CHAPTER 6 AIR

The next day, they were in his office. With all the other staff around them, they could hardly indulge in or reveal any attraction or chemistry or change in the 'air' between them. They tried to keep their work separate from their out-of-office time. She called him "Sir" and "Mr. Warbucks", and he strictly called her "Miss Farrell" when they were in the office. Being that she was his personal secretary with numerous responsibilities and tasks, she was kept busy enough to work with him and ignore her feelings for him for a while. She would often retreat to her own office to finish any correspondence, research or letters there. She often had stacks of books on her desk with titles about tax law, accounting principles, and statistical analysis. Her office was as well-equipped his – he had made sure of it. He was an arms manufacturer, inventor, patent holder, machinist – among so many other hats he could and did wear. He owned factories and entire segments of industries. He was strong, but he knew he was only as strong as his weakest business, manager, manufacturer. He worried about it all. He was all too consumed at times, his empire being vast and commanding almost endless attention, he often buried his stress in isolation. He found it easier than having to deal with people, or confrontation, or anything emotionally unpleasant. Lately, however, he had been allowing himself to have a little 'slack' when she was in his presence. He was only a human man, not a god-like being. He could hardly resist the temptation of his secret muse. Did it matter so very much that at the very moment he should have been returning calls to the President or to the Ambassador of France, that he was instead finding it easier and easier to slow the pace of his office, his world, just a little – just to take an extra moment to study her face, or take in what she was wearing that day, just to take her in. He liked to watch her as she wrote her notes, he watched her expressions change, he watched her mouth as she bit on a pencil. When she would stand next to him with a rough draft to edit, he would take his time for the singular reason of having the curve of her hip next to his shoulder for a minute, for the chance that their hands would brush together when exchanging a document. He breathed her in when she was close to him, and she was happy to do the same. It was all intentional and only added to the longing. There was a tension between them that was genuine – and palpable. They forced themselves through the work because there was no other choice, they had to get it done, but it was nerve wracking and energy consuming for the two of them and little did they know, everyone else. Other staffers started to tip toe around them during those times, almost afraid to interrupt. Naturally people picked up on their nervous energy and body language, even when they thought they were being successful at hiding it. Still using "Mr." or "Miss" as their official salutations to one another, they barely looked at each other when they were not alone. Each feared that the people in the same room would pick up on the attraction, see the eye contact, make assumptions, gossip, all of that rot. He had good instincts, though, because that is exactly what was happening with certain members of staff – like Mrs. Greer, Mrs. Pugh, Punjab and the Asp – however, there was no idle or malicious gossip. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to make any kind of judgement. Especially about her. Defensively, he thought: "They can say what they want about me, but not one syllable about her will I tolerate." His mind was made up. She was sacred and staff better get used to it. All of his consternation about it was moot; it was a fact that a few of the older staff members did notice their subtle chemistry and how they purposefully avoided eye contact, or how they suddenly got awkwardly formal around others. "Oh yes", Mrs. Greer said to Mrs. Pugh: "those two have it bad. I don't think they know it yet, though!" and they laughed good heartedly, each knowing that when a person falls in love, there is no way to stop it. They had both seen what her presence had done for the estate and for him. He was calmer. He was a lot nicer to be around. Well, most of the time. Since she had come on board, staff had been given raises, holiday dinners – either at the estate or for their own family, they had a staff lunch every day, and the return of the staff Christmas dinner and gift exchange was celebrated and appreciated. She also managed to rearrange scheduling to accommodate rotating weekends off for staff, and other perks. Grace Farrell was very good at her job, and having worked in a family business, she knew the value of excellent morale. Mrs. Greer and Mrs. Pugh kept their insightful opinions about "Miss Farrell and Mr. Warbucks" strictly between themselves, and if any gossip did arise at the staff tables, one or both of them would shut it down and forbid it. "We do not gossip about our employer or a fellow staff member, especially a senior staff member! I do not want to hear that kind of talk again." Mrs. Greer would admonish. Later in the day, though, she and Mrs. Pugh would have a private conversation and a laugh over their afternoon tea.

