair across from the desk, and I complied. To my surprise, rather than behind the desk, he sat in the chair opposite me, so we were both on the same side. "Now, tell me, why do you wish to work here?"

  This being a classic interview question, I'd given it much thought. But it was hard to answer honestly when I had no idea what Dax Allard Enterprises specialized in or what a “philanthropic liaison” was, exactly. So I decided to be semi-honest. I held his light, silver-blue eyes. "Well, I just graduated from the University of Chicago. I wanted to come back home to be close to my mom—her health isn't the best.” My eyes drifted away at the lie, but I forced them back to his. “And I was looking for a fresh challenge. I wanted something that’d use some of my college-acquired skills, and none of the minimum wage jobs out there really seemed like they'd do that."

  Oscar Dubois smiled. "You must believe me when I say you'll be amply challenged here. This is not a position we take lightly."

  I tried to nod intelligently, but then I figured it was better to just ask. "Mr. Dubois, I'm sorry, but I’m not sure what the position entails. What would I be doing, precisely?"

  "You would be our connection to the outside world," Oscar said, spreading his arms out. "You'd be the link representing Dax Allard."

  "Representing Dax Allard Enterprises in what way?" I still wasn't catching on.

  "Well, many charities Mr. Allard contributes to request his involvement on a deeper level than he has the time or the inclination for. You see, Mr. Allard...well, he's not the most social person, shall we say? That's where you'd come in." He held my gaze, and there seemed to be a question in his eyes, maybe wondering if this was something someone like me—young, inexperienced—could handle. No doubt the amount of the donations, if this place was anything to judge by, would be astronomical. I’d probably be rubbing elbows with some very influential people.

  I hadn't realized that Dax Allard was a person, but of course, it made sense now. A thought occurred to me. "Is this"—I gestured around the office—"Mr. Allard's house?"

  Oscar's brow wrinkled. "Why, yes, it is. Why do you ask?"

  I shook my head and tried not to laugh. "I thought it was an office building. This sort of house isn't exactly common in Eden." Or in North America.

  Oscar chuckled and changed the subject. "Mr. Allard is rather generous with his funds, which is why we need someone to manage his philanthropic interests. He doesn't have the"—here he cleared his throat delicately—"requisite characteristics to meet with chair people, manage boards, and do the miscellaneous other social activities they'd like him to. You would manage his social calendar, see which events he can bypass and which he must absolutely go to."

  I felt the beginnings of doubt begin to creep around in the recesses of my brain at the way he kept stressing that Dax Allard wasn’t social. But I needed this job. And if I could deal with my roommate’s mood swings for four years, I could deal with some man's too. I had to. "I see. Well, I think I'd be up to the task."

  Oscar smiled and stood. “I shall return momentarily.”

  I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk, looking out at the woods for several minutes. There was another storm blowing in, the clouds rolling and rumbling like boiling water in a pot. This last thought had just crossed my mind when the atmosphere in the quiet room changed completely.

  I felt his presence behind me even though he was silent as a jaguar stalking its prey. Swinging around, my heart racing for reasons I didn’t understand—it certainly wasn’t fear—I came face-to-face with him for the first time.

  Invisible electricity crackled through the air in the five feet of space between us. I knew in my gut that if I crossed the room and grabbed his arm—his quite nicely muscled arm, my brain noted—the current between us would be strong enough to kill me.

  But the look on his face… It was an expression I'd never seen on anyone else's face, ever. His eyes were wide, but was it surprise? Alarm? Hostility? I might even have mistaken it for fear, but what did a man well over six feet tall have to fear of a skinny chick like me? The idea was laughable. And yet his lightly-shadowed jaw was clenched so tight, a thick vein in his neck stood out.

  Letting my eyes run over him, I noticed that his entire posture was conflicted—on the one hand he seemed to be leaning forward, as if to take in all of me, but on the other, his feet were rooted firmly to the spot, as if he didn't dare take another step.

  Well, he might be conflicted, but I wasn’t. Everything about this man seemed to draw me in instantly; his height, his broad shoulders, the way his shirt hugged what was sure to be a well-sculpted body. Even his tousled hair, so dark it was almost black, appealed to me on the basest level. I’d never felt an attraction like it.

  A sigh worked its way past my lips. It seemed to break the spell on Dax Allard. He cleared his throat, averted his eyes from me, and, walking as closely to the bookshelf-lined walls as possible, entered another foot into the room so that we were within speaking di
stance.

