"It must be frustrating to work with a man like that," said Ashley.
"Not at all," replied the housekeeper with a smile. "Mr. Lang really is a sweet man, and he's the best boss I've ever had. He's rough around the edges to be sure, but once you get past it, you'll find none better."
Ashley just smiled and uttered, "That's nice." Inside, she was wishing she'd kept her own relationship with Anthony on the professional side so she didn't have to encounter the jerk who slept with women and then ran off. Had she just kept her feelings to herself, she'd probably still be like Helene, and she'd be completely happy here instead of feeling trapped while she waited for him to return.
Chapter Eleven
THE DAYS PASSED SLOWLY with no real work to be done. Ashley once again tried to devote all her energy to her novel in progress, but she didn't feel she was the sort of writer who could redirect her emotions into her work. Feeling rejected and dispirited made it extremely difficult to focus on her story, and she took the actions of her boss as an unfair indicator that everything she did was worth rejecting. She knew this was an issue she'd have to work through if she was ever going to manage a career as a professional wordsmith. It was one of the central themes she dwelled upon during her long walks away from town and into the surrounding rural area.
After each walk, she'd return to the house to sit at her desk for a few hours, sometimes typing out a few awkward paragraphs of her novel, but often staring over the top of the screen out the window, wondering if she should be planning her next move for Anthony's return. If things were going to revert to the extreme awkwardness they'd experienced after their kiss in the cemetery, she didn't plan to hang around any longer than she had to. By quitting while his book was only a quarter written, she felt as though she were abandoning more than just a person who didn't know how to act around her; but there was only so much treatment like an outcast she could stand.
Helene was her usual kind and supportive self. They'd become closer over the last few days, spending time talking in the evenings and even retreating to the housekeeper's room to watch a movie on her television. Anthony didn't have a TV anywhere in the house and didn't like the idea of having one sitting around just because all houses should have one. That was fine with Ashley; she'd rather read a good book than stare at a screen for hours at a time, but the comfort of sitting in a battered old armchair and gossiping about the characters in a British historical drama with Helene was quickly becoming part of an evening she looked forward to.
Helene, of course, had yet to acknowledge the strained relationship between Ashley and their boss. She was too smart a woman and had been around far too long to not realize that something had happened, but she was blessedly quiet on the subject. The only real indication that she knew anything was the way she'd begun to treat Ashley as a member of the strange little family unit she'd built with Anthony. Their conversations became far more frequent and casual, and an easy-going friendship blossomed into something akin to what a girl and her grandmother might share. The only real downside was that Helene was intent on using food to cure whatever heartache Ashley might be feeling inside, and with only two of them in the house, it was a chore to keep up with the steady stream of brownies and cookies and other baked treats that came out of the oven every day while the boss was away.
A week went by without either of them hearing from Anthony, when suddenly one evening Helene perked up from her chair during the middle of an episode of their TV show.
"That'll be Mr. Lang at the door," she said. Helene stood and folded the blanket she had laid across her lap. "You just go on watching, and I'll see to his bags."
The voices on the TV faded into the background as Ashley's heartbeat kicked into overdrive. The idea seeing him once he was settled was at the forefront of her thoughts, but she knew it probably wasn't the best idea. She'd have to keep her distance until he asked for her. After all, she was the employee and he was the boss. He'd made it very clear that he didn't want anything more than this, and there was no point in her banging on his door and scolding him with questions about what the hell he might have been thinking when he took off in the middle of the night just to get away from her.
No, it was better to follow his lead. He was a man used to being in control, this much was clear. He'd spent so much time in situations where his life depended on as much knowledge and influence as possible, and the idea of falling in love with a woman like Ashley was probably too much for him to handle. Love was more difficult to navigate than any hostile territory his missions might have taken him to, and she had to tell herself that time to adjust to this new person in his life was probably what he needed the most.
"What did I miss?" asked Helene, stepping quickly past the television to settle back into her chair.
"Sorry?" asked Ashley. She had no idea what the woman was referring to.
"The show, dear. Did the valet confess that he'd broken Lady Hemmingsworth's priceless vase?"
"Oh, um, I really don't remember," said Ashley. She felt her face flush with the embarrassment of essentially admitting she'd been so preoccupied with Anthony's return that she hadn't noticed what had been blaring on the TV right in front of her.
"Not to worry," said Helene. "I always record them so I can watch them later. Mr. Lang bought me one of those digital recorder devices so I can save my shows. We can just zip right back and pick up where we were interrupted."
Ashley mumbled something about that being a great idea and proceeded to ignore the show for the second time in a row. "Did Anthony say if he'd be doing any writing tonight?"
"He was quite tired from his flight home, and he said he was heading for the shower and then straight to bed. He did want me to let you know that he was leaving some recordings out for you. Notes from his trip, I take it."
Helene was too absorbed in the drama unfolding on the screen for Ashley to bother her with any more questions. Instead, she did her best to focus on the characters in the show. She was beginning to wish that she lived in the world of the show. The men seemed so charming and honorable, and the ladies were so elegant and bold. She knew it was a silly fantasy, but she couldn't help but imagine Anthony courting her and trying to win her favor instead of the reverse—her working for him and falling slowly in love with someone emotionally unattainable.
Watching a woman being helped into her dress by a handmaid neatly dissolved the fantasy. As beautiful as the women were dressed, Ashley couldn't imagine having to stuff herself into those cumbersome outfits all the time. Besides, no matter what era they found themselves in, men were men, and people like Anthony Lang would still find ways to run away from their problems.
