From the enormous kitchen windows ten stories up, Antonia watches the morning sun glow on the water. Usually, anyone here on a Friday would see her smile at the sight over her coffee break as if in quiet joy. But today, instead, she frowns about the message she just read on her phone.
Fado night isn ' t working out as we'd hoped. W e' r e just not dra w ing enough additional pat r ons to justify the cost of live m usic nights, so we' r e switc h i n g to st r ea m ing.
Just like that, the joy of singing to a room of people who want to share the sounds of her faraway home slips away. It didn't pay much and the hours were troublesome. But she loved it.
Another m atter for another m o m ent
. Her attention turns back to the job on which she actually depends. She sets her cup aside and heads to the laundry separated from the kitchen by huge ash wood barn doors that match the floors and trim throughout the loft. As she pulls Egyptian cotton sheets out of the dryer and notices a slightly frayed edge, Antonia realizes that she has cleaned the Carmichael residence once a week for almost a year. A year next month.
Desperate for a side job, she had found the typed, old-fashioned index card on the freshman bulletin board in the student union. Something about it just felt safe. Mr. Carmichael— Nicolas although she never calls him that—pays shockingly well, better than her teaching assistant work. It demands only one morning a week, and he covers her train pass.
Of course, it made her suspicious at first, hearing creepy stories and horror stories, especially from the girls who don't have legit student visas like she does. So, she made up a kind of uniform in self-defense—loose khakis, a tan and cream striped boatneck shirt with elbow-length sleeves, and deck shoes, her long hair in a low tail. It does little to tone down her appearance. But she needn't have worried. Mr. C has always been gracious, with impeccable propriety. He never makes her feel like a servant either.
His son, Rusk, on the other hand, home for the summer from grad school, has wandering eyes and an acerbic tongue.
Another m atter for another m o m ent
. She thinks that to herself a lot, it's a way of coping, taking time to think things over.
Around Mr. C, she feels a pull. She doesn't think he has caught her looking at him. Even just being here when he's home, which isn't every Friday, his scent drifts through the loft and puts her mind on other things than her work. "Filho da mãe," she curses quietly. Distracted, she put the clean sheets back in the washer and started it, costing herself almost an hour.
Antonia's not a movie trope, the beautiful girl who doesn't know it, she's heard too many whispered (and sometimes shouted) adjectives to be unaware. Accustomed to turning around and finding some guy or several staring at her backside, not to mention holding conversations with people who're talking to the front of her shirt, she has concluded that Americans are more forward than the continental Portuguese. But the attention has always
been there, regardless of language or social context. She has a rare inheritance, willowy with a long waist, shapely legs and generous curves, light eyes and thick, dark hair. Good things and unpleasant things come to her because of her looks even though she never consciously uses them.
Nic instinctively understands. In the interview, he could see her struggling to not lose focus, she tried to be attentive without staring while he worked to put her at ease. His various press bios all play on a theme, "1950's movie star crossed with modern cologne model... dazzling, sheepish smile... incredibly fit, sartorially sharp... touch of gray in his dark hair... difficult to believe that he has a twenty-something kid." A successful man with money, and now time, Nic takes care of himself. He doesn't go for flash like crazy cars, but his clothes are all bespoke, the fabrics rich and smooth, his dress shirts neatly tailored to fit
athleticall y
, in colors that make his eyes stand out.
Down the hall, on the phone in his home office with its own dazzling view of the lake, Nic speaks to one of his lawyers, the one who handled his divorce. "Sarah, just give her what she asks," he says, mildly. "Life's too short for me to spend more than four minutes thinking about it." First wife died, second wife... not compatible, and she's still angry about it. He's not bitter, more a little sad, maybe resigned. "I know. Send me whatever disclaimer you have to, and then please do as I ask. Don't make a big deal about it, just one line or two in your response. Thank you, I always appreciate your advice."
Nic hears Antonia's deck shoes softly tapping on the wood as she heads upstairs. The loft has a double-high great room on the first floor that flows into the open kitchen. A gorgeous, seemingly floating staircase lets light from the floor to ceiling windows all the way through the middle of the place. His office is past the staircase, guest room, and downstairs bathroom in the "back." The one drawback to the loft design is how sound carries. He doesn't mind on days that she's working. He adores the sound of her voice, humming or sometimes singing softly when she forgets to be self-aware.
A couple of weeks ago, he had overheard her comment in a rare personal call, likely in response to a girlfriend's woes, "Oh dear, I'm so sorry, it's a hazard of being a smart girl, boys are just... delayed. Perhaps that's why I've always been drawn to older men." It started him thinking differently, noticing her surreptitious glances his way. He used to think that she was just intimidated despite all his efforts to make her comfortable. She comes from a society that honors hierarchy and he enjoys position, maturity, and wealth. Intimidation made sense. Now, he admits to himself that the idea that she possibly finds him attractive beyond just a first surprise impression—the same one everyone has—thrills him. But Rusk is home and Nic isn't blind, he can see how much his son is attracted to this woman. It doesn't seem mutual, but maybe that's his vanity rearing its unwelcome head. He glances at the engraved invitation between his fingers and wars with himself.
