CHAPTER 8 SPACE

All of that happened, his nonsensical jealousy and fear about her suddenly running off and marrying some fictional man happened a long time ago in the history of their working and personal relationship. The tension and attraction they felt had always been there, just under the surface, both of them struggling to keep their feelings in check, suspecting but not really knowing that the other felt the same and had the same struggle. There had always been that chemical spell that both of them were under and unable to change. She had noticed him from the moment he had held that door for her at the gala a scant few years earlier. She had noticed that evening how he looked. She had no choice but to notice how he conducted himself: like a gentleman. In control of himself, a bit gallant, very sure of his ability. He exuded confidence without ego-driven swagger. She was intrigued by those qualities alone. She liked everything about his looks, the way he spoke, his slight British scouse that would shine through every now and then. After working with him for years, her opinion did not change. Well, it DID change, but only in the sense that her affinity, attraction and affection for him grew every day. She had always thought he was very beautifully masculine, elegant and well put together. She liked his size, how he took up space. She liked how he moved, too – for such a big man he was very graceful in how he walked and navigated his way through the world. She also found that he still had a little bit of a rough edge to him – he was befuddled by the idea of frivolity, or play, or domestic things like family meetings and taking one's mother to lunch for a birthday. To her, those qualities were very sweet, a little sad, but very endearing. She loved his rare smile, and even more rare, his laugh. She had seen his face during all kinds of emotions; his smile or any kind of joy on him is what she dreamed about. Internally, she willed him to be joyful by the sheer, heady feeling of love she held for him. She had worshipped him from both afar and up close, and she fell very hard. He was a big, sensual and delicious puzzle to her. She knew how he liked his tea, she knew that he liked certain sweets – he was weak for pastry or chocolate. She knew he had a cognac now and then, maybe some wine, but he was not by any means alcoholic. He was a workaholic. He smoked cigars but lately she had seen him put it out if she walked into the same room. He was spotless and polished in his appearance every single day, his nails were always trimmed and clean and his hands – other than faint white scars on his left one – were flawless and objects of her focus at times. She noticed that he had fine blonde and brown hairs on the backs of his hands, trailing up into his sleeves. He wore no jewelry that she could see. He wore a different pair of shoes every day in a two-week rotation, he had twelve suits – three in various shades of charcoal, six in various shades and fabrics in black, two Navy blue and he had one single brown suit. He was bald by choice, she knew, because every now and then, if he was unable to get to Saunders in time, he had a very faint and dark stubble that portrayed a full head of hair. She had never seen him with hair on his head – ever. She had never seen his bare arms and his hands were the only clue she had to his unadorned, unclothed presence. That and his face and head. His eyes. Windows to the soul. She often wondered what he would be like with nothing on. She would blush involuntarily when she allowed her mind to wander. She thought about how his hands would feel on her body, how she would love to find out one day. In fact, thoughts of him like this haunted her daily, and she struggled to stop herself from musing. The internal fight with herself soon became exhausting. There were moments when she was alone, she would catch herself musing about him, and reality would hit her. "It is just a silly dream!" she told herself. "You have to stop this. Stop it." It hurt her and yet she could barely stop herself from thinking about him. Sometimes when she was feeling overwhelmed, he seemed to withdraw. He would close himself off into his study at night, sitting in front of the fireplace. Though they were under the same roof and mere footsteps apart, when they both retreated, the void was as big as the Grand Canyon. Her heart ached – at times maddeningly – and found herself desperately needing some space from him for self-preservation of her emotional well-being. Seeing him day after day, pining for him, loving him, was sweet sorrow mixed with hope and wonder. And disappointment and heartache. When she found herself overwhelmed by emotions and needing space from her life at the estate, and him, she would travel on Fridays to her parents' home in suburban Philadelphia. She would stay in her old room, certainly changed since her tenure, but still the same space and four walls. She felt safe there and insulated from the world. Her mother was always thrilled to see her, and yet, at the same time wondering why her thirty-year-old daughter was coming down to spend the weekend with her. They had not made plans, it was not a holiday, it was nobody's birthday; her mother was skeptical. Her mother wondered whether things were going well at the Warbucks Estate. Grace used to talk about her work there, but lately, she was quiet about it, and frankly, seemed a bit blue. Grace had been subdued all day. She had turned down an invitation to lunch with her old high school friends at Wanamaker's – one of her favorite places and some of her favorite people. She simply explained: "I would love to go maybe next time. I just want to relax and enjoy the quiet." Her mother fretted about her, thinking of ways to get her adult daughter to open up about whatever it was that was bothering her. Finally, she just asked Grace at dinner on a Saturday evening when it was just the two of them: "Dear, are you alright?"