Oliver had an epiphany. He suddenly had the realization that it did not matter – none of it – because he knew that this was real. He suddenly thought to himself: "Who the hell cares what anyone thinks? It's none of anyone's business." He had never in his now forty-three years of living felt about someone the way he felt about Grace. He realized that he had never really ever been in love before. Until Grace. Now, his head spun. He was intoxicated by her if she walked into the same room. She made him weak, and strong, and vulnerable and powerful at the same time. Nothing mattered but her, even though his heart was safely concealed under the demands of work. He also knew in his heart that her love for him was real, and that she loved him for him. "Whatever that might be…." He thought. He still could not see what she saw in him. He knew she did not need or want his money. He knew that she was far above being that kind of person – to be a gold digger – she would simply not be able to do something so horrible to someone else, or, to herself. It was not at all the type of person she was; her intellectual curiosity, her mind and accomplishments all made the idea of taking someone for their money was not only foreign to her, but obscene. Abhorrent. His mind took inventory of all the reasons why she should not love him but did anyway. He never saw himself as handsome. He would describe himself a 'Scouser' if really pressed. He had white scars of an ancient injury on his left hand. He was completely bald by choice – he preferred to be bald and clean shaven – he had discovered that being bald aboard a ship lowered one's chances of getting lice. He was a no-nonsense kind of man. Lice need hair to live? Oliver will shave his damned head. He accepted it and enjoyed the freedom from that particular pest. As the years went by and he got older, he found that his being bald fit his persona in business and lent to the 'eccentric' moniker he had been given. He adopted his habit of dressing well as a huge middle finger to all of the people who told him he would fail, or, who tried to sabotage his success. However, when he looked in the mirror, or even thought of himself , he would see a poor boy dressed in rags, underweight and struggling to get rid of ever-present itchy pests in his hair, a rope burn on his hand, a boy very much afraid, but damned sure he would make his own way. Inside the man of Oliver Warbucks, that little boy was alive and well, and sometimes held onto the steering wheel in Oliver's brain. Oliver thought to himself after one particularly unkind self reflection: "How could she want that?" He continued his thoughts of self-doubt: "I am loud. I get cantankerous. I get grumpy. I like to be left alone. I am old. I am 43 this year. She is 30 and in her prime. She should be with a younger man with hair. Hmmmm." His mind rolled these musings over and over again. He brooded. He isolated himself, he took lone walks on the estate to think a problem through, or more than likely to be alone with himself. He lived a solitary and lonely life – all self-imposed and done as a protective act – in his vast manse and estate. He was always solitary, everywhere he went. He kept his heart closed off for years. The last woman he had any kind of long-term relationship was a woman he met in Monte Carlo in the early 1920s. Charlotte. They saw each other for six years, on and off. Charlotte Laurent. She was a socialite about eight years his senior who had been shopping Monte Carlo for years for the right wealthy man. He was young. He thought he loved her. She loved his money. She wanted to wrangle him in and become Mrs. Warbucks – in a loveless, separate-countries marriage. He said "no." at the last minute. Not at any alter, but at the time he was expected to produce a very expensive diamond ring and a show of a 'romantic' and of course, lavish proposal. He showed up. He promptly broke it off. Her crocodile tears and curses in French filled his ears as he stepped back into his car, telling his driver: "Back where we came from, if you please." The entire episode made him a skeptic about love. He doubted that love was even real until he started working with the only woman he had ever met who had been authentic and honest with him. She was not afraid to speak her mind with him. She was calm, self-sufficient, not after his money. She was patient during his brooding absences, she was always direct with him, always arming him with information that mattered to him personally or professionally, and was not at all put off by his ire. If she disagreed with the wording in a letter, or his tone to a foreign diplomat, she would quietly give him critical and professional feedback. During their early days of working together, after a few instances of him taking her feedback personally and getting defensive, she asked him to come to her office. Behind her closed office door, she spoke to him as a colleague and an equal – explaining that her advice and feedback was based on years of education, practical knowledge and experience with damned near every walk of life in her father's transport business. She had put her hands on her hips and used the words "damned near". She asked: "Could you please let me do my job?" She asked him to trust her, to be aware that every time he argued with her, it cost them time. Time was money, was it not?

He had sat listening – a little surprised at her candor and assertiveness – but filled with respect. He had no choice but to respect her. Where had he heard those words before? He knew. He was humbled by her, but not resentful. He decided that she was right. He was not allowing her to be productive in the way that worked best for her, and for his estate and his empire. He spoke when she had finished: "Miss Farrell, you are right. I have been difficult for no other reason than fear of….losing control. I know I need to stop swimming up stream against the current." He said, softer now: "I am truly not trying to put a fight in place every time you change one of my letters. I just want to be effective in my way. I am not yet used to your way yet, Miss Farrell. I will strive to improve upon this and I will trust your expertise. I give you my word." He was sincere and speaking at a normal volume, his tone a bit sheepish.

She had expected a fight, but now she smiled as she sat down behind her desk. "I appreciate that you are willing to trust my judgement, sir. You should be aware that I take my job seriously, and that I only have your best interests in mind." She looked directly at him, her hands folded on her desk. He replied:

"I know that. I have to remind myself that not everyone…." He paused "…that I hired you for a reason. Thank you for letting me know, Miss Farrell, and for being truthful and standing your ground. Nobody talks to me like a real person. Nobody speaks up." He was staring at the floor in front of her desk.

