by Sweet
"Milk is fine," said Ashley, removing a glass bottle from the fridge. Everything about this house seemed from another era, she mused, pouring milk from a bottle that looked like it could have been delivered to the front door by a man in a white outfit with a matching cap.
"How was your meeting with Mr. Lang?" asked the housekeeper.
"Quick," she said. "He didn't say all that much, and then he was off to get started on his work. Something about exercise getting his brain fired up."
"Yep, that'll be Mr. Lang for you. The man's a sweetheart, he really is, but when it comes to his writing work, he's got the social graces of a buffalo."
"Does he always work through dinner like he did last night?" asked Ashley. She'd eaten hers alone in the kitchen while Helene did some late-season work in the garden.
"A lot of the time, yes. It's hard to tell with him. He'll go for months with me having to bring his supper to his office, and then suddenly he's here at the table for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day for a week. If there's one thing I've learned to expect from our Mr. Lang, it's never to know what to expect."
"That makes absolutely no sense," said Ashley, giggling a little at the idea of working for such a character.
"Mr. Lang makes his own sort of sense, and the way I see it, it's not for me to understand what's going on in his head. I just cook and clean, and I do what I can to try to make him happy."
"Does he go out very often?" asked Ashley, unsure of whether or not she was crossing into overly familiar territory. There was something about the way Helene had said it, but she seemed to be hinting that Anthony Lang wasn't as content as a best-selling author should be.
The old housekeeper's shoulders sagged a little. She frowned and leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms in front of her. "Unfortunately, he rarely goes out anymore. He used to at first, but it's difficult for him out there. You notice how he moves about the place like he can see just fine? It's not like that outside, and I think he sees it as a type of weakness. Damn shame if you ask me."
"What about guests? Surely he must have friends over all the time. Other writers maybe?"
"Nope, hardly ever." Helene straightened up and resumed wiping down the counters. "That's why I'm glad to have you here. Mr. Lang was having all his transcribing done by some company over in who knows where, and it's been just the two of us in the house since I came. Having another person in the place sure will do a lot to brighten things up."
Ashley sipped her coffee and tried to reconcile the energetic and confident man she'd met the previous day with the man his housekeeper was describing. It was beginning to look like there was a lot more to her boss than she could have imagined. His storytelling style was so bold and confident that she'd assumed he'd be a positive and outgoing person, but now it was becoming evident that he was something of a recluse. She was here to do a specific job, and she didn't want to risk it by acting inappropriately, but Anthony Lang deserved better than to be hiding away in this house with nothing but writing to keep him happy. She was going to help him get over whatever had turned him into a man who felt he needed to hide from the world.
She didn't know how she was going to do it, but she couldn't sit idly by while he lived out his days in relative isolation, not after everything he'd done for his country and definitely not after everything his books and stories had done to influence her own decision to become a writer.
Chapter Four
SEVERAL DAYS PASSED, AND Ashley fell into a simple rhythm of transcribing the audio recordings before taking a break and working on her own project. Lang composed and dictated into his recorder for a fair number of hours each day, but his total output was typically reduced to a morning's careful transcription. Much of writing involved knowing where a story was going, and she was beginning to recognize just how much Anthony Lang made things up as he went along. She herself was more of an outliner. She wanted to know the full arc of her story before starting the writing, but each day she could tell that his recordings contained the words of a man discovering the story as he told it. It was amazing how clean the work was in these first drafts; it was almost as though he thought each sentence over in his head several times before speaking it out loud.
Some days Ashley ate dinner alone in her room; other times she shared a meal with Helene in the kitchen. After nearly a week of slipping comfortably into a working routine, she was confused when she came down one day to see if she could help the housekeeper with dinner and saw that two places had been set in the dining room.
"Mr. Lang asked that you dine with him tonight," said Helene, entering with a bottle of wine and two glasses. "Didn't I tell you this at lunch?"
"No, you didn't tell me," said Ashley. She could have easily been irritated by Helene's forgetfulness, but the woman was so kind and likable that it was difficult for her to hold this sort of thing against her.
"Must have slipped my mind," said the woman on her way back to the kitchen.
"Is that a bourguignon I smell, my dear Helene?" asked Anthony as he entered the dining room.
"You know it," came the reply from the other room. "Sit yourselves down and pour some wine already."
"I'll get it," said Ashley, reaching for the bottle.
"So how have you been finding the work?" asked Anthony.
"Quite enjoyable, actually," she replied. "You speak so clearly and it's very easy to transcribe. I have to admit to feeling I'm being let in on a secret as the first person to hear your new story as you write it."
"We're only at the beginning now," he said. "Just wait until we get past the halfway point. I always struggle with my characters around this time, and it's nearly impossible for me to not want to go back to the beginning and tear everything apart."
His hand slid along the table, his fingertips skimming the surface delicately until they found the base of the wine glass. Ashley was impressed with how agile he was around something like a delicate wine glass. What little she knew about people who weren't born blind led her to believe that it took years of dedicated practice to adjust to a life without sight.
