As He Bids (3 page)

I answer her cheerful greeting with: "Good morning, Tab. It's Hannah. Do you miss me yet?"

She gasps then says, "Oh thank goodness you're all right. I was worried sick about you."

"Why would you?"

"You haven't watched the news?"

"No. What happened?" I grab the remote from the kitchen counter and search for a news channel.

The images hit me as I listen to Tab's voice. "Some crazy kid with a machine gun went postal in your train station. He slaughtered dozens of people. When you didn't show, I was beside myself with worry."

I snort then realize I'm being unfair to her. "I guess Bruce didn't tell you that I had no reason to be on the train today. He fired me on Friday?"

"What are you talking about?"

"He let me go, asked me to pack my stuff, get out, go home--"

Interrupting my diatribe, she says, "That's not possible. The man's crazy about you. Last Thursday, I overheard him speaking with Steven and Jimmy. He was telling them that you had one of the sharpest eyes he's ever encountered and that he's enchanted to have you. That's the reason I hinted about you staying on after the summer."

"That was Thursday. On Friday, he sang a different tune." I snicker. "On Friday afternoon, he was very clear that he wanted me gone. I think his exact words were 'I need to find an alternative solution.'"

Tab stays silent for a few seconds then says, "I can't believe it. There's obviously been a misunderstanding."

"No, but that's okay," I lie. Nothing has ever been less okay in my life so far. "I'm sure there are dozens of students dying to replace me, and they'll manage to get to work on time everyday. Anyway, I just called to say that I was truly happy to have met you Tab. You're a very nice lady."

"I enjoyed meeting you, too, Hannah, and next time you're in the Upper East Side, drop by, and I'll have a cup of coffee ready for you," she says sweetly.

When I hang up the phone, any melancholy feeling I was tempted to nurse vanishes as I turn up the television volume.

I watch the scene in horrified fascination. Behind the newscaster, the camera is filming the victims of the savage and senseless attack. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles and police cars are nothing that I haven't seen hundreds of times before, but somehow, today it feels real to me. It's real for the first time because it's in my childhood town. Any of the tarp-covered bodies behind the yellow tape could be someone who sat next to me on the train last week.

I close my eyes and remember the young pregnant woman who was reading a book about the secret meanings of first names, the grouchy man who made the entire car miserable for the length of his ride while screaming into his phone in a foreign language. He was a sharp contrast to the well-groomed attorney we all listened to as he patiently explained the incomprehensible subtlety of tax law to a client or maybe an intern...

I switch channels and watch almost identical footage being played on another network. Hypnotized by the images, I distractedly answer my cell phone when it rings again.

"Hannah?" Bruce's voice startles me.

I snap to attention and shut off the television. "Yes, sir."

Those words come naturally to put a distance between us and protect myself. The man fired me. I'm not about to call him by his first name as I did last week. I hear his breath catch and wait for him to speak again. When he doesn't respond, I ask, "Is there anything that I can do for you?"

"Yes," he answers. "Could you please explain to me why you told Tab I fired you?"

"Because you did, sir."

"I did no such thing," he says, his tone so affirmative that for a second, I question my own sanity.

"I beg to differ. I perfectly remember you telling me that--"

"I know precisely what I told you," he says. "I needed to give some thought to this situation over the weekend, and I have come up with the ideal alternative solution."

Again, I wait for him to continue because I have no clue what he's talking about.

"The company car is on its way to pick you up. The driver should be at your door within twenty minutes. I assume this is sufficient time for you to get ready to come to work and pack a suitcase for the week."

"A suitcase for the week?" I realize I sound like a dimwit for repeating the end of his sentence, but I can't help myself.

"Right. I told you Friday that I thought making you work such long hours and then commute was not acceptable," he says.

While that may have been what he meant, that is
not
what he said.

"Since I do not intend on changing my schedule, I had to do something to modify yours. I have a place for you to stay in the city during the week so you won't have to commute."

"Oh I see..."