  It seemed to me from simply looking at him—his crisp collared shirt, the clearly expensive beige pants, the shoes that probably cost more than my mom’s monthly mortgage—that he was used to doing things his way, the way he liked. But somehow, he looked flustered now. I wondered if I'd done something to offend him, because he continued to fiddle with his cufflinks and refused to meet my eye.

  "Miss Beaumont," he began. His voice was deeper than I'd imagined, a little bit like sandpaper would be if it was a sound. It was still beautiful in the way a particularly gorgeous piece of rock can be art. He had a French accent just like Oscar, but his was mixed in with an American one, enough so that it was barely a hint.

  "Mr. Allard," I replied, when he didn't go on. His gaze landed on mine then, that look of alarm or surprise or anger in it again. Now that he was closer, I noticed his eyes were a strange color I'd never seen before—a sort of coppery red-brown.

  He looked away again, but he still didn't stop fidgeting. "I'm afraid...I'm afraid Oscar made a mistake. The position—it's already been filled."

  I was so absorbed in the way this confident man's voice hid just a hint of a tremble that it took me a full five seconds to comprehend what he'd said. When I did, my face drained of color. "What? But—"

  He shook his head and, to my intense irritation, began to make his way back toward the door. "Sorry."

  I could feel anger turning my cheeks bright pink. "Wait a minute," I called to his back. "This—This isn't fair!"

  He half-turned toward me, his face rigid, eyes blazing. I could've sworn the room actually got about ten degrees warmer. "Hasn't anyone told you, Miss Beaumont?" he said. "Life's not fair."

  And then he stalked out of the room. I stared after him stupidly, my eyes welling up. That was it? The position had been filled and they'd forgotten? If I was a more forceful person, I'd run out there and demand an explanation. I'd demand that they pay for my gas and any trouble my car would have from the stupid drive up the stupid hill. I'd ask them to compensate for time lost. But me being me, I simply sank into the chair, closed my eyes tight, and let the tears trickle out from between my lashes.

  After a moment, I felt a brief warm touch on my shoulder. I jumped and turned, expecting to see Dax Allard back, come to apologize. But it was Oscar, his eyes kind and soft, sympathetic.

  "My deepest apologies, Ms. Beaumont," he said, shaking his head slowly. "I know this has been a waste of your time."

  I stood, forcing my tears back. "I don’t understand. What…was it something I said?"

  Oscar heaved a big sigh, as if he was just as sorry as me. "Not at all. You mustn’t think that.” He scrutinized my face, as if he was trying to decide something. "You would have been a good fit here, I do think. I have a sense about people."

  Desperation began to churn inside me. If I didn’t have this job, I had nothing. Would I have to stay on in Eden, work at the diner with my mother? "Then please, can't you reconsider? I promise I can prove myself to you. I work hard, I'm young and adaptable. Does the other applicant have a college degree?" I was willing to bet not, since I was only a handful of people in Eden who did.

  But Oscar folded his white-gloved hands neatly. "Alas, it is not up to me. If it were, you would be my choice."

  We stared at each other a long moment, and I could see he meant what he said. The choice hadn't been made by him, but by his boss, Dax Allard. And in that moment, I knew instantly that there wasn't another candidate. What was it about me that had revolted Dax Allard so much that he decided, on sight, that he didn't want me working for him? Was he some kind of misogynist? But surely, if he was, they wouldn’t have approved my initial application.

  Sighing, I followed Oscar back to the front door. I knew I'd continue to torture myself with these questions—questions I had no hope of ever having answered.

  "I wish you well, Ms. Beaumont," Oscar said, just before I stepped outside. "And once again, I extend my heartfelt apologies."

  "Thanks," I said, panic beginning its siren call in my head. My only job prospect had disintegrated right before me. What was I going to do?

  I went down the front steps and tilted my head back toward the sky. The storm was almost upon us.

  It got darker as I drove home, although I hadn't thought it possible. With the trees clasping their hands over me, what little gray light the sky gave off was almost completely obscured. The bushes and other vegetation just looked like black shadows on the side of the narrow road. I turned on the headlights, thanking my luck the downward journey would be easier on my old clunker than the drive up. As I bobbed along, the tires kicking out dirt and small pebbles, water drops began to splatter on the windshield. A sudden white flash leached everything of color and turned my surroundings bright for a split second.

  Lightning.

