Possession (2 page)

I
nsomnia
kept me company into the wee hours of the morning. My lullaby for the past four
years had been sirens, store alarms, and traffic. Now all I had to listen to
was the whooshing of the wind through the trees, the hooting owls, and the
occasional barking of some stray dog somewhere. It wasn't nearly enough.

I
finally admitted defeat at around three a.m. and turned on my bedside lamp to
read some poetry. I knew there’d be hell to pay the next day. My interview was
at nine—early for me. At some point, I slipped into an uneasy slumber, my book
fallen open on my chest.

When
I jolted awake, the sun was streaming in through my blinds. Sitting up, I
glanced at my clock. Eight fifteen. I'd slept through my alarm.

Shit.
Shit. Shit.

I
hopped in the shower and back out before I tore around my tiny bedroom,
throwing on the interview clothes I’d brought with me: a secondhand pair of designer
black silk pants and a nice button-down shirt. And, of course, my lucky pair of
shamrock underwear. I wasn’t taking any chances.

When
I was dressed, I headed out to the living room to grab my car keys. The house
was empty; Mom was already at work.

Outside,
the clouds scuttled across the slate sky. I hopped in the car and smoothed the
sheet of paper with the address to Dax Allard Enterprises out on the passenger
seat. It was located on what Edenites called “the hill,” but really, it was
just a steep incline that lay to the northeast of town. Only about two miles
past my mother's house, it flattened out to a plateau at the top. Back when I
was in high school, the hill was nothing but dense woods that kids used as a make-out/smoking/drinking
spot. Guess that was all gone now.

The
drive up the hill was fraught with unpleasantness, but I was determined to not
view it as a portent. The road was so bumpy, my poor Volvo groaned in agony and
I had to turn on my headlights because of the ridiculously thick vegetation.
Trees grew close together, roots twisting and tangling together; their green
canopies barely let any sunlight filter down.

The
job paid eighty grand a year, which was the only reason I’d even considered
applying. I’d gone six months in Chicago chasing after anything that remotely
had to do with my major (psychology), and even several jobs that didn’t. When my
application for this position—as a “philanthropic liaison,” whatever that was—garnered
me a call back, I’d had to admit that returning to Eden was probably the wisest
idea. Especially since Mom wasn’t charging me rent.

As
the Volvo lurched in a stomach-twisting way, I wondered how the people who
worked up there got to town and back every day without totally destroying their
cars. It might be better for me to start bringing my old bike if I got the job,
assuming Mom had kept it.

Finally
the path cleared a bit and I realized I wasn't driving
up
anymore but
straight. This must be the top of the hill, the plateau that used to be covered
in trees. Now there was an enormous set of wrought iron gates that stood open.
Past them was an expanse of lawn, lined with a black wrought iron fence.

I
drove toward the mansion at the north end of the lawn, which looked like
something off of a movie set. Three stories tall and made of velvety grayish-brown
stone, it had windows that sparkled in the sunlight and were at least three
times the size of the windows in my mom's house. There was a rounded tower-like
addition to the left, and the upper right corner was outfitted with a spacious
balcony.

I
got out of the car and stood with my head tipped back, looking at the grandiosity
of it. They'd cleared many of the trees and bushes away from the perimeter of
the house so it looked like it could belong virtually anywhere—from eighteenth
century England to modern-day Beverly Hills. Timeless.

Hearing
the massive front door open, I scurried up the stone stairs. It wouldn’t do for
my employer to see me standing there, mouth agape at all the splendor around
me.

A
wizened old man stood in the doorway smiling. He wore an old-fashioned black-and-white
suit like I'd seen butlers wear in old movies and his white hair was long and
wavy, like noble men wore in the old days. It was almost as if he were in
costume.

"Ms.
Beaumont, I presume?" he asked in a thick French accent, holding out a
white-gloved hand.

"Yes."
I smiled and shook his hand, which was extremely warm even through the fabric
of the glove. When I’d made the appointment online, I'd assumed I'd be speaking
with an impeccably dressed young assistant, the kind companies hired to portray
themselves as cutting-edge and trendy. Yet, this man seemed to belong in some
other time.

"I'm
Oscar Dubois." He walked in and I followed.

The
floor in the entry foyer was all dark gray marble. A large circular table dominated
the center; on it was an even larger display of cascading white flowers. There
was an enormous spiral stairway beyond the table, and the stairs were covered in
thick, luxuriant cream carpet. Whatever sort of outfit this was, they clearly
had money, and lots of it. The eighty-grand salary was becoming easier to
understand.

