CHAPTER 1: LINGERING
She noticed his hands when she first started working for him as his personal secretary. She was sitting across from him, taking a letter to the director of some sponsored interest, when she saw the faint white lines of scars on the back of his left hand, and up into the cuff of his starched, white shirt. He had a few others that were not visible that were on the underside of his wrist. She tried not to stare, as the scars betrayed his impeccable dressing, his neatly shaved head and face, and his attempted "buttoned up" demeanor. The only trace of his having hair were his prominent eyebrows. His brow was a secret weapon she had surmised. She had witnessed him using his intimidating glare to win many a deal with his colleagues in industry. She found his scowl amusing, and almost a challenge for her to change it. She found his genuine smile captivating. Daily, she maintained a personal code of conduct in the face of all loud and demanding confrontations, abrupt 180-degree turnarounds, seemingly impulsive purchases and sell-offs – all in good sense, but often done so with an accompaniment of hurried panic. In these moments, she would stay her course in calm reserve, often with a smile as she turned her elegant heel to the task at hand. She had a simple philosophy: the rest of the staff could panic and bolt plenty enough to cover her share. She would remain calm and cool. At those times, her focus on results and follow-through were often resolved with a clipped and booming "WELL DONE!", and then the slam of his massive office door against the world.
It was after one such loud door slamming victory, a few years into her employment with him, that she lingered in the hallway outside his door after everyone else had gone home, or to bed. She nervously tried to think of a viable excuse to talk to him. She thought that if there were ever a chance to catch him in a happy moment, it would be directly after a small victory, especially if she had a key role in securing it. And, today, she had had exactly that. She also knew that no matter what reason she told herself she was there for, she knew the real reason that she lingered outside his office door. It was her secret. She had watched him many hours and in the past years, and while he barked and brooded, shouted into his phones, demanded meeting exacting deadlines, and was almost always in a state of managing several endeavors at once, she knew there was more to it than just him being demanding and loud. She had been with him during quiet times, too. She sat across from him as he thought through some challenge, putting a finger in the air to request silence, and then: his smile and his softer side would show, as he obtained a solution. She would sometimes catch him looking at her as she looked up from taking notes. He could be all of those gentle and quiet moods, as well as a loud, demanding ball of anxiety. She knew that he was the most emotional when his businesses affected people, their lives, their very futures. He knew that if his interests couldn't co-exist with providing real livings and standards to those in his employ, he wasn't doing enough. That is when she noticed that he was deeper than being driven by money: when he couldn't do enough for his constituents. He gave them his all, all the time, to ensure his own success, but just as important, he secured their livelihoods during a very scary time financially. The bottom line to her was that he cared. He had a heart. The big, loud, scary, brooding, scowling, clean-shaven, sharply dressed man with scars on his hand gave a damn if he had to close a factory and people were thrown out of work. He knew all too well what that terror felt like. That feeling of terror was the backdrop of his childhood and formative years.