She smiled at her and said: "Oh…yes..yes Mom, I'm just fine."

Her mother said: "That was two 'yeses' and a 'fine'. Okay dear. Are you sure? You don't seem like yourself. Awfully quiet today, honey." Her mother adored her and was genuinely concerned.

Grace gave a smile and little laugh: "Mother, I promise you…everything is fine. I am fine."

"Well, is everything okay at the estate? Are you doing well there?"

"Yes, all is well there." Softly, Grace sighed – ever so slightly, but it was there. Her mother caught the sigh, as she always had since Grace started doing that when she was about two years old.

"Dear, you would tell me if something were wrong? I just want you well and happy. I know that Mr. Warbucks can be tough to work for."

Grace looked at her mother, a bit taken aback. "Mother! Whatever are you talking about? Where have you heard that?"

"Oh, I guess I read it somewhere. Also, he threatened Andrew." Her mother was wishing she had not said that last sentence.

"What? Mother, you weren't there. Andrew was drunk and he was harassing me. Mr. Warbucks intervened and directed Andrew back to his table. Daddy saw it, too. Besides, that was years ago. I have not thought about Andrew since then. And where did you 'read' about Mr. Warbucks being 'tough to work for'? Because, Mom, I work for him and he is not 'tough to work for'." Her mother asked her further: "Didn't he threaten to beat him up?"

"Who did . . . what, Mother, who threatened to beat up who?"

"Warbucks threatened to beat up Andrew, didn't he? That is what Andrew's mother told me last fall at the symphony."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mother, no. That is not true at all. He never touched him. He threatened to pick Andrew up and carry him back to his table if he didn't leave me alone. The rumor mill. My word! None of that is correct. Mr. Warbucks is a lovely man. He is gallant. Andrew was being a cad. As usual. A drunk cad." They sat in silence for a minute, their plates distracting them for a few moments, each of them trying to eat a little while collecting thoughts. Her mother had accepted that Andrew was a spoiled and mean-spirited little man. She wanted to make Andrew eat his words about Grace. Her Grace. She looked at her daughter, watching her push her vegetables around on her dinner plate. Mrs. Farrell said: "Grace, dear, you're not eating very much. Aren't you hungry?" Grace looked up at her mother, realizing that she had indeed been off in her own thoughts again. About him. Her appetite was always depressed when she was sad, and she was very sad about him. Frustrated. Mad at herself. Feeling like a failure. The constant lump in her throat made her very vulnerable to every little thing. The tears were right under the surface.

Mrs. Farrell looked at her daughter across the table, picking out her previous words about Oliver, and asked pointedly: "You think he is a lovely man?"

"Who?" asked Grace.

"Mr. Warbucks. You said he was a lovely man."

Grace suddenly blushed. She said hurriedly: "I . . .mother, what are you getting at?" Her mother smiled at her from where she was sitting and said: "I just wanted to know that you meant when you said he was a lovely man. Lovely how, exactly?" Grace was caught off guard and struggled to convey why she had used that description. When she heard it said back to her by her mother, she was able to discern how her words sounded: emotional and personal. She had also called him gallant. Grace thought to herself: "Oh no." She sighed again. She tried to speak but found that she had no words. Nothing she could possible say could sound professional or impersonal in her trying to explain why she had called him a "lovely man". Her mother asked: "Grace, do you feel like that all the time? Is he always – lovely – to you? Do you feel like that …now?" Her mother waited for a response patiently.

"Yes, I do." Grace said very softly. "He is a gentleman. A very good man." She was looking down at the dinner plate in front of her. Her voice had wavered ever so slightly. Her mother understood it all very suddenly. She took her time in asking her next question, having a very good idea of what the answer would be. She started, quietly:

"Grace…?" Grace looked up at her, not sure if she wanted to continue with this conversation.