  I blinked and squinted, and that’s when I saw it: Two bright red orbs hidden in the bushes. They might’ve been an animals’ eyes, except the orbs were large, each almost as big as my fist. My heart leaped into my throat, my palms got instantly sweaty, and every hair on my arms stood up as the thrill of fear ran through me. But then I sped right past and the vision was gone.

  The rain began to fall harder. I turned the windshield wipers to a faster setting and almost simultaneously, my car lurched. The sound of metal screeching against metal pierced my eardrums.

  "No," I whispered, tightening my fists around the steering wheel as if that would help somehow. "No, no. Come on, sugar. Just a little bit more and we'll be home."

  The car responded by lurching again, twice, and then shuddering violently before coming to a complete stop.

  "No!" My voice rang out in the sudden quiet, the only other sound the drizzling rain. I turned the key in the ignition, but the old Volvo sputtered and wouldn’t turn on. It sat there on the slope, refusing to go farther. Slamming my palm against the horn, I lay my head on the steering wheel and tried to swallow away the lump in my throat.

  In the thrumming rhythm of the rain, I began to whisper some Langston Hughes poetry.

  Hold fast to dreams

  For if dreams die

  Life is a broken-winged bird

  That cannot fly.

  Hold fast to dreams

  For when dreams go

  Life is a barren field

  Frozen with snow.

  I felt better instantly. Some people bought self-help books; others recited bible passages. I had poetry: a poem for every mood, every mishap, every single major event in life.

  When I was sure I wasn't going to cry, I pulled the hood of my coat over my head and opened the car door. The rain intensified, falling faster through the canopy of trees. I figured I should walk home since I was probably closer to my house now than I was to Dax Allard's. And anyway, I had a feeling I wouldn’t be welcomed back there, car trouble or not.

  Grabbing the flashlight from the glove compartment, I slammed my door and began to walk, keeping to the side of the road in case there were any oncoming cars. Briefly I recalled the two eyes I imagined I’d seen, but then quickly dismissed the thought. If I dwelled on that, I'd start freaking about the charred animals, and that was just a bad path to go down. A fertile imagination could be hazardous in the wrong situations.

  To keep my head away from unwanted thoughts, I began to count my steps instead, keeping time with the drumming rain overhead.

  ...thirteen, fourt—

  Crunch. Shuffle. Snap.

  The sounds were to my right and behind me, somewhere in the dense vegetation. I paused for a microsecond, but then forced myself to keep walking. It was probably just some small creature, like a possum or a—

  Crunch. Snap. Snap. Snap.

  The sounds were keeping pace with my footsteps.

  Come on, Cara. You're not some weakling. Swing your flashlight around and check what it is.

  I took a deep breath and swung around quickly. If it was a person, they wouldn't have time to hang back or duck out of view. But all I saw were bushes, fronds, and tree tr
unks. The rain continued to pelt down on the hood of my jacket, dripping onto my face in cold rivulets. "Hello?"

  But there was no answer. No crunching either. Everything was silent and still. Too still.

  I turned back around and picked up the pace. Not too much longer till the bottom of the hill. Maybe if I ran...

  But the next thing I knew I was flying through the air, my flashlight ripped out of my hands, rain and wind slapping me in the face.

  I landed on my stomach and all the air rushed out of my lungs. For a full five seconds, all I did was gasp, trying to get my bearings as spots floated in my vision. I could see the beam of the flashlight about ten feet away, and I knew I had to get my hands on it if I had any chance of surviving this. Flipping over to my back to face my attacker, I began to backpedal.

  It was hard to see what was standing before me because of how dark it was. I could make out a giant shape, and even in the gloom, I could tell it was clearly not human. The thing before me was on four legs, its crimson eyes still glowing as they had when I’d seen it earlier. An animal? By the size of it, it couldn't be a wolf or a dog—it was just too big, maybe the size of a large pony.

  My hand closed over the cold shaft of the flashlight just as another streak of lightning split the sky. The creature before me was clear to see for just a fraction of a second—and in that second, I questioned my sanity.

  The thing was a large dog or dog-like creature of some kind. But it was easily several hundred pounds. Its face was lean and mean, sort of like a Doberman, with pointed ears. It was completely black, though, with no tan markings at all. The eyes were huge, far too huge for its face, and an eerie red that glowed as if it was lit from the inside. Folded against its sides, accordion-style, were big, leathery flaps of skin that, if I didn't know better, I'd say looked like wings.