On this particular night, as she paced a veritable trench line into the carpeting in front of his office door, she kept in mind that she had helped him to prevent once such factory closure, and had, at least for the foreseeable future, saved over 300 local jobs. She was very proud of that fact but wasn't looking for accolades. She was suddenly hit with the idea of letting him know he had done well, too. That was her plan to steal a few minutes in his presence. She finally mustered up the courage to place a polite but insistent knock on his oak door. As she stood closer to it, she could hear the faint sounds of Satie coming from his phonograph. As she heard the tumbler turn in the lock, and the door clicking open, she almost panicked and ran. But as he opened the door, he saw her and smiled. "Did he just smile at seeing me?" she asked herself, not sure how to read him. "Miss Farrell, please, come in." He held the door open for her to walk past him, into his familiar space. She noticed that he had a fire going and had poured himself a brandy. She couldn't help but to think to herself that this man surrounded himself with romantic things – beautiful art, a huge mansion that was a wonder of architecture, rare books, classical music, wonderfully elegant rooms, and yet, he lived a solitary life amongst the crowd of his staff. He often stayed up late into the night, sometimes writing personal correspondence in long hand to a few, rare people that he held dear. She would see the handwritten envelopes to go out with the rest of that day's mail the next morning. He would simply say "Add those to the outgoing, Miss Farrell, please." And she would. Out of strict professionalism and personal integrity, she never looked at the intended names or addresses. She regarded his privacy as sacred, and a part of her job duties was to protect it. He would retreat to his office, and fireplace at the end of the day, to reflect, nurse a favored brandy and smoke a bold cigar. Always alone. He never went out. He had few friends. He had no lady friends that she knew of, and as far as she knew, he slept alone in his giant suite of rooms. She had no idea what his rooms looked like at all, she had never even been in the hallway to his wing. Everyone knew it was his personal and private space, his sanctity in that one never disturbed, with the exception of Saunders – his underbutler, and Mrs. Greer who supervised her hand-selected and very small team in cleaning his rooms, making his bed up, stocking the fireplaces, and making sure he had fresh flowers every week. His rooms were masculine and elegant, a lot of dark wood paneling and forest green color. On his mantle was a tiny wooden toy boat that he had since childhood. He had kept it with him as a 'good luck' charm. It had belonged to Albert. Mrs. Greer had a stricter code of privacy than Grace. She would never tell or repeat or describe anything she ever saw in his private quarters. It was something that simply was not done.
In his office that evening, as she stood in front of his fireplace, she heard him close the door and clear his throat: "Was there something you needed, Miss Farrell?" He looked at her quizzically, with a slight smile on his face.
She turned and smiled at him, not expecting the question. As she smiled at him, they were locked in a stare for a moment. She had a rush of adrenaline from his gaze on her.
"Um, no, sir, I , er, I wanted..." she found herself stammering. She stopped and blushed, looking at the floor around her feet until she collected herself enough to continue. She realized at that moment that she had never been in love before, because nobody had ever caused her to be so dumbstruck in her life. She looked up at him, and he was still smiling at her and said "Yes? …..What was it that you….needed….. did you want?" He found himself stammering a little in her presence.
"Well, I wanted to tell you congratulations on a job well done today, in saving all of those jobs. I wanted you to know... how proud I was of you, and how impressed I was with your tenacity." She realized that her hands were shaking, and her mouth had gone completely dry. Her remarks surprised him and caught him off guard. He also noticed that her hands were shaking. He turned momentarily to look at the fire, and then back to her. He thought about what she said. It was very sweet and brave of her. Nobody ever knocked on his office door after hours. He respected her for that – among other things. He smiled a very genuine smile. "Thank you, Miss Farrell. I am only too happy that we could do that. You did very well today, too. Very well done, Miss Farrell." His words trailed off as he took her in. He was becoming more and more aware of her again recently. He had been successful at burying his feelings for her for months, but the water was lapping at the spillway of the damn. Earlier that week, he had found himself staring at the blonde peach fuzz on her ear lobes as she took a letter one afternoon. The sun had been setting, and the light was behind her, framing her hair, and offering a glow that he had never noticed until that moment. Now, he seemed to have trouble looking away from her. He realized that Grace Farrell was vibrant and elegant beauty, with a mind to match, and a slim, athletic but curvy shape that was taking his attention away from the mundane every time he allowed himself a moment to look at her. She was tall, and with heels on, still only came up to his shoulders. He was a big, stocky and well-built man of about 42 when she came to work for him, he had nice teeth, a nicer smile when he allowed one to escape him and had dark blue eyes. He was muscular, but not overly so. He kept himself trim, but he was built. His brow was arched and powerful, but also told of kindness when he smiled or laughed. His old feelings for her were being awakened like a bear out of hibernation.