When
we’d ascended to the second floor, Oscar led me down a long hallway and finally
into a large office, lined with bookcases. The wall behind the desk was all
windows, and they looked over the wooded path I'd just driven through. My
cheeks flashed red as I realized that Oscar would’ve been able to see me
creeping up through the vegetation, my poor car stuttering and heaving while it
struggled with the altitude. That meant he'd likely seen me ogling the house as
well, since he had a clear view of the driveway. So much for poise and
professionalism.

"Please sit." He gestured to a sleek chair across from the
desk, and I complied. To my surprise, rather than behind the desk, he sat in
the chair opposite me, so we were both on the same side. "Now, tell me,
why do you wish to work here?"

This
being a classic interview question, I'd given it much thought. But it was hard
to answer honestly when I had no idea what Dax Allard Enterprises specialized
in or what a “philanthropic liaison” was, exactly. So I decided to be
semi-honest. I held his light, silver-blue eyes. "Well, I just graduated
from the University of Chicago. I wanted to come back home to be close to my
mom—her health isn't the best.” My eyes drifted away at the lie, but I forced
them back to his. “And I was looking for a fresh challenge. I wanted something
that’d use some of my college-acquired skills, and none of the minimum wage
jobs out there really seemed like they'd do that."

Oscar
Dubois smiled. "You must believe me when I say you'll be amply challenged
here. This is not a position we take lightly."

I
tried to nod intelligently, but then I figured it was better to just ask.
"Mr. Dubois, I'm sorry, but I’m not sure what the position entails. What
would I be doing, precisely?"

"You
would be our connection to the outside world," Oscar said, spreading his
arms out. "You'd be the link representing Dax Allard."

"Representing
Dax Allard Enterprises in what way?" I still wasn't catching on.

"Well,
many charities Mr. Allard contributes to request his involvement on a deeper
level than he has the time or the inclination for. You see, Mr. Allard...well,
he's not the most
social
person, shall we say? That's where you'd come
in." He held my gaze, and there seemed to be a question in his eyes, maybe
wondering if this was something someone like me—young, inexperienced—could
handle. No doubt the amount of the donations, if this place was anything to
judge by, would be astronomical. I’d probably be rubbing elbows with some very
influential people.

I
hadn't realized that Dax Allard was a person, but of course, it made sense now.
A thought occurred to me. "Is this"—I gestured around the office—"Mr.
Allard's
house
?"

Oscar's
brow wrinkled. "Why, yes, it is. Why do you ask?"

I
shook my head and tried not to laugh. "I thought it was an office
building. This sort of house isn't exactly common in Eden." Or in North
America.

Oscar
chuckled and changed the subject. "Mr. Allard is rather generous with his
funds, which is why we need someone to manage his philanthropic interests. He
doesn't have the"—here he cleared his throat delicately—"requisite
characteristics to meet with chair people, manage boards, and do the miscellaneous
other social activities they'd like him to. You would manage his social
calendar, see which events he can bypass and which he must absolutely go
to."

I
felt the beginnings of doubt begin to creep around in the recesses of my brain
at the way he kept stressing that Dax Allard wasn’t social. But I needed this
job. And if I could deal with my roommate’s mood swings for four years, I could
deal with some man's too. I had to. "I see. Well, I think I'd be up to the
task."

Oscar
smiled and stood. “I shall return momentarily.”

I
stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk, looking out at the woods
for several minutes. There was another storm blowing in, the clouds rolling and
rumbling like boiling water in a pot. This last thought had just crossed my
mind when the atmosphere in the quiet room changed completely.

I
felt his presence behind me even though he was silent as a jaguar stalking its
prey. Swinging around, my heart racing for reasons I didn’t understand—it
certainly wasn’t fear—I came face-to-face with him for the first time.

Invisible
electricity crackled through the air in the five feet of space between us. I knew
in my gut that if I crossed the room and grabbed his arm—his quite nicely
muscled arm, my brain noted—the current between us would be strong enough to
kill me.

But
the look on his face... It was an expression I'd never seen on anyone else's
face, ever. His eyes were wide, but was it surprise? Alarm? Hostility? I might
even have mistaken it for fear, but what did a man well over six feet tall have
to fear of a skinny chick like me? The idea was laughable. And yet his lightly-shadowed
jaw was clenched so tight, a thick vein in his neck stood out.

Letting
my eyes run over him, I noticed that his entire posture was conflicted—on the
one hand he seemed to be leaning forward, as if to take in all of me, but on
the other, his feet were rooted firmly to the spot, as if he didn't dare take
another step.

