"Are they seriously still messing with you after this long? You've been here for months now."
"Yes, and I can't do a damned thing about it. If I so much as put up a fuss, the teachers give me detention instead of them," I complain, the words streaming out now as I vent my frustrations at him. He sits silently, his green eyes locked to mine as he listens intently.
His gaze drifts off into the distance as I finish my rant, and I glance over my shoulder to see at Sarah and her boyfriend sitting at the far table. They're the king and queen of their own little domain, royalty among the clique of in-crowd sycophants. She bought both the salad and the pizza just as I expected, and she's barely touched either one.
"Okay, listen closely," Isaac tells me, suddenly leaning in close across the table. "Two things: first, keep your head down for now. This shit is going to stop soon, I promise. Just hang in there a little bit longer, okay?"
"How?" I ask incredulously, leaning back in my chair and putting some distance between us. The cold glint in his eye tells me he's serious, but I still don't trust him.
He shakes his head and doesn't answer, but his gaze softens and he winks at me as he gets up and packs his garbage into his bag.
"Seriously... how?" I press.
"Don't worry about it," he answers tersely, and then he adds, "I just... well, I know how to deal with people like them. Enjoy the rest of your lunch, Nina. See you tomorrow!"
"Wait!" I call after him as he heads for the door. "You said there were two things—what was the other?"
"Just that if you don't eat that goddamned cookie, I'm going to keep bringing you more until you do," he calls back, looking at me over his shoulder with a maniacal grin on his face, and then he disappears out into the hallway.
I stare back down at my tray—now empty except for the final chocolate chip cookie—and I finally give in. It tastes so good that I don't even realize that Isaac's planning to eat with me tomorrow too.
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Chapter VIII
Irene
Cassie drops me off in front of Terrence’s estate and Marcus is waiting for Nhip w
He smiles and dips his head respectfully as I finally make it over to him, and Cassie honks once and gives me a thumbs-up before driving off.
"Glad you could make it, Miss Hartley," he tells me. "Or is it Missus?"
"Um... Miss," I answer, "and you can just call me Irene, sir."
"Only if you stop calling me sir and just call me Marcus instead."
"Oh, I can’t do that," I counter. "You’re..."
"Old?" Marcus finishes my sentence for me.
Well shit. I’ve blown the interview already. That’s exactly where I was going with my remark, wasn’t I? I try just once to pay an elderly man an ounce of respect and instead call him a dinosaur. That’s so like me.
My face turns bright red and Marcus chuckles quietly.
"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Irene," he says, gesturing me toward the house. "You’re quite charming without the Rapunzel wig."
"Err... thanks," I stammer embarrassedly, nearly tripping over my own feet as I follow behind him up the path.
Leave it to me to turn into a social failure on a job interview. Why am I only a klutz at the worst possible times? I have to pull myself together; if I’m this bad right now, how am I going to handle myself when I actually see Terrence? He’s going to ask me questions for the interview, and I can just see myself standing there drooling over him. It won’t be pretty.
Watch me insult his disability by accident, I think nervously. That’d be the perfect endnote to the whole interview.
The mossy, flagstone path goes on for what feels like forever and Terrence’s estate looms larger and larger as we slowly approach. Jesus, how big is this place? It looked huge from street, but it just gets bigger and bigger with every step I take.
"The house is enormous," I whisper in awe. "Why does Mr. Radcliffe need this much space if he’s living alone?"
"Oh, there’s more here than just a house," answers Marcus. "Terrence moved here two years ago and built the laboratories for his company in the south wing. I live here as well, though none of the other scientists do."
"Any reason in particular to live here?" I ask, trying my best to keep my attention on the conversation and not on the mansion’s decadent copper rain-gutters and elaborately carved fountain.
"Because until now, I’ve been both his senior scientist and his personal assistant," he answers. "Terrence is blind, in case you don’t remember."
"Yeah, I remember. He had a bit of a habit of... well..."
Marcus finishes my sentence once again as I fumble for words.
"Invading your personal space?" he finishes, and I nod appreciatively.
"That’s a good way to put it," I say. I remember how he leaned in so close to Susan. I was actually jealous until he did it to me in the cafeteria and I reali Sa a" I sazed how uncomfortable it felt.
"You’ll get used to it," Marcus assures me. "He doesn’t mean anything by it; he just hasn’t gotten used to things yet."
I raise an eyebrow at Marcus, hoping he’s going to elaborate on his remark, but he only shrugs and goes silent for the rest of the walk to the door. No matter how nice a house Terrence has, I still don’t think anyone needs a lawn that takes a full minute to walk across.
"Irene? I have a request for you before we go inside," Marcus tells me, stopping and turning to face me.
"Sure, what is it?"
"Tell me what you see, please."
I study his face for a long time before answering, but I have no idea where he’s going with this. He’s completely unreadable to me.
