Cliff was my father’s driver. He lived in a little apartment on their twelve-acre property. I thanked her, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice, and gave her directions to where I was.
What had I expected? My mother hopping in her little, red Mercedes and driving to my rescue? A hug? I wiped the tears from my face and shrugged away the hurt feelings.
“Don’t be such a f**king little baby,” I told myself.
Cliff arrived ten minutes later. He parked his pickup in an empty lot and jumped in the driver’s seat of my car. I looked over at him gratefully.
“Thanks, Cliff.”
He nodded and shifted the car into drive. The good thing about Cliff was that he wasn’t a talker. When we pulled through the gates of the mansion, all of the lights were out. I stumbled through the front door — which was left open for me — and felt my way up to the spare room. No mother waiting, no father waiting.
I cleaned up in the bathroom, put a band-aid on the cut on my forehead and swallowed three Advil for my headache. Crawling into bed, I drifted off, thinking of Caleb.
I woke up to the sound of my name. It was my mother’s voice, impatient. I sat up quickly and flinched at the pain that zigzagged across my scalp. She was standing next to my bed, fully dressed, her hair coiffed on top of her head in a perfect chignon. Her lips were ruby red and pulled tight. She was angry with me. I flinched again and pulled the sheet up to my chin.
“Hi, Mama.”
“Get up.”
“Okay …”
“Your father is very angry, Johanna. This is the third time this year you’ve had an incident with your car.”
I shifted uncomfortably. She was right.
“He’s having breakfast. He wants you to come down so he can speak to you.”
I nodded. Of course he would send my mother. Ever his envoy, my father never spoke to me unless he sent my mother to summon me to a meeting. Even when I was a little girl, I remember being called this way when I did something naughty.
I hurriedly dressed in my clothes from the night before and followed her down the stairs to the dining room. He was sitting in his usual spot at the head of the table, with the paper spread out in front of him. At his elbow was a cup of coffee and a goat cheese and spinach omelet. He didn’t look up when I walked in.
“Sit,” he said. I scooted into a chair, and the housekeeper brought me a coffee and a small, white pill.
“Johanna,” he said, snapping his paper closed and peering at me with his hard, grey eyes. “I’ve decided that it’s in your best interest to come work for me.”
I started. I already had a job. I worked as a teller at a local bank. My father did not employ family; he called it a conflict of interest. Just last year, my cousin begged to be taken on as an accountant and my father refused.
“W — why?”
He frowned. ‘Why’ was not a word my father enjoyed hearing.
“I mean — you don’t believe in mixing family and work,” I rushed. My palms were sweating. God, why did I drink so much last night?
My father was handsome. He had olive skin and light grey eyes. He had spent ten hours a week in the gym for years and had the physique to show for it. With my flaming red hair and pale skin, I look nothing like him.
His eyes locked onto mine and in that moment, I knew what he was saying.
A dull ache worked its way across my chest as if it was searching for something. It found my heart, ripped it open and climbed inside. I picked my emotions up from the floor and looked my father in the eyes. If he wanted me to leave my job and work for him, I would leave my job and work for him.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“You’ll start Monday. You can take the Lincoln while your car is in the shop. Leave your keys with Cliff.”
He reopened his paper, and I knew I’d been dismissed.
I stood up, wanting to say something else, wanting him to say something else.
“Bye, Daddy.”
He didn't even acknowledge I’d spoken.
My mother was waiting for me in the hall. She handed me the keys to the Lincoln. This was such a well-oiled operation.
I drove straight to the bank and informed them I would not be returning to work. Then I headed to my townhouse with the full intention of drinking a bottle of wine and going to sleep. When I got home, Caleb was sitting on my doorstep. I stopped short. He was in his work clothes: grey pants, white button down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He was sitting with his legs spread, elbows resting on his knees and looking at the ground, seemingly deep in thought. When he heard my heels on the concrete, he looked up … smiled. It was his crooked smile. It reached all the way to his eyes and made you wonder if he was picturing you naked. God, I was so lost to this man. I walked right past him and unlocked the door. When I opened it, he stood and followed me inside.
Afterward, we ordered Thai food and sat in bed eating it. I was still a little raw from my conversation with my dad — not to mention, I’d just slept with Caleb, again, after he told me he didn’t want me.
“Why did you come here? You can’t come for booty calls and then tell me I’m not good enough to be your girlfriend.”
He set his container down on the side table and turned to face me.
“That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t need to, ass**le. Actions speak louder than words.”
He nodded. My chopsticks froze on the way to my mouth. I had expected him to at least put up a fight … deny it.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”