CHAPTER 9 SKETCHES
When she had gone on those weekends to Philadelphia to see family, he found himself missing her terribly. At first, he took it in stride, acting like he wasn't bothered, but keeping up the nonchalance wore him down. He hated to hear the words: "booked a train", or "30th Street Station", for that meant she would be gone from Friday evening until Sunday evening. She insisted upon taking the train, too. The thought of her on public transit like that for a few hours – alone – made him sick with worry. He had offered her numerous times to get her there by any other more convenient means than the train. He had a helicopter for goodness' sake. She could take the limo. Anything she wanted. She would always thank him, and smile. Always followed by a polite decline to his offer, having said things like she "liked the time on the train to read and relax." or, "it was easier" for her family to "follow her routine". Always a polite refusal. It made him crazy. Sometimes, he went down the 'does she have a boyfriend?' rabbit hole. His mind wandered and he overthought her trip. "Maybe she met someone in Philadelphia. Maybe that is why she doesn't want to take me up on arranging her transportation. Hmm. I wonder if it serious….this chap she is seeing…" He would torture himself with this kind of thinking and agonize about it entirely too much and for too long. At these times, he would retreat to his domain. Batten down the hatches. Isolate. Withdraw.
He found himself sitting at his desk on a Saturday mid-morning, after she had left the night before. As he sat at his desk, aware of the stack of neatly prepared correspondence, contracts and documents that she had meticulously prepared for him, he stared across his desk to the chair where she usually sat. He got up from his desk, walked over to 'her' chair. He sat down, getting things from her perspective. She had a memo pad and several pencils on that side of the desk. He realized just how low – or, lower – her chair was to his desk. It forced her to look up at him. That made him feel bad, thinking that it was a bit demoralizing to be seated lower than your boss – or anyone. It was an awkward reach for her to use his desk, which was why she always held her memo book in her hands, or, on her lap.
He decided that he was going to change that chair. This weekend. She would have a chair that was higher and more comfortable, and equal to his. He called Saunders and had him get two hallboys to move a couple of chairs, and a few other pieces of furniture. He also switched out the wingbacks for a new seating arrangement. He directed them to his quarters to retrieve a leather side chair. He took measurements of how many inches his chair sat off the floor and would make sure they were equally matched. He had them trade out 'her' chair for the one in his sitting room by his fireplace. The chairs were equal in height. He had no idea that her working situation contained that additional little challenge and pain maker. He thought: "Why had she said nothing?"…as he stood in his office, with his sudden need to move big pieces of furniture fulfilled without hesitation by his hard-working staff – there were words echoing in his mind "….they're afraid of you…"…he continued to be lost in thought: "They might be afraid of me, but she's not. No…she is not afraid of me. My God…what if she is? Am I that much of a monster? I must be. Is she afraid of me.?" He turned this type of toxic thinking over in his mind again and again… "Damn it." He thought to himself. His loneliness was like an open sea, sometimes easy to navigate, other times a storm lashing out, tossing him around with his own thoughts.
He paced his office. A few solitary hours had gone by, his mantle clock ticking and chiming the day away. He had written her a letter that he would not send. It was a love letter, and in it, he poured out his own feelings, his own hope that by some miracle, she loved him, too. Nobody was in, the office was dark and empty, except for the fire he had going. He read and re-read the letter he wrote to her. He kissed her name at the top, walked over to the fireplace, and was about to throw it into the flames. He stopped himself from burning the letter. He folded it up, kissed it, and slid it into his pants pocket.
Her office across the hall was dark. The emptiness was overwhelming to him at times. Normally on a Saturday, he would see her at breakfast or she would be working on getting "ahead of the deadlines for Monday morning, sir…". Sometimes, she would go out, or go downtown to shop or get something, or meet her mother or brother – but she was home at the estate at night. He had a chance of seeing her in passing, or at a meal, or anywhere in the house, really. He felt better just knowing that she was in the building, at home. He considered his estate her home, certainly it was home for many of his staff. He was very generous with his people because not only did he provide jobs that paid well, but he also provided their quarters and meals as a perk for their service. Cecille and her husband lived at the estate in a small cottage on the grounds. What was it to him? He liked them, trusted them, and appreciated how hard they worked. They were happy, they kept the place up, they let him know if there was a roof leak or a dripping faucet. He would handle it. He wrote it off as the cost of doing business. He fed all of his employees, paid them, and boarded them and in turn, he had a loyal and hard-working team of people managing his estate. Grace had seen to it that they were given as many morale boosts as possible. She had a generous household budget and autonomy to disperse it.
