by Tina Martin
I know why. I don’t want to admit this, but my life is going down the drain. My mother looks at me like she made a mistake. Like she should’ve fostered a different child instead of me. I’m carrying on father’s legacy, but I’m a huge disappointment to her. She’s not impressed by anything I do and perhaps that’s why I treat her more like a business associate instead of the woman who raised me. I hate treating her that way, don’t like calling her Ms. Sylvia Hawthorne, but since our personal relationship is non-existent, I don’t feel comfortable calling her mother any longer.
Major says I’m selfish. I can argue with him all day long but he knows me better than anyone. I am selfish. I used to be proud of that. Now, I greatly dislike that about myself and I’m starting to envy him because he’s everything I’m not. Major is the guy everybody likes. He talks to people. He’s personable. Knows how to mingle and make people feel comfortable. I’m cold and distant.
My father sealed my fate when he told me this: Son, if you want to take over this company after I’m gone, be prepared to devote every hour, every minute, every second to it. You have to be rigid. You can’t let people walk over you. They have to know you’re in charge when you step into a room. Any room. They should feel the power in your presence. You can take this company far. You have what it takes, son. I have faith in you.
* * *
The next morning when I’m in the shower, all of this is heavy on my mind. It weighs on me. I think the load is heavier to carry today more-so than the days prior because of what Cherish said to me at dinner. We’re not robots, Mr. St. Claire. We’re people who have feelings. You, on the other hand, have lost touch with that side of yourself.
She’s right. The woman who works for me, who’s beneath me in so many ways is right.
Cherish Stevens.
Yesterday was the first time I’ve ever said a word to the girl, but it’s not the first time I’ve noticed her. I see and hear things I don’t speak on. I see how hard she works. I wasn’t aware of her specific duties, but I know she’s a hard worker. And she’s pretty with her deep brown eyes that match her exotic, cocoa skin complexion – entices me on a daily basis. She intentionally hides her beauty almost as if she doesn’t want to be noticed by anyone.
But I’ve noticed.
She wears her hair in braids that hangs at the center of her back and she always has on a scarf. Her fingernails are never painted. She doesn’t wear color on her lips but I’ve watched her apply Chapstick on several occasions as she sits in her car and prepares to leave for the day. And back to her skin…it’s smooth, deep brown and makes my mouth water for chocolate. Yesterday when she was in my closet, I could smell the scent of cocoa butter when she walked by. If I had to guess, I’d say she was about five-feet-six. I can’t say much about her body because I’ve never seen her true figure. She always wears loose clothes and aprons.
I don’t know her all that well, but she knows me better than I know myself, down to the detail of what food I like on specific days.
I get out the shower earlier than usual this morning hoping to catch her in my closet again. I wrap myself in a towel and walk there. She’s already been here and gone. She’s laid out a suit for me. A navy blue one. Brown leather shoes. Gold ‘M’ cufflinks. A dark purple tie that matches the argyle socks. I can feel her presence as I get dressed. Can smell the lingering scent of cocoa butter. She’s fixed my bed, put away my slippers, cleaned off my nightstand. She does these things every day and I know nothing about her. That nags at me because I think I should know something. Then again, I don’t want to know anything about her or anyone else.
I’m dressed, ready to start the day. I step into my office and to my dismay, Paige Marion is sitting in my chair. She’s my mother’s assistant and for some reason, she thinks she has a shot at getting my attention. Probably because I’ve taken her on a few important business dinners – my mother’s suggestion – hoping her presence would help to complement important deals. It usually works, but it’s completely destroying my mood this morning.
“Paige, get out of my office,” I tell her.
“Well, good morning to you too, Sunshine.”
“Get out of my chair and get out of my office.”
She flips her blonde hair and rolls her eyes. “Okaaaay-ya. You don’t have to be rude.”
“You’re sitting at my desk—can’t get much ruder than that.”
She heads for the door. I glance up quickly to see she’s wearing an extremely tight mini-skirt that seems to be flattening her butt even more than it’s already flattened.
“Sylvia will be hearing about this,” she says.
I nearly laugh when she makes the statement like running and telling my mother I kicked her out is going to land me in trouble. She can’t be serious…
I sit down, check emails and voicemails. In my office building, I have a secretary who does this for me. At home, I do it all myself.
Around seven-thirty after I’ve finished my first cup of coffee, I go downstairs for breakfast. I hear a lot of chatter and laughter coming from the kitchen. I know the voices and the people they belong to. I hear Isidora first – she struggles with English. Then there’s Minnie. She has one of those laughs that makes you question whether or not she’s from another planet. Naomi is chuckling, too. She’s heavy-set – always sounds like she’s out of breath. And then there’s Cherish. Her laugh is softer. Sweeter. Sweet like her voice. Even when she snapped at me yesterday, her voice was sweet. I still don’t like it, or her. She’s irritated me enough and so I’m making it a point to completely avoid her today.
When I step into the kitchen, all laughter and chatter cease. Minnie puts her head down and leaves the kitchen with a mop.