"Get cracking, Hannah. We have a very busy schedule this week... and one more thing..." His voice goes down to the tone I hear him use during his private phone calls on his cell.

"Yes?"

"If you decide to call me 'sir', you need to be ready to deal with the consequences."

The line goes dead, and I realize two things. The first one is that I have no clue what he meant with that last sentence. The second is that I wasn't fired!

Bruce was upset, but not with me... Bruce wants me to keep on working with him. Bruce cares about me enough that he's found me a place to stay in the city.

I practically skip to my room with a smile so large that by the time I finish packing, my cheeks hurt.

CHAPTER FIVE

The car drops me in front of the door at Goldsmith and Evans, and as I enter, a large smile spreads across Tab's lips. She's on the phone, so she just waves at me and gives me a thumbs-up. I wave back. Her eyebrows shoot up when she sees that I'm dragging a little rolling suitcase, but I just act as if I don't notice. I catch the elevator with a woman cradling an old doll like a baby. Those doll people creep me out.

I knock on the door of Bruce's office, feeling as anxious as I did on my first day. No answer. Assuming the silence means he's away, I open the door. Bruce is sitting at his desk, and there's a woman standing in front of him. He's staring at her as if she's the most exasperating person he's ever looked at, and I shudder for her. If he looked at me that way, I would want the earth to open up and swallow me.

"So sorry," I blurt out, attempting to escape.

"Stay." Bruce's voice booms in the office. Then, using that very special tone of voice that has a direct line to the deepest part of my guts, he says, "Elisa was leaving."

The woman turns around, and I step aside in the direction of my desk, to make room for her to go. Her face and eyes are cast down, but the little of her face she shows me is enough to see how stunning she is. And it's not just her face--she's a moving work of art wrapped in a simple and very elegant dress. She's got round curves in all the right places. She's so beautiful that she could be a model, one of the rare plus-size women who makes the cover of the mainstream magazines every once in while. Her skin is flawless, alabaster white as if she's never exposed herself to the sun a single day of her life. Her blond hair cascades around her. She takes my breath away. She's Boticelli's Venus in a designer piece.

The woman barely acknowledges my presence until she notices the small suitcase behind me. The sight of it stops her dead in her tracks, and she slowly looks up from my shoes to my face. When her inventory is done, a contemptuous look distorts her lovely features.

Bruce gets up as she turns around to face him again and cuts short anything she could have been planning to say with an ice-cold reply. "I said good-bye, Elisa."

Those simple words sound like a warning to my ears. Elisa must understand the same since she casts her face down again and silently walks out of the room.

Feeling uncomfortable for having been a witness to this exchange, I avoid looking at Bruce while I park my case in a corner behind my desk and turn on my computer. While it boots up, I tuck away my purse in the empty bottom drawer of my desk, and only then do I dare to look at Bruce again.

He's staring at me, and I can't read his expression. There's no apparent emotion, as if he's checking that everything is in place. I don't like it--the look makes me feel as though I'm a piece of furniture being put back in its proper position after being inconveniently displaced.

But then it's probably my own insecurities bubbling to the surface after the confrontation with this reborn Venus.

"So you're right," Bruce says as if continuing a conversation we started a few seconds ago. "It is a Pigalle, and the owner will consign it with us for the end-of-the-year sale."

"Oh, cool," is all I can come up with.

"Since you've got such a good eye, I've got a few more shots for you to look at while I take care of something else during the next few hours."

I nod and sit down to begin going though the pile of mail and other documents that he has dropped on my desk.

"And since you can't be trusted to eat properly when left to your own devices, I've ordered lunch for you," he says as he makes his way out the door. As it closes behind him, I hear the end of the sentence. "I understand you like sushi."

I love sushi, but I'm not sure that I really love his attitude. I like that he cares enough to make sure I eat, but then I'm not crazy about being bossed around that way. But then again, he
is
my boss. And once more, I got in late, so he's right--I would have skipped lunch to make up for lost time. It is nice that he is attentive.
 