Since Grace was a senior member of staff, she was expected to be in the office early, late, or both at least five days a week. – whatever the ever-changing and unpredictable work commanded. She did travel with him for regional meetings and assignments he wanted her involved with – which was almost all. He would travel without her, but he also included her in a lot of Washington, D.C. trips, as well as Pittsburgh and Boston. She had been to those cities with him numerous times, doing all the bookings and travel arrangements for them both, and attending meetings as not only his secretary, but as one who remained silent and took copious notes, provided him with documents, charts, projections. She was also excellent at supplying him with names and faces, industry ties, and other relevant information. She usually did extensive research on any new potential client – whether buying or selling. A lot of the time, other meeting participants, businessmen, would talk statistical analysis in front of her and treat her like eye candy who knew how to look pretty and recite the alphabet. She and Oliver would exchange silents looks at these opportunities. His subtle smirk at her would essentially say "Little do they know….", and she would take meticulous notes, check their formulas, re-run all the numbers and double check expectations, forecasts and other analysis. It was always fun for them both when they had follow-up meetings with those same folks. Oliver would produce his own statistical analysis of their proposals or claims, and if there were discrepancies or shenanigans, they would know about it. Grace and Oliver always kept her math talent, degrees and analytical prowess as a "ghost writer" mechanism. They thought it was best to let wheeler dealers show their true colors around her. She was a secret weapon and Oliver took a lot of joy in that fact. She was a seasoned campaigner and delivered precise and accurate results, never wavering in her discretion or loyalty or competence. She was all ears and all propriety at all of his meetings, never being anything less than a total professional.
Grace had larger quarters than most of the other staff, but, Punjab had equal quarters to hers, just in "Sahib's" wing, but a floor below. The Asp – whose real name was Eddie Chan – had quarters in the form of the old carriage house. The cars were parked there now, not carriages, but above that were living quarters. He had everything he needed. Kitchen staff, the hall boys and house maids all had quarters – well, rooms in the servant's quarters, and meals and pay. It was safe to say that during the Great Depression, anyone who worked at the Warbucks Estate was extremely fortunate and knew it. Oliver was acutely aware of just how awful the Depression was and was going to continue to be for quite some time. He was a billionaire; running his estate and the costs associated with it were nothing to him. Secretly, he was very happy to help them and to be the kind of employer that was a rare and generous benefactor.
Now, on a dark and empty Saturday, he paced his office, thinking about her and mad at himself for being so dumb. He should have kissed her already, for God's sake!….he should have taken her to dinner…he should be less afraid of rejection. But still, he was. He couldn't believe this had happened to him, he had to do something about his. He was a man who was used to taking action. When he wanted something to happen, he would make it happen. Normally. He was in his gigantic office in his gigantic home, alone in his vacuum, thinking about her. No. Pining. Pining for her – it actually hurt his heart. He was jealous of the stranger who got the share the same train car as her. He wondered what she was thinking about, what she was doing. He walked over to her office across the hall, he stood in her doorway – much like he had when he had embarrassed himself by asking her if she had gotten engaged. He still shuddered at that memory. He took in her office. It smelled nice, like her. Clean. Her space was dark, everything neatly organized, certain research books open over on her worktable. He stepped into her office, and found himself sitting at her desk. Again, he took in the view from her perspective. In the dim light, he could see the doorway to his office. He sat at her desk, looking at what was on it: A small, empty vase – usually filled with flowers during the week. There was a picture of her parents, another of her family taken when she was a teen and her brother still a little kid. She had the glass aquarium paper weight he had given her prominently displayed, alongside a Swarthmore College mug filled with pencils and a letter opener. There were letters and documents to be processed to the left of her desk on a small table. Her typewriter was covered and silent. She also had a large calendar-type blotter as a work surface on her desk. He looked at the dates and times and people she had written on the blocks. She had little notes: "Don't forget his appointment on Thursday – J.R., et al. 1 P.M. " and things like: "order new ribbon and paper, need ink and papers. Nd notebk. Order more invoices." He also noticed little sketches on the borders, done in pencil. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he saw that her skill was measurable. He thought, with a slight smile on his face: "Is there no end to her talent?" He thought that her sketches were very nice. She had sketched the windows in her office, the trees behind them captured in afternoon light. She sketched the plant on her cabinet. He flipped a couple of pages back, a month prior, to see other art works. She had sketched the aquarium paperweight, too. It was really good, he thought. He flipped another page, and another, seeing little doodles of the office, the house, details of the wrought iron terrace fence. Flipping one more page, he saw it. His mouth fell open slightly, he sucked in a breath. His eyes went over every inch of the paper. He had to look away and look again. He was sure that his eyes were playing tricks on him. But they were not. He was suddenly looking at a sketch of himself, she had caught him standing next to his window looking onto the terrace. She had captured his face in profile, his very essence conveyed by her hand. He looked very handsome, very serious, and was in a pinstriped suit with his pocket watch chain illustrated. She had captured a very thoughtful expression on his face and had rendered a very flattering and very accurate sketch. Of him. He had never seen a sketch of himself like this before. He noticed that everything else she had drawn were objects. He was the only human being she was putting to paper. Under the sketch, in very faint pencil were words written in French: "C'est le seul homme que j'aime"
He could read and speak French well, he had had a French girlfriend years before with Charlotte. He knew what it said. His mouth was open, his brows raised, his hands were shaking. He was stunned and thrilled and scared at the same time. Maybe this was a mistake. Another emotion, or several, crept in. He immediately felt terrible, knowing that he was snooping in her office. He had invaded her privacy and the sanctity of her space. He felt guilty and was suddenly mad at himself. "Damn me. What is wrong with me? I have no right to be in here." He quickly put the blotter back the way he found it and got out of her office. In his haste, he failed to notice that his letter to her had fallen from his pocket, onto her chair. He had been distracted - feeling all the adrenaline rushing into his blood, he experienced the shock and sudden realization that she . . .. actually…..loved him. Could it be true? Was she in love…too? He stood there for a moment in the hall outside her office door. He vowed to never overstep the lines of her privacy again. He wanted her more than ever.
As he walked back to this quarters, he asked himself again: "What is wrong with me?"….brooding again, he thought "Why can't I face this?"…"Why can't WE face this?...is it so wrong? Loving someone? What is the problem?" He paced a lot that afternoon. He thought of all the pros and cons – like a businessman, he was trying to think of any possible negative things that might be scaring them both. Tongues would wag. People would gossip, making up fiction about what their 'situation' was. God knows what the papers would print. The fact was that they fell in love, through a thousand moments, the space between them charging more the more they got to know each other. He liked her as a person - he always had. That night at the gala when they had first met, he had liked her then, thinking she was a powerhouse. He knew she was very smart and very unconventional, an absolute beauty with the bluest eyes he had ever seen. He also told himself, back then, that she way above him and way too young – at least, at first. So much for age. As they had gotten older, their age difference really became a nonissue. She made him laugh, she was honest with him, she was kind. She kept him young, and motivated to go for a walk or a swim, part of it was for her. He didn't keep trim with her, but for her. He invested in his health for his future…hopefully with her. She was athletic and busy, she was elegant and even on a tennis court, she lived up to her name. She was funny and had a playful side, too. Those aspects of her personality were intended for a trusted few. She always stood her ground – he liked that. He liked HOW she stood her ground – she was professional and rarely if ever raised her voice. She was not the type to yell or be abusive, but, she would state her case to him and back it up with nothing but facts and logic. If she pulled out the math and projections on him, he was done. He absolutely loved that about her. She knew how to speak to anyone, but she reserved a kind of eloquence, timbre, and tone for him. There was something about her that she held just for him. He put his finger on it: she made him feel like he was special, like he was the smartest man in the room – not because she was a blind 'yes' person, but because she actually believed in him. Now, he knew that she actually really loved him. He thought, giddily, back in his office: "She loves me! ME!". Two housemaids cleaning a hall nearby exchanged looks as they heard Oliver whistle an old sea farer's tune. His smile lit his face as he took in the air from the balcony. He started to think about how he could take control of their dilemma. It was a very sweet and exciting dilemma for him to ponder. Nothing was in their way but fear, and fear was something he had managed since he could take a breath. Fear was nothing, love was everything. Love was demanding. Love was overpowering. For a man who was in control of every last aspect of his world, having cordoned himself off from the world and personal interactions deliberately, love was controlling his every breath. Love was indeed in charge. He smirked to himself, thinking: "All it took was