She looked at him, as she measured her words. "Can I be very honest about that? Since we are talking about being direct." He nodded to her to continue.

"It's because they are afraid of you." she said.

He sat quietly, taking in this information. He asked her: "Is that true?" He stared at her, his eyes wide and his brow arched in query: "They fear me?...Oh my Lord…."

She replied: "Well, yes. A lot of your employees are young people, people who have had a lot of struggles. They know that working for a big house like yours during this awful Depression is an opportunity for them to actually have good wages, save up for their own dreams. They fear you because they fear losing their job here. Not everyone is like me and unafraid – or, situated where they have the luxury of being fearless." She was referring to herself and her own financial situation. She continued: "However, you are generous to all who work here, and their gratitude is real. They consider you to be exceedingly busy and try to stay out of your way." Here, she was being diplomatic.

He mulled this over further, finding himself irritated: "Hmmmph. I am a businessman – I am not here to make friends with staff."

She interjected: "There is a difference."

"What do you mean, Miss Farrell?"

She said: "Well, it is true that you are not here to make friends with staff. However, friendships or personal relationships with staff is a far cry from being difficult to work with."

He gasped slightly and said a bit louder: "Of being what? Difficult? I don't think I am difficult…" She looked at him across her desk, she had a knowing grin. He looked at her grinning. "What is so amusing, Miss Farrell?"

A small laugh escaped her as she said: "We are sitting here right now…" - he cut her off, interjecting:

"Because I am difficult. Oh my Heavens." He did a mental inventory of his behavior just that morning. He had barked at one of the hall boys for having a door unlocked and open – not knowing that the hall boy was told to do so to accommodate a delivery for the kitchen that morning. He was cross with one of the housemaids at breakfast, he was grouchy and terse to office staff, and he further realized that he had been 100% nit-picking about her edits to his stupid letter. He realized he was being a difficult bully. He realized that he was going to do a complete turnaround and stop being that person. He said to Grace:

"Miss Farrell, I had no idea until now. I had no idea, I got so used to just bullying my way around." She was happy that he had said that word and she didn't.

He asked her, looking very defeated – a look she had not seen on him before: "What should I do, Miss Farrell?" She was thoughtful, "I think you are going to have to choose your battles. Yell about the important things, other details…maybe you can let them go to others…delegate when overwhelmed, instead of yelling." She gauged his demeanor at this feedback. He was quiet, looking at her, mouth closed, clearly he was a bit embarassed. She had no intention of allowing him to be embarrassed or shamed. She truly cared that he felt good about himself as a manager, and she did believe he was open to change. She continued: "Sir, I believe you are a man with the means to afford the luxury of being calm. Or calmer. Try small things and then see how you feel. You deserve calm and you should not be putting yourself in such a state all the time, every day. It is not healthy for you or anyone. Give yourself that gift." She looked at him with a genuine and caring smile. He put his hands on his knees and stood up from her chair. "Thank you, Miss Farrell. I promise you, I will try." Walking out, he nodded to her, and paused. He said: "The small things, huh?...I am not sure what I would consider to be in that category." She said in reply: "Well, any of the household issues you could leave to staff. Honestly, you cannot control every aspect of every part of this estate. There is a reason you have staff, and maybe start with some small things like trusting in them." She smiled. He said "I do trust them all. It is why they work for me."

"Well, sir, I think that is a good place to start. Your staff is very loyal to you, sir. They enjoy working here and they want to do their jobs well." He looked at her and asked: "And?" She replied: "They could do their jobs better and be happier about doing it if perhaps you didn't yell at them so much, and if you would not assume they are harming you in some method that you do not recognize or understand." He knew she was talking about his very reflections of his interactions with staff from just that morning. Realization set in that not only was she right, but he had better reel himself in with his staff before loyalty turned to resentment. As a former ship captain, he should have known this and he felt really dumb in the moment of his enlightenment. He looked at her, his face serious. He said to her: "Again, you are correct Miss Farrell. I should have recognized this in myself before now. I apologize, Miss Farrell. I will be more judicious in picking my battles." He smiled as he turned to leave, and closed her door quietly.

He was surprised by the feedback he had gotten, and the way she had delivered it. She was direct and honest, pulled no punches, was professional, not emotional or judgmental. She never raised her voice, and had in fact, used a quieter than normal tone. It made him listen more and speak less. She had closed her door to give them privacy, and to protect his dignity. He was quietly thinking over all she had said to him, about giving himself the "luxury" of being calm. She was right. Calmness was a luxury, and he was a man who enjoyed nice things. He made up his mind to be calmer and to choose his battles wisely. He also made up his mind to not take out his angst on his staff. This conversation between Grace and Oliver happened about 8 months into her first year of working at the estate for him.