Authors: Casey Elliot
*****
It was pouring rain outside. I was tempted to just not go back to the hotel. There had been plenty of spare clothes in the chest of drawers in my room. They weren’t all my style, necessarily, but they would’ve done in a pinch. I would much rather spend the day indoors curled up in a blanket on the window-seat I had spied in Richard’s study.
I was allowed in his study, right? I mean, Gaston had shown me the rooms I wasn’t allowed in, and the study hadn’t been part of the tour; neither had the basement. If I were being honest though, I suspected that was so I didn’t even know where the door was.
Anyway, I would have rather been on that window-seat reading one of the many books that I had spied on his bookshelves. They weren’t all my style, much like the clothes, but since when has trying on something new been a bad idea?
But, I knew that if I didn’t go get my clothes now, I might never, and there was more there than just my clothes. My laptop and notebooks were significantly less replaceable.
It took me a couple hours to get all my stuff together, settle up at the hotel, and get back to Richard’s mansion.
When I got back, it was nearly time to start preparing lunch. I had meant to ask Gaston if he knew of a dish I could cook that would endear me to Richard, but had forgotten. Now, he was gone for the day and it was up to me to craft something delicious; more delicious than burnt pancakes, at least.
I branched out from the fridge and took some time to explore the cupboards. There was what seemed like a pretty standard collection of pantry staples, as well as a million different kinds of spices. At least, I thought it was a standard pantry collection. My pantry had never usually consisted of more than booze and Hamburger Helper.
I consulted the internet and found a recipe for soup that I had all the ingredients for, and what better thing than soup on a rainy day? He even had some of those saltine crackers, which I hadn’t expected to find in such a dignified kitchen.
The soup went a lot better than the pancakes; in part, I’m sure because cutting things up and throwing them in a pot is fairly foolproof. Richard seemed impressed, anyway, or maybe, that expression on his face was just relief.
He asked me to dine with him again, so I brought my soup out into the dining room too. He watched me break up my crackers and stir them into my soup, and rolled his eyes.
“Must you eat like a child?” he asked impetuously.
In response, I loudly slurped on my spoon. “I like the texture.”
He made an expression that could either have been disbelief or amusement.
“What’s your favorite food?” I asked.
He shook his dark head as he swallowed a mouthful of soup. “I don’t have one.”
My forehead wrinkled. “How can you not have a favorite food?”
“I don’t like any one thing enough to give it the arbitrary designation of favorite,” he replied. “I’ve never seen the point.”
Shocked, I dropped my spoon. It drifted lazily around the rim of my bowl before the handle dipped into the broth.
“Do you not have a favorite of anything?”
His face was impassive. “No.”
“Not even a favorite color?”
He looked at me flatly and went back to eating his soup. I didn’t understand it. I had favorites of everything. My favorite color was orange, my favorite food was pizza, and my favorite Beatle was Ringo Starr.
“Why not?” I asked. “I figured it was just natural to have a favorite of something.
He shrugged; not an elegant gesture, but he somehow made it seem dignified, “Perhaps for some, but not for me.”
With that topic now completely shut down, I wasn’t sure what else to talk about. I wanted to ask him about the noises I had heard in the middle of the night, but felt uncomfortable doing so. Maybe I’d ask Gaston when he was back in the evening.
After making Richard a dinner of barbecued chicken and steamed broccoli, I sought out Gaston. He was in his office (he had his own, apparently) making lists of household items to be picked up.
He didn't wave me in or even acknowledge my presence, so I crept in bashfully.
"Gaston," I asked.
He looked up. "What is it?"
"This is going to sound really stupid..." And it was. How does one even phrase a question like that? "Is this house like... haunted?"
Gaston furrowed his brow and turned his attention back to his writing. "I will not entertain your childish fantasies."
Now, there were many things that I could put up with. Because of my sunny demeanor, people often mistook me for being stupid. I didn't even hate that. I found it easier to be treated as a fool than as the intellectual I knew that I was, as people's expectations were much lower; therefore, more easily surpassed. It just made it a bit easier to breathe, in general. But, I didn't like being talked down to so dismissively. It was just downright rude.
"Gaston," I said, more sternly; I stood a little straighter too. "I heard noises last night. I just wanted to know what they were and if they were normal."
The older man sighed and placed his pen down on the desk, rubbing his forehead in his hands.
"I expect that your ‘normal’ is of a far different variety than my ‘normal’, and that neither of our ‘normals’ slot in with the status quo," he said. "At present, don't worry yourself with what you may or may not have heard. You're here to work, not to make fanciful suggestions of paranormal disturbances."
If that was meant to be a helpful answer, then I would eat my own hat… if I had one. Still, I didn't push it any further. Anyone willing to be as cryptic as that was also not willing to put up with lines of questioning like the ones our conversation would surely descend into.
In short, I decided to do as he said. Why worry about the poltergeist in the basement that may or may not have been normal house noises? I had cooking to do and ridiculous amounts of money to earn.
I was nevertheless bitter with the old man, so I left his office without saying goodbye. Call me petty if you'd like.
Richard
Gaston told me that Mina had been asking about the noises from the basement. She thought it was a ghost. I laughed when I heard.
Whatever she thought though, she didn't press any further nor did she try to get into the basement and have a look around for herself. I kept a close eye on her for her first week, but had no indication that she had the slightest interest in the sounds she heard on a near nightly basis.