It isn't as though he hasn't fantasized about her. He's been reluctant to date since the divorce, which is probably why the few attempts have felt stilted. He prefers women closer
to his own age, who fully understand what it means to strive in life, who know what pleases them and aren't shy about pursuing it. On the other hand, Antonia is here in his sanctuary, moving through his home with light, humor, and beauty. Over the year, they've become easy around one another. When she's present, his observations of her are carefully cloaked. He'd be appalled if she were to ever think that she had to
service
him in order to earn her daily bread. In his fantasies, there aren't those complications of being part of her livelihood.
When she's not around, he allows her to haunt him. He's free to imagine her walking into his office, pulling her shirt over her head to release her full, natural breasts, and straddling him in his chair, pressing against his tightened trousers. Her scent, of which he is all too aware on a regular basis, deepens as he pays experienced attention to her breasts... often, he doesn't last longer than that. He has never had a problem with holding off, but this woman tries his capacity for patience.
He's always able to put his armor back on and never let her know what he feels. At least, until now.
*
Rusk purposefully delays coming home until just before Antonia leaves. She generally cleans his rooms last. She's unaware of his bookshelf webcam that allows him to know when she's finishing. Sometimes, he watches her the whole time she's picking up his room and changing his sheets. He enjoys how she moves as she works. Whether she likes him or not, she's always meticulous with his things. And he never catches her looking in the mirror, posing for herself, like others have.
He prefers to encounter her in the lobby. Coming up from the garage, he doesn't need to stop there, but he does, on pretense of checking the mail. It gives him something to do if she's a few minutes off schedule, like today. There's something about having her in their space that he resents, as much as he benefits from her labor. Admittedly, it could be residual from the stepparent experience. Rachel. There had been a lot to admire about her from a distance, but she had been imperious up close and they had clashed early and often. Nic couldn't see that she was different with him and with others—always a bad sign. It was only after the separation that his dad felt he could put any of what Rusk thought of as t
he
family photos back out in the open. Rusk hadn't cared for the impersonal feeling of the house without them even though Rachel had put up the new wedding photos that included him. He thought that it didn't say much about Rachel that she had to try to purge a dead woman, erasing his childhood in the process.
Perhaps his own competitive streak put them at odds from the beginning. His father never neglected him for Rachel. And from an early age, Rusk has always focused his sense of competition on Nic, not on the women in their lives. He can't figure out why Antonia feels different, why he has the urge to spar with her. She's smart, a TA for advanced math, but he generally isn't threatened by smart women. Compelling in a way that he doesn't find among his peers, she seems older than she is. One might think that would lead him to try
to charm her. Instead, he finds that an almost cruel streak surfaces when she's around. He tries to stifle it, opting for an aloof, cutting demeanor. This job is too damn good for her to quit it, so long as he doesn't cross any lines—Rusk feels free to walk right up to them.
An elevator chimes as he drops the last of the unwanted paper in the stylish, metal recycling bin, leaving himself three envelopes in which to pretend interest. "Well, hello, Antonia," he says, when she steps out of the elevator, a bit of sharpness in his voice. "Running behind?" For some reason, it always flusters her if he comments on her schedule. Pleasingly, color comes up underneath her tawny complexion.
"Hopefully, I haven't inconvenienced you." she replies, with the slightest frown. It only serves to fetchingly wrinkle her nose and freckles. She shifts her backpack restlessly.
He cocks his head at her. "Why not at all." He lets his eyes drift down her face to rest on her mouth. She does have a lovely mouth, both full and muscular. He lingers there just long enough to leave some discomfort in his wake. "Have a good week." It sounds as breezily insincere as he intends. He taps the elevator button with the back of a wrist.
"You as well." She leaves with long strides, headed to the commuter station two blocks away. He watches her hips sway until she's out of view.
Coming in quietly, Rusk can hear that Nic is on the phone in his office. He drops the mail on the kitchen counter and goes straight upstairs to the shower. Like Nic's, his bedroom has its own bath. He flips the lock on the door just in case his dad is feeling chatty.
As often happens, discomfiting Antonia has aroused him. He doesn't analyze it. Instead, with hot water sluicing off hours of PR client meetings and the gym, he sees to himself vigorously, stifling a long groan as he stripes the tile.
Afterward, tilting the showerhead to rinse the wall, he smiles, thinking of Antonia scrubbing the tiles, unwitting.
He dresses and pads downstairs to make an espresso. Nic's there, staring out the window with his own cup in hand. "Dad," he says, cordially, "good day or trying day so far?" It's well-ingrained patter. The bright smile he receives makes him a little ashamed. Nic hugs him.
"Little of both. It's still an adjustment not to be pep talking sixty-four employees and fighting fires. I think I sometimes make up tasks that I don't have to be doing. Funny to think that I'm more comfortable with all that hassle." Nic laughs lightly at himself, which dispels Rusk's darker mood.
"You'll adjust. Don't get me wrong, all that success stuff is great, but I want you around while you're around. You weren't really having fun. Do the things you want to do."
The sidelong reference to the health scare—a false alarm but a wakeup call— makes Nic shake his head. "You're right, of course."
"Bike ride tomorrow morning?" Rusk offers. It's a regular Saturday thing now, but he offers so his dad will know that he enjoys it. He's rewarded with an even broader smile.
"Looking forward to it."
*