Before I open the mail, I look through the dozen pictures he's left on my desk. Nothing strikes me as especially interesting. There's a handful of pictures of nineteenth-century beach scenes in a would-be Boudin style. The scene is pleasant enough to look at but nothing noteworthy. The same potential consignor sent pictures of prints. The top of the pile is easy enough to recognize. Those are very well-known prints by Louis Icart. I recognize his usual fare of sophisticated women. The first one is sitting on a tall stool next to an Irish terrier, and the second is running with three greyhounds or whippets. Depending on their condition and the date of sales, those could go from a dime a dozen to astronomical prices.

At some point in the eighties, they were the rage, but I'm not sure if there's a market left for them. I'll need to check the sale results of the recent years to figure it out.

But the last of the batch of prints are something else. I know that Icart had illustrated a few erotica books, but I had never seen that part of his work, and it's... different. The first picture depicts a man in an eighteenth-century costume; he's leaning against a tree while watching a woman lying on the grass with her legs spread out and dress tucked up. On the back, there's an inscription:
"La Nuit et Le Moment."
 

A quick Internet search teaches me that it's a naughty play published in 1755 by Crébillon, whom I've never heard of.

On the back of the other picture, there's another title.
"Le Sopha"
turns out to be another work by the same author in 1782. In the spirit of
"One Thousand and One Nights",
it's the story of a man who is turned into a couch by a spell and can return to his human shape only after having been used by two persons in love. The pictures show other more risqué sketches but in a totally different decor. The background is a strange mixture of Oriental art and furniture, which I assume is meant to represent the couch's harem. The lovers are in various stages of undress and have diverse shades of skin colors. There are dark men wearing turbans as well as lighter-brown and pale men and women embracing on the colorful sofa. The summary of the story states that the man, turned into a piece of furniture, is forced to witness six couplings before being set free by the true, but not so innocent, love of Zéïnis and Phéléas.

I look at the picture with an amused eye, thinking there's nothing new under the sun. Erotica has been big for centuries.

I drop the pictures back into their envelope without looking at the rest, wondering if Bruce knew. I shrug and laugh at myself. I have to stop overthinking everything and letting my imagination get the best of me. I take a deep breath, and the smell of Elisa's strong perfume, which still lingers in the room, brings me back to reality.

CHAPTER SIX

It's past three when Bruce comes back.

"How was lunch?" he asks.

"Delicious, thank you." I truly mean it. It was the best sushi I ever had, but then it also came from what I've heard is the best place in Manhattan.

He smiles at me, and all my insides do a little flip. Being that charming should be illegal.

"How about you?"

He shrugs. For once, he's not volunteering information on where he's been, so I don't ask anything more.

As he settles behind his desk, I tell him about the various calls I took while he was out and the tentative appointments I have scheduled with the owners of the artwork that I found interesting enough in the pile he left me. I'm happy--June is going to be busier than I thought it would be.

When I stop talking, he looks at me and says, "And?" as if he can read my thoughts and knows there's something on my mind that I don't have the courage to tell him.

I feel my cheeks warming up, and I mumble, "Nothing."

He gets up from his chair and comes to sit on the corner of my desk, giving me a stern look. Sliding a crooked finger under my chin, he makes me look at him.

"Hannah," he says with a voice so warm that I raise my eyes in his direction. The way Bruce says my name is like a caress on my skin. "You need to trust me."

I nod before taking the time to think about it. Do I trust him? I'm not really sure. It's not so much about him as it is about me. I don't trust myself. The attraction I feel for him is far too strong for me to reason properly.

"You need to trust me enough to tell me what you're keeping in. It doesn't matter what it is. I may not like or agree with what you will say, but I will always listen and respect it. I will never make fun of you."

He's so intense when he says this that I almost want to laugh. Nothing I have to say about work should be taken so seriously. My eyes move from his sinfully tempting lips to his smoldering eyes, and I realize that he may be talking about something totally separate from my professional opinion on art.