"I've never been one to shy away from a challenge," she said. She sipped her own wine and watched him. He was smiling and seemed perfectly amiable, not at all like the dour hermit Helene had made him out to be.
"No, I don't doubt that for a second. My years of service have taught me how to take the measure of a person, and I knew you'd be the right one for the job. I've written my last five books by recording the narratives and having them sent off to be turned into text, but I've never been fully happy with how they turned out. There's just something missing in the process, and after reviewing the work you've done so far, I was thinking it might be more efficient to meet each day and discuss the previous night's work. Would you be amenable to such an arrangement?"
Was he really asking her to provide editorial feedback on the story in progress? This was huge, and it showed her that he had a tremendous amount of faith in her abilities as a writer. "Of course, that would be great," was all she managed to say.
"Excellent." He closed his eyes, seemingly out of habit, and sniffed the air. "Mmm, it seems as though dinner is about to be served."
As if on cue, Helene appeared with a bright orange, enameled cast iron pan held between two oven mitt clad hands. She placed it on the table and served each a generous portion of the rich beef stew. She disappeared, only to reappear seconds later with a basket of fresh baked bread and a dish of rich creamery butter.
"It's an old family recipe," said Anthony. "I've been trying to get her to hand it over since the first time she made it for me, but she refuses to give it up. All I know is that it takes her most of the day to prepare."
"Oh, it's not like you'd cook it anyway," said the housekeeper, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Don't think dear Helene is being insensitive to my lack of sight," said Anthony. "I was never one for cooking before the accident, so it stands to reason I'd be a lot less inclined now that I can't see whether I am
picking up an onion or the wrong end of a chef's knife."
"It is quite delicious," said Ashley. She hadn't anticipated having his lack of sight come up in conversation, and she didn't entirely know how to react.
"I'll leave you two to talk," said Helene.
"How is your new project coming?" asked Anthony.
"Oh, it's going well enough, I suppose. How did you know I was working on a new story?" she asked.
"Lucky guess," he replied. "Like I said, I learned a few things about judging people and situations during my years with the CIA. I obviously knew you were an aspiring author when I hired you; and since moving down here and into my home is a major transition for you, it seems only fitting that you use this opportunity to start a new project."
"That's remarkable," she said. "I hope you won't think me too forward, but how much of what you write in your books is from your time working in the field?"
He turned to face her with a deadly serious expression. "That's classified information, I'm afraid. I could tell you, but then Helene would have to kill you."
Ashley laughed before she could stop herself, nearly spitting red wine all over the table. "Well, I won't pry any further then."
Anthony smiled and chuckled along with her. "Hold on to that sense of humor. You're going to need it if you spend much time around me."
They ate in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. "Nothing in my books is an exact depiction of any specific operation or event, but I'd be lying if I said everything in my books comes from my imagination. Any more than this and you'll need to get a few more drinks in me first. And none of this wine business. You'll need to ply me with whiskey to get at my inner secrets. Top shelf only, I'm afraid."
"That can be arranged," she said. "It would be a shame to spend all this time working with you without getting to know the man behind the legend."
"You're welcome to try, but I have to warn you, I've been trained to resist several different methods of interrogation."
Ashley couldn't tell if this last comment was a joke or not and decided to shift the conversation away from life in the CIA. Despite his easy jokes and friendly manner, she could tell his mood was shifting to a darker place as he thought about his time as an operative; she didn't want to be responsible for any bad memories she might accidentally dredge up. And so they talked of inconsequential things and ate their meal until he eventually excused himself to go to his study and begin his night of work.
Chapter Five
TWO DRESSES LAY SPREAD across the bed while Ashley stood over them in her underwear trying to decide which to wear. After holding one up and deciding it was just the right mix of professional and attractive, she almost smacked herself in the forehead for being so silly. She'd been so caught up in trying to make a good impression during her first work session with Anthony that she'd completely forgotten he was blind. It didn't matter which dress she wore, because he'd never see it.
Ashley slipped into the dress anyway; after all, it was about how it made her feel, and she allowed herself a warm cardigan to hold back the definite chill that was seeping into the bones of this old house now that autumn was coming on strong. She still looked cute enough with the sweater covering her torso, and this look was probably more appropriate to the situation. It had been difficult for her not to think about that first meeting with her boss, and how shockingly attractive she'd found him. She didn't know exactly how old he was, but she'd be surprised if he were over forty. Having just finished college, she hadn't thought there'd be any sort of romantic temptation here in Virginia, but his sweat-slicked bare stomach was quickly becoming a recurring theme in many idle daydreams.
These sorts of thoughts were not helpful in getting ready for a collaborative work session with a famous author, and she set them aside and turned her attention to her make-up. She'd never relied on much more than a good skincare regimen and a bit of moisturizer before going out for the day, and now that she was working with a blind man, she found it even easier to skip the urge to dab on a little blush or eye shadow.