Grace.." He asked himself: "Do you love her enough to face your fears?" "Yes! For God's sake!" he told himself, determined to move the world to get to her. Oliver made up his mind to do something about this ever-charged, ever awkward, ever-electrified situation. Seeing that sketch, and importantly, the words that she wrote hurtled Oliver forward in his plans to change their situation. Oliver thought that to wait another minute would be wasteful and something he might later regret. There was a tiny little voice in the back of his mind, quietly raising a soft voice, asking: "there's no chance she has a boyfriend in Philadelphia, right? You aren't going to make a fool of yourself, right?" Oliver sat at his desk and wrote out a list of all the reasons why he would not, indeed, make a fool of himself. As he sat at his desk writing he would look to his bookshelves that lined his office, as a background for thinking things through. He had a small collection of children's primary through high school textbooks. He owned a full six years worth of educational material. He had methodically and intentionally read and absorbed every one of them. He made up for lost education well after his fortunes were made, but he had spent hours and hours in his office, learning everything he should have been learning as a twelve-year-old kid, through to grade twelve. Oliver made a point to get a high school diploma, sitting quietly with the Principal of a local high school one fine spring morning. Oliver had explained his situation to the Principal in a meeting he asked for with him at the school in Manhattan. He spoke of his personal studies and wanted to know if he would be able to sit for an equivalency exam. The Principal was taken by complete unawares at the question. He said he would have to make a phone call to his Superintendent. He picked up the phone in Oliver's presence and spoke to the Superintendent, who was very well aware of just who Oliver Warbucks was. "Yes, he is here right now. Okay, he wants to sit for an equivalency exam. Can we do that? He would?"
The Principal looked over at Oliver, writing notes down with the phone cradled on his shoulder. He continued as Oliver sat quietly and took in the entire office. It was stark, but serviceable. Students who were late, or who had to see the nurse were filtering in and out, some recognizing him, some walking right past him, the glass of the office windows separating them. Oliver kept the same slight smile on his face, slightly embarrassed at being there for the purpose at hand. The phone call finished, Oliver was informed that he would have to enroll as a student as a formality, to be able to get a diploma on the school letterhead, and be entered into official school board records. The Principal said; "If you can wait here for about five minutes, I can get you all the applications you need, and we can get you started." Oliver looked at him, not believing it was really going to happen, and said: "How long does the process take to schedule a testing date?" his eyebrows were raised in actual wonder. The Principal smiled at him and said: "Well, if you get these applications filled out and returned to us by this…"pausing, he flipped open a date book to check an entry, "…Thursday, we can get you scheduled for the next proctored test …it will be held in our, uh…our auditorium. State requirements are such that anyone seeking a diploma be tested in a proctored exam setting. Were you aware of that?" He looked at Oliver, expecting that he would balk at this requirement, be demanding, expect special treatment. Oliver simply said: "That is fine. I have to schedule the day, though, and I want to plan my studying." The Principal was pleasantly taken aback, and he smiled as he said to Oliver: "I wish some of our students were as enthusiastic as you are!" and the two men laughed, the ice broken. Oliver filled out all of the required application paperwork that day, in a little chair in the the outer part of the office, turned it in and left with an exam date scheduled and a seat dedicated for him to obtain a high school diploma. He could hardly believe he was doing it! This was a personal goal and a dream of his ever since he left for sea as a twelve-year-old boy, poor, exhausted and heartbroken. As the child that he was, that child thought: "Who needs to learn a thing when you are starving?" And he had gone to sea, signing on as a cabin boy, first on a ship that was sailing to New York from Liverpool. It was a sickening and horrible voyage on a relatively small ship that was transporting goods from Liverpool that had come from France that had come from Asia. All of these thoughts and memories flooded back to him at just the sight of his 'school books'. Nobody knew about his educational journey – not Punjab, not the Asp, not Grace. If anyone ever HAD seen those books, they would mostly likely think it was just another eccentric collection of his. If anyone had ever taken the very last book off the shelf, they would find a small leather-bound folding "book" containing a high school diploma, proclaiming that "Oliver Edward Havens has hereby met all requirements…." He did not display it, but it was there. His work and his achievement. He was very proud of it and knowing that he did this even thought he really didn't 'have to' stood well in his code of ethics. After all, he was a bit of a perfectionist. If that was not abundantly clear by his dress, demeanor, drive and focus, nothing would be.