Isidora looks at me and says, “Buenas dias, Señor,” then hurries on about her way.
I glance over at Cherish. She has her hand wrapped around a sports bottle filled with water and ice. She doesn’t say a word to me. Doesn’t look my way. She has on old, worn jeans and a baggy gray T-shirt that already looks dirty. Her hair is tied up again.
“Mr. St. Claire, I have your breakfast ready, Sir,” Naomi says.
“I’ll talk to you later, Naomi,” Cherish tells her then walks out of the room.
Apparently, her game plan is the same as mine – I’m not acknowledging her and she pretends I don’t exist.
Naomi sets a plate in front of me.
“What’s this?” I ask her.
“It’s an egg-white bagel, Sir, with white cheddar cheese.”
“I don’t eat bagels.”
“Cherry says you do. Said you used to eat them all the time.”
I feel my nostrils flare. I used to eat them. Keywords being used to. I don’t eat them anymore. Bagels were my father’s favorite for breakfast. In an effort to feel closer to him, I tried to eat them, too. That was two years ago. Did it for a month and stopped. It didn’t work. Didn’t make me feel closer to him. Now, I can’t stand the smell of bagels.
I take the small plate, dump the bagel in the trash – plate and all – and say, “Don’t ever cook bagels in this house.”
“My apologies, Sir. I didn’t know—”
“Just get me some coffee!”
“Will do, Mr. St. Claire.”
Naomi grabs a tall mug, pours in coffee and places the cup on the island in front of me. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No.”
I take the cup and head back up to my office, still heated. Now, it’s starting to piss me off that I don’t know nothing about this Cherish Stevens girl. So, I pull up her personnel record and read through her file:
-Cherish Stevens.
-Born in 1993.
-She lives in Charlotte on Mallard Creek Church Road. I Google her address. It displays a small white house. I wonder how long ago the photo was taken.
-She doesn’t list an emergency contact. I shouldn’t be curious as to why, but I am.
-There’s not much listed in the way of an employment history. In fact, I
think working for me may be her first real job.
-She graduated from high school. Didn’t go to college. How is she qualified to be my personal assistant?
Armed with my findings, I head over to the east wing in search of Mrs. Hawthorne. She definitely has some explaining to do. I find her sitting at her desk. She lowers her glasses when she sees me standing at her office door. She already looks annoyed and I haven’t said a word yet.
“How can I help you?” she asks.
I step into her office. It’s been a minute since I’ve been over on this side. I look at pictures on her wall – pictures of her and dad mostly – then I take a moment to enjoy the view of the pond from her window.
“Cherish Stevens,” I say.
“Yes? What about her?” she asks.
“Why’d you hire her?”
“She was qualified for the position.”
“Qualified how? This position calls for a Bachelor’s Degree.”
She chuckles. “Don’t be a fool, Monty. Nobody needs a degree of any sort to fetch you coffee and clean up behind you.”
“The job description calls for a Bachelor’s,” I reiterate. “She doesn’t have one.”
“Well, woopty-freakin’-do. That’s what brings you over to my side of the house? A question about your personal assistant’s qualifications? Screw a Bachelor’s Degree. The girl would floss your teeth if you asked her to. She does everything and then some. Of course, you wouldn’t appreciate it, though. You don’t appreciate anything.”
“I was a mistake for you, wasn’t I?”
She frowns, looks offended. “What are you talking about, Montgomery?”
“I was a mistake. You don’t like me. You love Major. Everybody loves Major. He can do no wrong, but when it comes to me—all I see is disgust in your eyes when you look at me.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true! It’s been true for a long time.”
She sighs. Pushes her glasses back on her face properly and says, “Then you know what, Montgomery—you believe what you want to believe. I’ve done the best I could by you. The best I could! You only care about what Montgomery wants. None of us matter to you. I don’t matter, your brother doesn’t matter—”
“You do matter—”
“No, I don’t,” she yells, “Because if I did, you wouldn’t refer to me as Mrs. Hawthorne. You would call me your mother! If your father knew the man you’ve become, he’d be ashamed.”
“He made me who I am,” I say coldly and without pause, although my heart hurts that I’ve upset her. I don’t know how to fix what I’ve done. “But thanks for confirming you’re ashamed of me. Have a good day.”
I leave her office in a hurry and step outside for air. I’m losing it. Losing control. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I know I can’t keep living like this.
The landscapers are here again maintaining the property. It’s a lot of land. I thought about selling some of it but I like the solitude of not having neighbors. Land offers privacy – something I need a lot of.
I take the steps to the ground and stand in the driveway, looking over at the worker’s cars in visitor parking. There’s a mini-van, a Mazda, a beat-up Honda Accord and a white Honda Pilot. The Mazda belongs to Cherish.
I find myself walking around the yard again today, same as I did yesterday. I’m not looking for Cherish. I’m just trying to get my mind right so I can do some work, but I spot her near the west entrance, working in yet another flowerbed.
Chapter Seven
Cherish
“Oh, no,” I say quietly to myself when I see Montgomery heading toward me.