"Yes, Mom...?"

Her mother looked at the table, putting her hands flat in front of her, she said: "How to put this…..I mean, oh my, you are a grown woman….." Grace said: "Mom, just be out with it. You can say it to me." Her mother looked her in the eyes, and very seriously and almost in a whisper, she asked her: "Grace, are you in love with him?" This question took her by surprise. Her mother had a trademark way of being direct and cutting through the nonsense. This is exactly where Grace got her moxie. She took a deep breath, listening to her exhalation shudder a bit as she tried in vain to control her emotions. "Grace? Dear?" Her mother was leaning in closer to her now.

Grace didn't answer right away, she continued to stare at her plate and the tablecloth, she nodded her head silently 'yes' to her mother. A tear drop had fallen from her eye and onto the tablecloth. Her mother got up from her seat and put her arms around her shoulders as Grace started to softly weep, letting some of the heartache out.

"Honey, it's okay to love someone. I am thrilled for you to know what being in love feels like."

She paused and sat down in the chair next to her daughter. "Is this the first time you have ever been in love with a man?" Grace shook her head 'yes' and said: "I think so….no… I know so. I have never felt like this about anyone. Ever. I cannot stop thinking about him, and I miss him every minute."

"Does he love you?" her mother asked.

Grace cleared her throat, trying to swallow the lump there. She looked at her mother for the first time. Shrugging her shoulders, new tears stinging her eyes, she said: "Mom, I am not sure. I think so. Maybe. I don't know. We've never spoken of it. There has been nothing untoward. We are professional at work. I have never acted on it, nor have I brought it up. " Her mother kept silent, letting her speak.

"There is tension, not in a bad way, more like a magnetic tension I feel between us, and I am honestly confused and not sure if I am the only one feeling this way, or does he feel it? I think he does? I sometimes catch him looking at me when I am taking a letter, or . . . well…he brings me little gifts when he travels. I don't give a fig about his money, I mean, we are lucky. I know that. You and Daddy did well. I think that if he ever did find out – how I feel…" she paused there "I would hope he would know I would never go after a man for money and not love. If I wanted to be rich and miserable, I could have easily married Andrew, and probably already been divorced by now." She stopped for a moment before saying: "I just cannot stop thinking about him, everywhere I go, no matter what I am doing its him. Always him. I look for his smile, his voice, the way he speaks, everything. The way he speaks, his laugh….his scent, Mother, I get intoxicated from it." She stopped talking, as she realized that she had just revealed to her mother she did indeed harbor lustful feelings about Oliver Warbucks, and that she certainly wanted him in a physical way, all beyond her control. The heart wants what it wants. Her heart wanted Oliver. Grace continued as her mother let her talk: " That isn't all, though. I have gotten to know him better through working with him day in and day out. Deep down he is a good, caring and ethical man. The tough guy image is just that: an image. He is generous beyond description, in fact, one of my job requirements is that I never divulge his charitable donations or that he even participates at all to anyone. Mother, I shouldn't even be telling you that." Grace paused and took a sip of water. "Sometimes, I cannot be around him because of the tension I am feeling. . I think it is between us…though, lately, he seems a bit distant. I don't know anything anymore, except that I love him so much. I do not have him and it hurts me. A lot. He is all I think about. I couldn't stop if I tried." Her eyes brimmed with tears again. Grace continued after taking a breath: "I don't know what it is….is it a crush? Am I infatuated? I don't know, Mother, I only know that I am a mess – with him, as in working for him and trying to stop my feelings, or without him – when my heart aches from missing him." Grace started to cry again. Her mother kept a loving hand on her shoulder.

Her mother looked at her distraught daughter, knowing what she had was an illness. It was called being 'love sick', and she had it bad. She was surprised by the revelation from Grace, but everything made sense now. Her mother broke down the situation succinctly:

"So, you aren't sure he loves you. But you think he does. Neither of you has said anything, and you two have not had a personal conversation regarding this? So, then, you are not going to pursue this man who you are in love with for fear of him not loving you back. Am I getting this all correctly?" Mrs. Farrell was smiling at her, knowing that her daughter's dilemma was all from fear: fear of loving, fear of rejection, fear of being hurt.