As he left his office that Saturday afternoon, he had one thing decided without any chance of changing his mind: He was going to get her from the train himself. Later that evening, he called the Asp into his office. He asked him about the details regarding her train, her normal protocol, and when she was due back in New York.
"I want to pick her up myself." He told the Asp. The Asp was already well aware of the long-smoldering embers between them. He kept his face completely unaffected, unchanged. His demeanor was as if his boss requesting this was as normal as a Tuesday. It was not normal.
He asked his boss: "Which car did you need, sir?"
Oliver thought about this for a few moments and said: "I should think the Dusenburg, don't you agree?" He looked at his driver with arched brows, seeing if he would confirm.
Oliver looked at him, thinking – no, knowing that he must know his feelings about Grace. He thought to himself: "So, the Asp knows." It made him grin a bit. He was aware that his guard, Punjab, definitely knew and had been aware for a long time but had never said a word to anyone about it. Oliver swore Punjab was facilitating them, as well as protecting them both.
"Well, sir, it might be easier and more comfortable for you both if I drive and we take the limo. That way I can park it at the curb, and you can go greet her in the station….do you agree? The limo would be better . . for conversation."
Oliver said to the Asp: "Hmmm. Yes. Good point. What time does her train get into New York tomorrow?"
"Her train should be in by 6:30 P.M. and we can leave here with plenty of time at 5:45 PM." He told his boss.
"Well then, that is what we shall do. I will see you then. Thank you, Eddie."
The Asp did a curt bow and left his office. When he got in the hallway, a smile could be seen on his face as he walked back to the carriage house. He would get started making sure the limo was fueled, clean and perfect. He would make sure there were drinks and flowers, too.
The rest of that day, Oliver paced and pondered, barely ate. He went out for two separate walks, took a swim, had a manicure and a shave from Saunders. He was giddy and terrified. He had no idea what he was even going to say to her. He knew he had to do this and it took all of his self-control to not fly down to Bryn Mawr, land on her parents' lawn and knock on the front door. His imagination could go to odd places in times of stress.
On Sunday afternoon, as she stepped out of her mother's car, she checked her watch and had her train ticket in hand. As she hugged her mother goodbye, her mother said to her: "Grace, I think you should think things through a little. Why don't you give yourself a chance to really decide. Maybe he loves you." She looked at her daughter and smiled. "Don't doubt, dear. You are very loveable. Give him a chance."
"Okay mom, I will think about what you said. I love you. I will call you this week."