I was grateful for that.
After the first week, she began to bring her meals into the dining room at the same time as mine. Though I barely spoke, she peppered me with little facts and tidbits about her life. She never went into much detail, but that was fine. I didn't particularly care to hear about every subtle evolution she had made over the years.
Sometimes, she would just talk about what she'd read in the news, and weigh in on current events. I was more talkative during those times.
I enjoyed her company, though outwardly, I'm sure it didn't appear so. When she was around, I felt much calmer. After her first week, I experienced a night where I was not brought to heel by my anger. I had a peaceful sleep that night — my first in years.
In her second week, the cooking began to improve. At first, I thought she had accidentally not burned or undercooked something, but I walked past her one day with her laptop perched on her knee, watching cooking videos like a hawk. It made me smile.
When she saw me looking, she had quickly slammed her laptop shut, spouting out, "I like to check out the competition." It was charming that she still thought that I thought she had no prior experience with cooking.
On the third week, I went into the living room to relax a bit after reviewing the latest press release from my company; well, my former company. I had been forced to cede power to the board of directors a few months before, and technically, now I was only a figurehead. It was humiliating.
I took a lot of relaxation breaks.
Tented on one side of the couch was a little blue notebook. I'd seen her writing in it several times and had always been curious what secrets she hid within its cover. I was a polite gentleman though, so I hesitated to pick it up. Nevertheless, I was also a bit of an asshole.
The pages were silky against my fingers. It was a beautiful book with a leather cover and clear, white pages. She clearly valued it.
Inside was the beginnings of what I thought was a story. Other pages had scribbling of plot ideas and character features. There were some rough sketches of places and people, and occasionally, she would write a few lines that had clearly been stuck in her head. It was nothing short of impressive. I'd had no idea that that kind of creative mind had been lurking beneath what was clearly a facade of sunshine and grace. Some of the pieces she had written were quite sad, others were less so.
One thing I knew for certain, Mina was clearly an excellent writer.
I asked her about it at dinner. "You've never mentioned that you're a writer."
She nearly spat out her ravioli. That would have been a shame, too because they were delicious and, I suspected, handmade.
"How did you know that?" she asked.
"I found your notebook in the living room," I supplied.
She frowned at me. "You mean you were snooping."
"Whatever term you'd prefer," I said. "Why didn't you tell me?"
I watched as her expression took a pained turn. "My mom's a writer," she said. "Any time people hear that I like to write too, they instantly compare me to her. I hate it."
I forked another piece of pasta into my mouth. A little bit less salt would have been preferable, but she had certainly expanded her skill-set. "I don't know who your mother is," I said.
She grimaced. "You more or less do."
It struck me. "The woman you said you were a personal chef for," I said slowly. "Was your mother?"
She shrugged. "Her cooking wasn't very good," she explained. "That left me in charge of meals sometimes."
I gave her a flat look. "Your cooking isn't very good."
Mina turned bright red. I wasn't sure why. Surely, she had known that I wasn't fooled. Nevertheless, I found it to be quite a good look for her; nervous, flushed, biting her plump lower lip. I pictured that that was what she might look like if I were to seduce her. I smiled in response to that thought.
"I really needed the job," she explained meekly. She looked down at her plate.
I forked another bite of ravioli into my mouth. "You're full of surprises, Mina," I said. "But, finding out that you lied on your application is not one of them."
She began to laugh then. At first, it was a nervous chuckle, but it swelled in volume until she was giggling uncontrollably.
"This whole time," she said, "I thought that maybe you didn't have taste buds or something. I didn't understand why you kept me on."
It wasn't my style to give unnecessary compliments, but I felt the urge to assure this girl of her place in my home. If she felt unwanted, she might leave, and I'd had three good nights of sleep in a row this week.
"Enthusiasm was the primary factor," I suggested. "And, for the most part, you make satisfactory company."
Those made her rollick with laughter again.
"Can I put that on my resume in the future, Mr. Turner?" she asked between breaths; "Enthusiastic and satisfactory company?"
Mina
I'd settled into a real routine at Richard's house. Now that I had figured out the basics of cooking, I'd really begun to enjoy it too. He didn't exactly warm up, but he was less curt with me when we talked.
I felt a lot better, as well, after learning that he knew about my failed cooking pedigree. It was a weight off of my shoulders.
Somehow, as the days grew shorter, we became closer. He would never admit it, but he found reasons to be around me sometimes. He'd come and watch me cook, saying that he wanted to make sure I was performing the act myself and hadn't outsourced my duties. He would spend time in the living room as I wrote, saying that he found the sound of the keystrokes relaxing. He'd also use that as a reason to chastise me if I stopped.
I think he was, in his own way, encouraging me to write. He'd never explicitly said that he liked what I wrote, but he told me that he thought it was stupid that I didn't write because of my mother, and was always available to read over a scene for me and give feedback. My first novel began to take shape. When I combined that with my newfound love of cooking, I actually felt like I had a purpose. For the first time in my life, I felt fulfilled.
I was getting a lot of good sleep, too.
Casper was around a lot when I first got there, but I heard less and less of him over time. On those odd occasions when I did hear bangs in the middle of the night, I'd usually mutter something like, "Go to sleep, Casper," and roll over in bed.
It wasn't a bad life.
There was only one teensy-weensy little problem; just a slight one.
I think I fell in love with my boss.