"When you put it that way, Mom, is sounds pretty dry." Grace replied, sniffing a bit as she dried her eyes and cheeks. "I don't know what I am supposed to do. Am I to work next to him and be tormented every day?"

Her mother said: "Well, you could try talking to him. You love him – you are in love with him, and you have a glimmer of hope that he loves you, too. I vote for talking to him."

Grace said: "But, what if I talk to him and he doesn't love me back? Then what? Mom, I have never felt about anyone that way I feel about him. If he doesn't love me back, I can only protect myself and try to move on from him." Her mother raised her eyebrows at this, stirring her coffee, she said: "Dear, you are putting the cart before the horse. You do not know for certain that he doesn't love you back. You have some reason to believe that maybe he does feel the same as you…you need to talk to him…" she paused to think about what Grace had just told her, the last part sinking in. She asked: "Grace, what do you mean, 'move on from him' ?"

"I mean to find another job, and actually, I have. Mother, I cannot torture myself day after day, yearning and pining for someone who doesn't love me back."

"As far as you know." Her mother added.

"Yes, as far as I know. I guess. But, I do know that it is too painful to stay there working with him."

"Dear, you said you had another job? What are you going to do? Where are you going to work? Don't you think you are being a little – impulsive?"

Grace ignored the last part and told her mother: "I have an offer to teach statistics at New York University, part-time at first – they have to see how I do – and then, if everything works out, I can get a full-time situation for next year's start in September." Her mother stared at her in disbelief.

"What? How…how did you get this? How did it happen?" her mother asked. She was caught very much by surprise at this news, but also, not completely shocked. Changing jobs and locales was on par for Grace. She did not like people, places, or things that made her feel bad. That does seem like a rudimentary statement, but she had a track record of, well, running away from things that were scary or made her feel bad. Her mother recognized this.

Grace explained: "I applied in person a couple of weeks ago. I was near the campus, and I just asked if they needed professors. I told them I have a bachelor's degree in mathematics, and I applied for the stats job right there. I went back last week with my credentials and sat for an interview. They called me Thursday and made me an offer."

Her mother sat with her hands folded on the table, looking at Grace. She was thinking about all of it. So much change, so much upheaval because she loved someone and didn't know if they loved her back. She thought to herself: "For such a brave and talented girl, able to drive big trucks, a math whiz, musician, a beauty who could have anyone she wanted in any social circle, working in the big city, going to college and being so self-sufficient – my God, this man scares the hell out of her. She is afraid of having her heart broken, but she is breaking it herself." Her mother wanted Grace to re-think her decision and face her fear. She would have to be diplomatic. Grace was a grown woman; she was not a kid. "Grace, I want to know that you've thought this through. I only want you to be happy. If you love this man, maybe you should try to find out…."

"I know, Mom. I have thought about this very little, honestly." Grace stated in an almost reckless way, she continued: "Certainly the idea has not been in my head for very long – the whole job offer just happened. My decision to even apply was completely impulsive." She paused, letting the words echo in the dining room. The same room where 'Drunk Andrew' caused such an embarrassing scene years earlier. Grace was indulging in some self-pity and a little self-loathing, thinking to herself: "Why am I so bad at this? Why can I not be lucky in love?" to her mother she said: "I cannot be miserable every day…my heart hurts from wanting…..it hurts too much, Mom." Grace certainly looked defeated and exhausted from the constant battle inside her. Her mother saw this in her, too. Grace's demeanor and spirit was the reason why Mrs. Farrell asked about how she was doing in the first place.

"I don't want you to be miserable, dear. I don't want that for you. Ever." Her mother said this carefully, and then continued: "Dear, I am not necessarily referring to your change in careers. I was talking about your situation with ….him."

"Mom, please don't say anything. I haven't even given my notice. I made a promise to him that if I were ever to leave the estate, I would give him ample notice." She sighed again and said: "I am going to tell him Monday morning."

Her mother sighed. "Dear, who would I say anything to? If that is what you need to do, you know I support you, but I still think maybe you should give him a chance..."

"I have, Mom. Don't you think he would have made it clear to me by now? It must be….He just doesn't . . . . love…me."

"As far as you know." Her mother reminded her. Grace sighed again, overtly this time.

"Yes, Mom, as far as I know."