Pawing through her bag of toiletries, she pulled out a bottle of perfume, and it occurred to her that this was how she could show off a bit of her feminine charm. She spritzed the scent on the pulse points at her wrists and around her neck just under the ears. She almost never wore perfume, and she'd inadvertently used a little more than was probably necessary, but with the stuffiness of this old house with all the windows closed, she figured it would go a ways toward brightening the place up.
Ashley knocked lightly on the thick wooden door. She thought for a moment that she might have been expected to just walk in, but it wasn't in her nature to go charging into rooms with closed doors. At the same time, she hoped she wasn't making her boss get up to navigate across his office to let her in. She stood quiet and still, and it was a relief to finally hear him call for her to enter.
"Sorry, I wasn't sure if I should just come in or...?" she asked. Anthony had risen from his chair and was standing behind the desk to greet her.
"No, it's better if you knock when the door is closed. I have a habit of doing some strange things when I'm thinking or dictating, and it might be awkward for you to walk in on me during one of these moments." He smiled and left the nature of what those things might be up to her imagination.
"Where should I set up?" she asked, hefting her computer as though he could see it and take it as an indication of her need for room to set it down.
"Ah, yes. I've brought in a second office chair, so please just use the other side of my desk."
He gestured to a cleared space opposite him. Ashley noticed there was a keyboard on his side of the desk that looked quite standard if she ignored the space-aged looking piece of hardware attached to the bottom. She also saw that there was no monitor on the almost entirely bare desk. There were just his strange keyboard, an empty coffee mug, and a small digital recorder. There was plenty of room for her computer and files.
"You're admiring my keyboard, aren't you," he asked, the corners of his lips curving into a proud grin.
"I couldn't help but notice it," she said. "There's not much else on the desk."
"Well, I've always been a neat freak, but now I find I have little use for the sorts of things that used to clutter up my work space. That keyboard is a state of the art digital braille reader. A little gift from my CIA buddies. That's how I read over the work you've been doing."
"Impressive," she said. "I hadn't really thought about how you were tracking my transcriptions, but it makes sense that a guy like you would have a fancy gadget like that."
"I do love my toys," he said. His face shifted into a more serious expression. "Before we go any further with this session, I'd like to address that scent you're wearing. While I don't doubt that you meant no harm in applying it liberally, you must realize that being without my sight has forced me to develop a heightened sense of smell. I'm afraid it's making it extremely difficult for me to focus, and I'm going to have to ask you to please go and rinse it off before we continue."
"Oh, I... I'm so sorry," Ashley stammered. She rushed to get up and nearly tripped over the arm of her chair as it spun around and bumped her on the thigh. She then made a hasty exit for the door.
Once upstairs in her bathroom, her reflection was flushing deep crimson as she looked in the mirror, and she thought she'd never been so embarrassed at having done something so stupid. She should have known better. It was only natural that he'd have to rely on his other senses more now that he couldn't see. He must be able to hear very well, she thought, and his sense of touch must be a lot more sensitive, too. This brought to mind an image of him brushing his fingers across the smooth skin of her bare breasts, and she flushed anew.
This was no time to be indulging in ridiculous fantasies about sleeping with her boss, she told herself as she soaped a cloth and rubbed it across her wrists and neck. She was here in a professional capacity to be his assistant, and that was all. There would be no torrid love affair. Ashley d
ried herself off and returned to the office, trying to purge any thoughts of her boss's body pressed against hers.
"I can't apologize enough for doing something so stupid," she said as she re-entered the study. "It won't happen again, I promise."
"It's perfectly fine," he assured her. "This home is a scent-free environment, and Helene should have told you on your first day."
"Still, I feel like an insensitive dolt," she said.
"It's forgotten. Shall we move on and get to work? I'm interested in hearing your feedback on the last chapters I recorded for you."
"Yes, I have some notes I've written up. Let me just pull up the file."
The next few hours dissolved into an easy exchange and editorial discussion. Ashley forced herself to be bold with her suggestions, despite feeling that she couldn't possibly contribute anything useful; and he seemed genuinely grateful for her feedback. If she could put aside the rocky start to their first meeting, it would be easy for her to sit back and see that could very well be the most incredible experience a fledgling writer could ask for. When Helene finally interrupted them to ask if they were coming to the table for supper, she didn't want their discussion to end.
Chapter Six
THEY QUICKLY SETTLED INTO a routine. Anthony recorded his work, leaving it for her to transcribe in the morning, and then met with her for most of the afternoon to discuss possible changes to the manuscript. Ashley was learning so much from their discussions that her evening sessions on her own novel were progressing much more easily than had any of its predecessors. Through her interactions with Anthony, she felt she really understood how to draw readers into her world and develop a sense of how to carry them along on a fast-paced thrill ride of a finish.