Chapter Twelve
WHILE IT WAS GOOD to work on something as straightforward as transcribing recordings of notes on locations to be used in the new book, listening to Anthony's voice for hours on end was considerably less pleasant. As Ashley listened to him give voice to the sounds and smells of the city, it was as though he were on the other end of a phone telling her about what he'd experienced that day. She began to find that she wasn't so much mad at him for running away as she was jealous that he'd gone to Copenhagen without her. She tried to keep her mind on work, but it was too easy to think about sitting across from him at a sidewalk cafe while she was the one describing the courtyards and architecture instead of whatever stranger he'd imposed upon for help.
She had to admire him for that. He was completely blind and yet his visual descriptions of places were incredibly vivid. Ashley assumed he'd been able to draw from memories in order to write such picturesque words, but now she was learning his real secret. He certainly wasn't shy about stopping someone in the street to ask if he could record them describing the surrounding area. She couldn't figure out how he could tell who was worth picking out of a crowd, but given the extraordinary talents he'd developed in the CIA, she figured it was some trick of sound and smell. Perhaps he heard a certain casual cadence in the way someone walked, or maybe he used the odor of a certain cologne or tobacco to identify those who might be persuaded to stop for a chat.
Being blind probably didn't hurt anything. He was a sharp dresser and carried himself with confidence. Most people would stop to help a man like him on the street, and add in the fact that he couldn't see, and Ashley didn't see how anyone could not show some sympathy and take a few moments to provide a bit of colorful description for his research. Whatever he did to get them, the recordings were fascinating, if difficult to transcribe, accounts of various parts of the city that were key to his novel. She saw immediately how useful they'd be. Ashley hadn't traveled much herself, having been either too busy with school or too in debt paying for it, and she'd had to rely on things like internet mapping software and photo galleries to get an idea of where her stories could be set. It was easy to be jealous of the sort of success that allowed Anthony to easily hop on a plane and go right to the location of his next book.
The transcriptions were taking longer than usual, largely due to the challenge of making out the thick accents and uneven speech of people he'd interviewed, but also because of their sheer volume. Anthony seemed to have been dictating notes at a furious pace, and there was enough work here to keep her busy for a good week. Ashley didn't know if she'd be able to catch up on this backlog and start in on whatever work he might be recording now that he was back home again. She tried to tell herself that she needed to check in with him, and that it wasn't just an excuse to talk to him for the first time since she'd scurried out of the room partially dressed, but she couldn't deny her ulterior motive as she neared the office door.
"Yes, come in," said Anthony's strong clear voice from the other side of the door.
"Hi," she began, feeling like a fool for having come down to bother him.
"Oh, I thought you were Helene with my coffee," he said. He stiffened in his chair and sat up a little straighter.
"I can come back later if you're busy..."
"No need for that. What can I do for you?"
"It's about all these notes you recorded while you were away. It's a lot of work, and I wanted to let you know that it will take me a few days to get them transcribed. If you have any new work for me, I won't be able to start in on it for several days." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, glad he couldn't see her wringing her hands as she tried to deal with her nervous energy from being in the same room with him again.
"We can prioritize the research notes according to date, and you can work on them around my regular narrative dictation. I visited the sites in chronological order to match the book, so I won't need some of the later notes for another couple of months. We should be fine if you can do, say, one day of recordings per week?"
"That's perfectly manageable," she said. Ashley stood there, her mouth half open. She wanted to say more, but she didn't know how or where to begin.
"Is there something else?" he asked. He face was directed off to one side of the room, a seemingly normal gesture without the sight to make eye contact, but Ashley knew him better than that, and it was clear that he was avoiding focusing directly on her.
"What do you want to do about our daily meetings? Should I assume they've been put on hold for the time being?" She surmised that they'd never have them again, but she thought she should at least make a go of pretending that the situation was a little less difficult than it really was.
"I don't see why we should have to do that. Unless you're not comfortable with the extra workload of transcribing my research notes?"
"No, not at all. I'd be happy to resume our regular meetings." She could hear the eagerness in her voice, and she hated herself for being so weak. The truth was that she just wanted to be around him, and she would make any excuse to do it.
"Great, let's pick up this afternoon then. Shall we say three o'clock?"
"That sounds perfect, I'll see you then." Ashley turned to leave, but he spoke again before she reached the door.
"How's your novel coming along?" he asked. It could have been an innocent enough question, but not when it was spoken between two writers.
"It's going well enough," she lied. "I've had some rough patches here and there, but I'm working on it as much as I can."
"I'd love to read it when you have a draft for me."
This was the very thing she dared not think about when she first accepted the job, and now that the words were actually out of his mouth, it felt like nothing more than an apology for the way he'd fucked her and run off. Still, it was a rare opportunity to have an international bestseller critique her work.
"Sure. I'll send you a copy when it's finished."
"Any time you want to talk about it, just let me know. My door is always open to you, Ashley."
It was impossible to know whether he was referring to the writing or their awkward relationship. She recognized that something in him wanted to have her around just as much as she wanted to be near him, but it seemed that he didn't know how to ask for it. The offer was nothing more than a thread of hope that maybe they could work their way through this, and Ashley latched on to it with both hands and decided to give it a yank. Just because she was his assistant and he was used to being in control didn't mean that she couldn't push a little harder.
"I'd really love that," she said. "Maybe we could go to the diner in town tonight to talk about it?"
"Tonight? Uh, yeah..." he stammered. It was obvious she'd caught him completely off guard, and for all his CIA training, he couldn't come up with a probable excuse to get out of dinner with a woman who was plainly interested in him for more than just writing advice.