"Sorry... can you explain, please? Do you mean, like, right here and now?" I ask, puzzled. "The house? Lawn?"
"Yes, please."
"Um... I see a house," I tell him, shrugging in confusion. "It’s a really big, pretty house with an enormous lawn right on the river."
I look around again, trying to see if there’s anything in particular he’s hoping I notice. The mansion’s stone façade has worn smooth over the years from the heavy coastal rains and deep green moss grows in every crack and crevice, but there’s nothing particularly unusual. The lawn is well maintained and the gardeners somehow mowed it in a way that leaves a crisscrossed diamond pattern like something out of a baseball stadium’s outfield. It’s perfectly manicured but a little over the top for a house, I think, especially set against the fountain with its marble and granite fish spitting long arcs of water from their mouths.
Where is Marcus going with this? Is this some sort of trick question?
He sighs and shakes his head before opening the door for me.
"I don’t understand what you’re asking me for," I tell him, shrugging helplessly.
"I also only see a house," he says. "I see a big, old house set on a green lawn."
"So then what..." I start to ask, but he cuts me off.
"Terrence has only been blind for five years," he whispers, "and just between you and me, he needs a personal assistant with a talent I lack. Keep that in mind when you meet him, dear."
I follow Marcus into the house and hold back a gasp of delight. The entrance foyer is brightly lit by an enormous chandelier—so large it might not even fit in my tiny bedroom—and a winding, dark wood staircase makes an enormous semi-circle around the room as it rises to the second floor. It’s stunningly beautiful, elegant, and...
...and completely unseen, I suddenly realize. Terrence has never once seen his own gorgeous estate.
Marcus leads me up the stairs, and I stop halfway up to stare at the nearly six-foot-tall oil painting of a wind-swept man with a black, scruffy beard hanging over the foyer.
"An ancestor of the estate’s former owners," explains Marcus. "He was a sea captain back when the Mystic Seaport was more than just a tourist attraction."
"He just looks so familiar," I say, squinting and trying to think of where I’ve seen him before. I swear I
’ve seen this guy before, maybe in a book somewhere Sookar," I sa.
"Were the old captain still alive, I’m sure he’d be disappointed to hear that," says Marcus, and I can’t tell if he’s making a joke at my expense or the Captain’s.
The elderly man quickens his pace, and I hurry up the stairway behind him, each step groaning loudly beneath my feet. The great hallway of the north wing feels like it goes on forever, and the floor-to-ceiling windows, as beautiful as they are with their wrought-iron inlays and subtle staining, still make me feel as if I’m in a fish tank.
Marcus slows his pace at the end, opens the door on the right and sticks his head in.
"Terrence, sir? Miss Hartley is here for the interview."
"Show her in, please," answers Terrence from inside.
His low, soft voice somehow makes my legs feel even weaker than they already were. If I get the job—and fat chance of that—can I even handle it? Just looking at him makes me feel mushy, and I’ll need to be attentive to him all day long as his assistant. It’s like the setting for a cheesy chick flick, now that I think of it. Personal assistant to a sexy blind man... all it needs now is Tom Hanks and a love triangle with my arch-nemesis.
Marcus holds the door open and I walk nervously into the room, wincing as my heels echo loudly on the marble-tiled floor with every step.
The first thing I notice is the towering ceiling with its high, decorative arches and faux-Baroque paintings of melancholy cherubs. I could go on and on describing it, but it’s just so over the top that it’s plain hideous.
The second thing I notice is the monstrous hell-beast of a dog racing toward me with its teeth bared.
Oh Jesus.
It’s so fucking big. It’s... it’s huge. It’s like something that’d make the Baskervilles’ old pet look like an asthmatic Chihuahua. I want to scream, but a tiny, nervous squeak is all that escapes my lips. It’s like I’m frozen in place as it bares its fangs and charges at me.
I’m so dead.
Just when I’m certain the monster is going to leap up and rip out my throat, it instead stops dead in its tracks before me, rolls over on its back and looks excitedly up at me with the happiest grin on its formerly slavering maw.
I’m such an absolute baby. My demon dog is a perfectly dopey German shepherd.
I start to laugh uncontrollably and sink to the floor beside the dog as my legs give out in relief. God, I feel like such an ass now.
"Hey, little sweetie," I say, finally managing to find my voice again, and the dog wriggles appreciatively as I rub its soft tummy.
"Sounds like you’ve met Columbus, my so-called seeing eye dog," calls out Terrence from his chair near the window. "I think he likes you."
"Sorry about my reaction there," I apologize, climbing to my feet and regaining my composure. Columbus hops up and follows behind me with his tongue hanging out. "I just wasn’t expecting a dog and panicked."