Through the years in his career, he had gone through many a secretary – most of them done with his employ quickly and to the relief of all concerned. He was a stickler for details, meeting demands and putting up with his capricious ways. More than one secretary had left in tears, unable to handle his demands, demeanor and diatribes. But Grace Farrell was different. She was able to remain calm, focused and was more than competent in his world, often outpacing him, keeping a couple of steps ahead of him. She was considered fair and trustworthy with the rest of the staff; she was also approachable. She had high standards in her code of work ethics, and she expected everyone in the household, and the office, to work as hard as she did. She was the utmost professional, knew shorthand, typed at an alarming 90 words per minute – she could out type anyone in their office pool, and they knew it – she spoke French, was well-acquainted with every single piece of office equipment, had a degree in math, and an undergrad degree in business administration. She took her work seriously and the quiet and musical hum of his office since she took over proved her contribution. It was not lost on him. He had also seen her take advantage of both the tennis courts and the swimming pool. She was a lean and elegant athlete, very much unaware of her natural beauty. He was respectful and gave her a wide berth. He certainly saw and appreciated her beauty, but he also knew that the reality was many-fold: she was too young, she was his employee – not hired to be his consort, and she was out of his league. He looked at her wistfully, knowing she was leagues above him in class, and looks and brains. He truly believed all of this, because he told himself this day after day. Besides, his own portrait of his self-image was colored by years at sea, his sudden wealth, once trusted people trying to part his money from him, and then, his retreat. He was a solitary man by choice. He was also so absorbed in running his empire that he could easily find an escape. He could leave the country to visit any of his many businesses or properties – and he did. He also missed her every moment, waking up thinking about her, going to bed thinking about her. He would travel home and see her, having missed her so much in a week or two. He would notice every little thing about her: her hair – did she get it trimmed? her clothing, her entire being. Her scent, my God her scent. He wondered how she had been. He would find himself wanting to hug her in a moment alone, well, at least that was his fantasy. He never acted on it and kept things as professional as possible. He did bring her gifts, sometimes hidden under the guise of having a small token or some candies for his entire household, but he brought HER little gifts. He pined for her all the time but kept his emotion regarding her in check. Mostly. There were times when they would exchange a little trinket with each other, she would bring in a small plant for his office, or a tin of mints, or some chocolate – both of which he loved, often enjoying them as they worked. They would play fight about who was getting the last square of chocolate, and he would usually break it in half, and then give her both halves, laughing and making her laugh as she tried to give him the other half. If he did go to Europe, or even another city in the U.S., he would always bring her some kind of little trinket – a luscious delicacy – which she would insist that he share, or some kind of little object, but, usually very lovely. Once, he brought her a beautifully detailed paper weight from Italy, it was handmade layered glass and it depicted a very colorful aquarium complete with two little fishes and seaweed. It was one-of-a-kind and she was simply swept away by both it, and his thoughtfulness. He would also bring her small perfumes and chocolates from Paris. She often wondered if his cologne, or after shave was from another country. She didn't dare ask him, it was a very personal question and would reveal exactly why she leaned over his shoulder to show him an edit, or where he should approve or sign, and just why she made sure to check that they had indeed seen to everything properly. In reality, she was taking in his fragrance, and he was enjoying having her stand so close to him. These small things that they did to be near each other, the little exchanges, the more and more frequent pleasantries were all ways that they allowed themselves to let out a little pressure of keeping all that love inside. All that attraction and wonder, the air was so thick between them at times that others noticed it and wondered when they would be a couple. It was that powerful. If they didn't let a little pressure out now and then, certainly something would have to give. They did their best and there were days when pretending they did not care for each other outside of a business relationship was getting more and more daunting, stressful and energy consuming. Working together could be difficult for both of them. However, they both knew there was work to be done and they had to dig in. Staff around them picked up on their energy, and there were knowing looks and smiles exchanged amongst them. Neither Oliver nor Grace noticed this. They both thought they were hiding their feelings well. They were not.