“No. No. No. Please don’t come over here,” I say quietly.
I can’t handle another run-in with him. What does he want, anyway? Maybe he’ll pass me by.
Or, maybe not.
He coming straight for me and when he’s close, he stands on the opposite side of the flowerbed watching me work. He doesn’t say a thing. Just stands there – same crap he did yesterday. I can’t concentrate so my eyes climb his frame until I catch a glimpse of his mean, green gaze and look away.
“What made you think I’d want a bagel this morning?” he asks.
Okay, Cherish. Keep a level head. Don’t let this man get to you. Remember what Naomi said…
“I just thought you’d like to try something different. You used to eat bagels back in the day.”
“Yeah, that was then. Don’t add them to any menus. Got it?”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m asking you not to. That’s all the explanation you need. And why are you out here working in these flowers again?”
Cherish, DON’T let him get to you. “Just doing my job, Sir.”
“Actually, you’re not. This isn’t one of the duties listed on your job description, so starting now, I want you to cease doing yard work.”
“Are you kidding me?”
He frowns. “No, I’m not kidding you. You need to be doing other things. Business-related things. Filing. Typing. Checking my mail and taking my clothes to the cleaners.”
“You have nothing that needs to be filed or typed here. Your secretary handles those things for you. As for your clothes, I’m scheduled to drop by the cleaners at two and I always check your post office box at three, you know, after the mail is put in there. It wouldn’t make much sense to check it before then, now would it?”
I can feel the heat of his gaze intensify before he says, “Pack all of this stuff up and give it to the landscapers. If I see you out here planting flowers, rolling around in the dirt or whatever other nonsense you like to do out here, you’re fired.”
He turns his back to me and begins to walk away. I know I should let it go, but I can’t because I didn’t do anything to this man to warrant this kind of attack on me. Two days in a row he’s been at my throat and now he’s telling me I can’t plant flowers – one of the few things that keep me sane while working in this glorified prison.
Just let it go, Cherish. Let it go. Just let it—
“What exactly is your problem?” I ask.
He stops. Turns around. “Excuse me?”
I stand up with my dirty hands and a small shovel. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem. I like things a certain way and I like people to do what they’re hired to do.”
“I’ve been doing this for two years. Two! Now, all of a sudden you have a problem with it and apparently with me, too. I don’t understand. Is this because you saw me in your closet yesterday? Because you thought the white girl was picking out your clothes. If you want Paige as your assistant then, by all means, go for it.”
He takes a few intimidating steps back towards me and asks, “Why do you think I owe you an explanation?”
I swallow the lump in my throat, stand my ground and respond, “You’re telling me not to do my job and I take offense to that. You could at least give me a reason.”
“I gave you a reason. What you’re doing is not in your job description.”
“Then add it.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“There you go again asking questions. I said no. That’s final. Have a good day, Cherry.”
He walks away again, wearing the suit I picked out for him with a smug look of satisfaction on his face. I had good mind to throw some dirt at him, but I’m not like him. I’m not evil for no reason. All the money in the world and he gets his satisfaction from antagonizing me.
I pack up everything – the flowers, the shovels, the soil, the fertilizer – I pack it all up and take it over to Consuela.
“Hey, amiga. What’cha doing?”
“Here, just take this stuff.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“The boss says I can’t work in the flowers any longer.”
“Why not?”
“He says it’s not in my job description.”
“That’s friggin’ insane. You do this all the time. Now, all o
f a sudden, it’s a problem?”
“Yep. Anyway, take the flowers.”
“Yeah, I’ll finish the flowerbed. Don’t worry.”
“Thanks, Consuela.”
I’m walking across the thick, dark green grass toward the house. I have no motivation to do any more work today. I want to leave and by leave I mean get in my car, step on the gas and never come back to this awful place. It’s the same sentiment I express to Naomi as she prepares Montgomery’s lunch.
“No, hun, you can’t quit.”
“I can’t take it, Naomi. I’ve done nothing but serve this man to the best of my ability and he’s after me like I’m a bad employee.”
“He’s just going through one of his spells. You know how it is.”
“No, I don’t know how it is. I’m not crazy and therefore I don’t relate to crazy.”
She chuckles.
“This is the most he’s ever interacted with me and now, I feel like I can’t get away from him. I can’t take this!”
“Then here’s what you do. Call Mrs. Sylvia and take the day off tomorrow. That’ll give you a chance to take a breather and get away from him for a while. Ain’t no need in messin’ up your coins over that man’s attitude, honey.”
“You’re right. And on that note, let me get back to work before massa comes-a-lookin’.”
Naomi laughs.
* * *
It makes absolutely no sense that I have to sneak out of this house to get to my car, but that’s exactly what I’m doing. I tiptoe to the coat closet, take my purse, ease the front door open and, quietly pull the door closed behind me so it doesn’t make a sound. Once I’m inside my car, I feel safe. I made it.
Shrew!
I start it up and get out of dodge, turn up the radio and lose myself in the noise – anything to make me forget about my day.