"No worries, Miss Hartley. Please, come sit down." says Terrence, motioning to the comfortable-looking reading chair beside him. His voice is almost mesmerizing and I’m pretty sure he could ask me to do anything right now and I’d comply. I sit beside him and the dog lies at my feet. Ss ahuahua
Terrence opens a notebook on his lap and begins to flip through it. What is he doing? Is he going to say anything? I shuffle awkwardly in my chair, bite my tongue and try to sit patiently as he scans over page after page in agonizing silence.
I can’t stand it anymore. This is ridiculous.
"Sir? May I ask what you’re doing?"
"What do you think I’m doing?" he responds, looking up from the notebook and raising an eyebrow.
"I think you’re pretending to read a notebook to see if I remember that you’re blind," I whisper.
"Almost!" he says, and then he laughs and closes the notebook. "You’re close enough. I wanted to see how long it would take you to point out that I was doing something stupid."
"Why?" I ask incredulously.
"Because as a blind man’s personal assistant, part of your job will be to stop me from killing myself from stupidity," he says with a thin-lipped smile, not quite looking in my direction. It’s just as well, really—the last thing I need is to get caught up in his beautiful green eyes again.
"Do you do a lot of stupid things?" I ask. It’d be an ill-advised question for any normal interview, but I’m starting to suspect that Terrence isn’t exactly a normal employer.
"More than you can imagine, Miss."
"Irene, please."
"More than you can imagine, Miss Irene," he repeats with a grin. "You have a wonderful voice, by the way. I heard you reading to the children at the library and might have stayed for story time if it wouldn’t have terrified the kids."
"Thanks. I used to want to be a voice actor, but—"
The dog starts ticklishly licking my ankle and I giggle and pull my leg away.
"Columbus really does like you," says Terrence with a soft smile. "I’m glad."
"That’s an odd name for a dog. Why’d you pick it?"
"Similarly to the original Columbus on his western voyages to India, my dog can’t find shit," answers Terrence. "No matter where I want to go, he inevitably finds the kitchen refrigerator. He’s a wonderful companion but the least competent guide dog ever, so instead I make Marcus take me everywhere."
I look down at Columbus to see if he protests the charges of ineptitude, but the dog only stares back at me with a stupid grin and a dangling tongue.
"Mind if I ask you some interview questions?" asks Terrence.
"Yes, sir."
"Terrence, please."
"Yes, Sir Terrence," I answer, giving him a taste of his own medicine, and he shoots me a wide grin.
"The sidewalk’s really crowded. Can you get me through the crowd and out the other side?"
"Yes," I answer. I don’t see why not.
"Can you help anticipate hazards and act as my eyes?"
"I... I think so?" I stammer. "Can you give me an example?"
"There’s a crack in the sidewalk," he answers. "About four steps ahead. Watch out."
"Oh! Okay, Sm">There&# I get it. Sure, I can do that. No problem."
He nods almost imperceptibly.
"I have one last question for you," he tells me, sounding almost nervous now. "Are you ready for it?"
I have no idea. What’s the worst thing he could ask me?
He could ask for a background check, whispers a little voice in my mind.
That’d be it—the worst thing he could ask. The check would fail to find any record of me before I turned seventeen, and then the hard questions would start. Maybe they wouldn’t, though... maybe since I was a child back then, he wouldn’t care that I magically came into existence at age seventeen or who my family was before then.
He takes a deep breath, and I brace myself for his question.
"What do you see right now?"
The world stops dead in its tracks around us as I stare into his unseeing green eyes. Why that question? Marcus asked it too when I arrived, and whatever I said was the wrong answer. He... he wanted me to know it was wrong. He was telling me something about this, about how important it was to give the right answer.
Suddenly, everything clicks. I know exactly what Marcus was missing.
"You’re sitting in an old, vintage reading chair with embroidery in a floral pattern that looks like it’s from the fifties," I start. "Behind you, the white marble floor meets a green marble edge pattern at the wall, and ornately carved white baseboards run the length of the room."
Terrence closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, listening to me as I tell him the story of the world he lives in.
"Your chair is sitting by the window, and even though it’s a gloomy, gray day outside, there’s still a glimmer of reflected sunlight coming off the Mystic River. The wind is rustling through the leaves of the tall tree—I don’t know what type, sorry—and the leaves have faded from green to a muted green-yellow as we approa
ch autumn."
I pause to figure out what I’m going to say next, and Terrence’s smile almost takes my breath away. This is what he’s been missing, isn’t it? Marcus said he’s only been blind for five years—he misses seeing things. He doesn’t just want someone to ‘be his eyes’ in the sense of a guide—he wants someone to show him the world he lost. Marcus can’t do it because all he sees is the house. He sees the object but none of its details—none of the little things that make the world so real, so interesting, and that’s what Terrence is looking for. He needs someone who can show him the world again.
Chasing Wishes Page 7