Well,
he might be conflicted, but I wasn’t. Everything about this man seemed to draw
me in instantly; his height, his broad shoulders, the way his shirt hugged what
was sure to be a well-sculpted body. Even his tousled hair, so dark it was
almost black, appealed to me on the basest level. I’d never felt an attraction
like it.

A
sigh worked its way past my lips. It seemed to break the spell on Dax Allard.
He cleared his throat, averted his eyes from me, and, walking as closely to the
bookshelf-lined walls as possible, entered another foot into the room so that
we were within speaking distance.

It
seemed to me from simply looking at him—his crisp collared shirt, the clearly
expensive beige pants, the shoes that probably cost more than my mom’s monthly
mortgage—that he was used to doing things his way, the way he liked. But
somehow, he looked flustered now. I wondered if I'd done something to offend
him, because he continued to fiddle with his cufflinks and refused to meet my
eye.

"Miss
Beaumont," he began. His voice was deeper than I'd imagined, a little bit
like sandpaper would be if it was a sound. It was still beautiful in the way a
particularly gorgeous piece of rock can be art. He had a French accent just
like Oscar, but his was mixed in with an American one, enough so that it was
barely a hint.

"Mr.
Allard," I replied, when he didn't go on. His gaze landed on mine then,
that look of alarm or surprise or anger in it again. Now that he was closer, I
noticed his eyes were a strange color I'd never seen before—a sort of coppery red-brown.

He
looked away again, but he still didn't stop fidgeting. "I'm afraid...I'm
afraid Oscar made a mistake. The position—it's already been filled."

I
was so absorbed in the way this confident man's voice hid just a hint of a
tremble that it took me a full five seconds to comprehend what he'd said. When
I did, my face drained of color. "What? But—"

He
shook his head and, to my intense irritation, began to make his way back toward
the door. "Sorry."

I
could feel anger turning my cheeks bright pink. "Wait a minute," I
called to his back. "This—This isn't fair!"

He
half-turned toward me, his face rigid, eyes blazing. I could've sworn the room
actually got about ten degrees warmer. "Hasn't anyone told you, Miss
Beaumont?" he said. "Life's not fair."

And
then he stalked out of the room. I stared after him stupidly, my eyes welling
up. That was
it
? The position had been filled and they'd
forgotten
?
If I was a more forceful person, I'd run out there and demand an explanation.
I'd demand that they pay for my gas and any trouble my car would have from the
stupid drive up the stupid hill. I'd ask them to compensate for time lost. But
me being me, I simply sank into the chair, closed my eyes tight, and let the
tears trickle out from between my lashes.

A
fter
a moment, I felt a brief
warm touch on my shoulder. I jumped and turned, expecting to see Dax Allard
back, come to apologize. But it was Oscar, his eyes kind and soft, sympathetic.

"My
deepest apologies, Ms. Beaumont," he said, shaking his head slowly.
"I know this has been a waste of your time."

I
stood, forcing my tears back. "I don’t understand. What...was it something I
said?"

Oscar
heaved a big sigh, as if he was just as sorry as me. "Not at all. You
mustn’t think that.” He scrutinized my face, as if he was trying to decide
something. "You would have been a good fit here, I do think. I have a sense
about people."

Desperation
began to churn inside me. If I didn’t have this job, I had nothing. Would I
have to stay on in Eden, work at the diner with my mother? "Then please,
can't you reconsider? I promise I can prove myself to you. I work hard, I'm
young and adaptable. Does the other applicant have a college degree?" I
was willing to bet not, since I was only a handful of people in Eden who did.

But
Oscar folded his white-gloved hands neatly. "Alas, it is not up to me. If
it were, you would be my choice."

We
stared at each other a long moment, and I could see he meant what he said. The
choice hadn't been made by him, but by his boss, Dax Allard. And in that
moment, I knew instantly that there wasn't another candidate. What was it about
me that had revolted Dax Allard so much that he decided, on sight, that he
didn't want me working for him? Was he some kind of misogynist? But surely, if
he was, they wouldn’t have approved my initial application.

Sighing,
I followed Oscar back to the front door. I knew I'd continue to torture myself
with these questions—questions I had no hope of ever having answered.

"I
wish you well, Ms. Beaumont," Oscar said, just before I stepped outside.
"And once again, I extend my heartfelt apologies."

"Thanks,"
I said, panic beginning its siren call in my head. My only job prospect had
disintegrated right before me. What was I going to do?

I
went down the front steps and tilted my head back toward the sky. The storm was
almost upon us.