They hugged one last time, and Grace got her two bags from the trunk. She hurried into the giant-columned, great hall of Philadelphia's 30th Street Station. It was brand new, having just opened that year. She stopped by a news stand and bought a newspaper and a coffee for her trip to New York. She boarded her train, found a good seat, and sat back with the feeling that she would finally have a quiet moment alone with her thoughts, well, maybe not so quiet, but certainly alone. She still had not thought of what she would say to him. She knew that she had to give New York University an answer and a possible start date. All of this made her feel nervous, and sort of disloyal. She felt a lot of guilt and she knew this was going to really upset him. She had been a marvelous secretary and had held so much more than that title in her responsibilities and tasks. She loved the job, but she loved him more. So much that her heart was breaking just being around him, she constantly trying to be nonplussed and normal around him, not realizing that he was struggling to do the same. Meanwhile, the tension was so obvious that people around them picked up on it. It seemed that everyone but them knew that they were obviously in love. The whole situation was maddening. Not only to them, but people who were astute, like Mrs. Greer, would say to Mrs. Pugh after seeing them avoid eye contact or where they were struggling to be nonchalant, or to obviously avoid any close physical space. "Oh, for goodness sake, I wish he would just kiss her already. Honestly!" The two senior staffers would share a discreet chuckle. Mrs. Pugh would say in response: "Fingers crossed." And another laugh would break up their façade of decorum.
As Grace watched the world fly by her window on the train on that late Sunday afternoon, she thought about how she was going to try to break it to him. She was not fully convinced that she wanted to leave the estate, just the opposite was true, but she knew that she could no longer stand the emotional pain. It was 'too much and not enough'. She had made a decision, and it was not going to be easy to tell him. He would be upset, heck, maybe he would yell at her or get angry. She would certainly be expected to vet and train her replacement. How much notice should she give him? She was utterly unsure of a lot of her decisions at that very moment. She rested her chin on her gloved hand as she stared out of the window of the train car, watching the trees and towns and changing views. She was on a speeding train, headed toward New York City – too quickly for her comfort at the minute because she knew she would soon be telling her boss, her muse, and probably the love of her life that she was leaving. She tried to swallow the damned annoying lump in her throat, and she blinked back the tears in her eyes.
That same Sunday, as she was speeding toward New York, he was dressed and pacing in his rooms. He sprinted down to the car at precisely 5:30 P.M., he was nervous. He chewed on a cigar, thought better of it, and then produced a small tin of mints from his pocket that she had left on his desk earlier that week. He saw his driver round the corner and walk toward him, open the limo door and wait for him to board. Once in, he said to the Asp: "The sooner we leave, the better. I do NOT want to be late."
"Yes, sir."
As they drove through Manhattan toward Grand Central Station to meet her train, he had time to think. His heart was racing as he tried to take deep breaths, making himself lean back into the plush interior of his limousine. He could scarcely believe what he was in the motion of doing. He panicked for about five seconds, thinking he had made a huge error. Correcting himself, he remembered the way she made his heart pound, the way he missed her, how it hurt. His feelings for her were too much. He could not bear the thought of another day of polite and professional exchanges while their eyes and hearts and even souls knew better. He made up his mind, feeling braver now. He was going to tell her. He was going to get her from the train and tell her in the limo. Once and for all.
When he was all alone in the back of his limo, he was very brave, and almost seemed angry. He was going to tell her, kiss her, and take her into his arms. The closer the car got to the station, the more he felt his bravado slip away.
When his car pulled up to the curb outside of Grand Central Station, it was 6:20. That left him 10 minutes to get his act together and be at her platform when she got off. He told his driver to stay put as he let himself out of the limo. He leaned over into the window to ask him:
"Which track? Where do I go?"
"Sir, you go through those doors behind you, go down the stairs and head to the right. Track 7. Look for the arrival sign from Philadelphia. That will be her train. You won't be able to miss it." His driver smiled at him.
Oliver took a breath in and out, summoning his bravery. "My God, what am I doing?" crept into his thoughts for a fleeting moment.
Oliver said: "Okay. Thank you. Down the stairs, to the right, Track 7. Philadelphia." He started to walk toward the building, taking a few steps before turning around to talk to his driver again.
"When we come back up, you get her luggage and load it in back, I will get the door for her. Just leave her to me, if you please."
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you." And he walked into the station. People in and around the station were already noticeably excited by the presence of an obviously wealthy person, his big car, his imposing figure as he stepped out of the limo and walked toward the building. Some people buzzed around the car, others around him. There were still others who were not as worshipful. There were people who were downright angry at the very sight of him with his fancy car and nice clothes, his large diamond shirt stud an obvious offense. Oliver was acutely aware of the vitriol when he was just a few steps down the stairs and he heard a man's raised voice: "Hey! Looka that rich guy slummin' it! He's takin' the train!" The remark was followed by laughter of people around him. "Well! Now I've seen everything!" the stranger completed his heckling. Oliver ignored all of it – not really caring to comprehend what had been said – he was on a singular mission to not be late collecting his Grace. He now allowed his mind to openly consider her 'his Grace'. She had always been 'his Grace'. He would tell himself that "she is the only Grace that I have.." chuckling to himself about the double entendre. Currently, he was at New York City's busiest train terminal, uncharacteristically showing up to give his employee a ride home from the train. Nothing to see here. Just a regular Sunday night when a billionaire ventures into Grand Central to meet a young woman in his employ. He realized all of this, and he also knew that he stood out like a sore thumb. He was a jangled, nervous wreck and he had to quickly appear not to be. He was breathing hard as he found her track.
Her train was not in yet, but the scheduled arrival time was announced overhead. He stood amongst the small assemblage of people waiting for their own people to arrive. He checked his pocket watch, simply out of nervous habit. A little boy looked up at him. Oliver smiled at him and turned his attention to the track. Suddenly, the clanging of her slowly approaching train filled the brick, tile and steel structure with echoes of engines, steel wheels, bells and the shouts of train personnel. As her train slowed down to a stop, he stood back a little; he wasn't sure which car she was on and was looking at everyone getting off the train. He watched as the initial rush of people disembarked, conductors and porters moving them along, managing the flow of people. Oliver had not seen her yet, only seeing families reunite, or couples greet each other with chaste kisses on cheeks. He scanned the crowd, the first anxious moments of uncertainty creeping into his mind. She was, so far, nowhere in sight. People were still coming out of the train, but the crowd on the platform had thinned.
He walked out from around a pillar, and stood on the platform, hands in his pockets as he looked left and right, starting to feel puzzled. Where was she? Did she miss her train?
To the left of where he was standing, he heard a man's voice – a porter say: "Miss, I can help you with your bags, and we can try to find your driver." The porter stepped onto the platform with two small suitcases. Setting them down, he turned to offer his help as Grace Farrell stepped off the train and onto the platform. As she thanked the porter, carrying her gloves and hat, she turned to see Oliver Warbucks standing on the platform. They stood looking at each other for precisely fifteen seconds – each a little bit in shock; she was caught off guard, and he was a nervous wreck. His hands were certainly shaking as he stood looking at her. She finally smiled at him and looked around. "He's upstairs." Oliver said, referring to the Asp. She walked over to him, not quite believing he was there on the platform – the massive train station was the kind of place he had not stepped foot in for many years.
She looked at him, thrilled by the sight of him, and yet: "Is there something wrong?" she asked.
"Wrong? No. No….." he stammered, "Not a thing is wrong. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have surprised you like this." He was genuine and wanted to dispel the awfully awkward moments he had forced upon her. He looked at her and watched her reaction and expression. He noticed that she had a little wisp of her hair out of place on her head. He thought she looked so lovely like that. She was reassured that all was well at the estate and said to him: "I am a little surprised that you are here." It wasn't a question, but he responded to it like she had asked one.
"I hope you do not mind, Miss Farrell, that I am here to get you from your trip. By the way, how was your trip?...and your family?" He asked, genuinely interested. He was interested in everything about her.
"My trip was fine, my parents are fine. Thank you for asking." She looked at him with a slight grin, but furrowed brow. He continued:
"Miss Farrell, I felt compelled to - I just wanted, I felt that I needed to see you as soon as possible." He was looking at her, breathing a bit harder than moments ago, not believing he had said those words so bluntly.
She stood looking at him, feeling like she shouldn't dare speak, this entire moment was surreal. They stood like that for a few moments, their eyes locked.
Nearby, the porter cleared his throat. She turned to acknowledge him. Oliver quickly intervened by tipping the porter and taking her two bags. He was carrying her bags as if that were the most normal thing in the world to see. She had never even seen him carry his own bags.
He said to her: The car is upstairs, this entrance, shall we go up?" She was smiling at him broadly now, not hiding the joy she felt at his out-of-character gesture in coming to get her. In what universe did she arrive?