CHAPTER 4: TUG OF WAR
She now stood in his office, in front of the fire, seemingly nervous and agitated. He suddenly realized that he was being officious and rude. This wasn't work and they
were done for the day.
"Miss Farrell, come in, please. Can I get you something to drink?" he smiled at her and continued: "You know, with all we did today, all the deadlines and meetings – I
don't think I saw you eat or drink a thing today."
Grace sat down in one of the leather wing back chairs by the fireplace. She smiled at Oliver and said:
"Well, actually, I did not have a chance to eat. Did you?" She asked him this very naturally, truly wanting to know about him. He gave himself a moment to think
about that last time he had eaten. It was at 11:30 A.M. the previous day when he had taken a bite of a pastry and a sip of coffee at a meeting. He did not have much
of an appetite when he was sparring across a board room table with other powerful people. He was famished, too.
"No. I guess we are too wrapped up in our work. It's late.", he declared, "Everyone is either gone or in bed. Hmmmm..." He paused…suddenly smiling… "Do you want
to forage in the kitchen with me and see what we can find?" He was beaming at her, loving the mischief of the prospect. She gazed up at him and thought to herself
"yet another side of this lovely man.." She said in response, smiling at him: "I think we should eat. I could eat an entire horse." He laughed at this and offered her his
hand as she stood up. For a moment, they were face to face, he deliberately paused to look at her. They were inches apart. She dared to look at him – glad her was
holding her hand to steady her. She felt her breath catch in the back of her throat. She quickly looked down, they let their hands drop. They made their way from his
office to the kitchen of the great house. They found cold roast chicken, bread, fruit, cheeses. Oliver went into the wine cellar and retrieved a bottle of chilled Reisling,
and a couple of glasses for them. He smiled at her, handing her the wine bottle and glasses as he picked up the tray with their plunder.
Back in his office, they found places in front of the fire to eat. Grace was truly famished and ate in relative quiet. Oliver poured her a glass of Reisling and also got her
a glass of water from the hallway cooler for the office. She inhaled the water. He refilled her glass with more before putting more wood on the fire. "Thank you. I was
parched, too, I guess…" she said. He looked at her and smiled, nodding a 'yes' to her. The phonograph was playing the first Gymnopedie by Erik Satie, the volume
very low. He adored this piece and listened to it over and over. Grace could play it herself on the piano. She had learned it from her mother's instruction in her teen
years. She understood how simple and subtley-complex that particular piece was...She thought to herself: "Oh yes, it is in a major key and then it ends in minor. I
wonder if I could still play it..." They ate, drank their cold Reisling, and generally avoided speaking about work after he uttered: "Well, I don't know about you, but
yesterday and this afternoon with all the complexities and politics, all the tying of loose ends – without making people angry – all the chaos..." He trailed off, looking
at her..."but, we did it. You were superb, as always. I would like to forget about work for now, though. Sometimes I feel that if I don't disconnect from the chaos of it
all..." He stopped speaking and gave her a small smile, not sure he should have said that last part to her. He sighed. She replied: "I think that's a great idea. It is self
preservation. It's like getting something good to eat after a long day…..." She paced herself, looking at his reaction, she continued quietly: "made better still by. . .
um, by having it with someone you care about. . . . .…it renews the body and soul." She looked directly at him, her eyes meeting his. She couldn't quite believe she
had said those words, but she did. She smiled at him, not dropping her gaze. He stared back at her, his lips parted slightly. He actually blushed. She was quite sure
she had really seen it, and he certainly tried to conceal it by getting up to tend the already blazing fire, but she had seen it. "He blushed!", she thought to herself.
He said: "I am very happy that we are able to, er, renew ourselves . . .and, each other . ." he paused, "after such a grueling day." He was sweating on his brow, his
back damp, he felt warm from head to toe. He walked from the heat of the fireplace. He was standing by his windows now, getting the cool from that side of the
room. He was trying very hard not to let his body go where his mind had taken him, which was to take her into his arms, kiss every inch of her, and tell her that he
loved her. He felt his body stir in a way he hadn't felt with anyone before. At times, he found it painful – usually followed by a hastened travel plan. He disliked the
constant tug-of-war and really wanted the pain and loneliness to end. He just had no idea how to make that happen. She was in the same room, alone with him, after
hours and he was at a loss. His love for her was only eclipsed at the moment by his fear. Fear of scaring her, or being inappropriate, or mis-reading her.
The record ended. Oliver went to the phonograph, lifted the needle, and clicked off the turntable. He sat back down opposite her, where they talked and sipped their
drinks for the next 45 minutes. He found out about her travels to France during her college years, it turned out that they had both been to Paris. She remembered all
the political upheaval from that time, about 1921. He had sailed back from Paris that year on the S.S. Paris. Regarding Grace, he knew that because of her
background with the trucking industry, she had learned to drive almost any vehicle, and yes, she could literally drive a truck. He remembered the story from William
Gayle, whom he had met years earlier through the Board of Education in New York, about her showing the crew a new docking procedure. He would have loved to
have witnessed that scene himself. Driving at all was very rare for a woman in the 1920s and 1930s, and he marveled at yet another side to this lovely woman. There
were other subtle things in common, too. They agreed with each other about philosophy and humanity. They both thought the same way about the rise of fascism:
they were both against it. At that time, fascism was discussed openly as a possible alternative to Democracy in the United States. Oliver had seen how fascism worked
in truth and he was dead set against it. He was politically astute and kept himself informed about world leaders, and players with bloodthirsty tactics and desires. He
wanted no part of it. Nor did she. They were both staunchly democratic, the issue was not up for debate. They found out that they both agreed that being democratic
was important regardless of party, politics should never be about party, but always about country. Warbucks was a staunch Republican. Grace was a Democrat, having
registered that way in college. She kept it when she moved to NY and kept her politics to herself. She considered it nobody's business.
Winding down from the conversation, they sat and sipped their drinks while they stared at each other. The only sound was from the roar of the fire, and the ticking
clock on the mantle. The clock now showed that it was soon going to be midnight. Oliver walked over to the clock on the mantle and took out his pocket watch,
checking the time against it. They were perfectly in sync he returned his watch to its pocket. He knew they would be, and his checking was an excuse to get up and
distract himself from the spell of looking at her. He lingered at the hearth, poking the embers. He stood and watched the fire for several minutes, thinking of how this
was the first time that they had ever done something like this. It was quite personal and created a mix of excitement and having the fear poked in him. He caught his
breath, trying to be natural and nonchalant. His mind was racing. Turning back from the hearth, he looked to where she was – she had been very quiet. He could hear
a new sound: the soft hushed breathing of sleep was emanating from her. Her empty plate and glass had been set on the side table next to her. She had leaned back
in the warmth of the wingback and fallen asleep, her shoes off and near her on the floor. He was stunned and fascinated – how had she fallen asleep so quickly? He
suddenly did the math – they had started their day traveling to Washington, D.C. at 3 A.M., attended meetings and hearings, met with lawyers, stockholders,
attended more meetings, held a press conference, traveled to New York, and worked on the train the entire way back. They took the train because the public was
getting vocal and critical about Warbucks traveling by his personal aircraft – they called him "out-of-touch" and "ostentatious". Grace suggested taking the train as a
way to improve his image, making him appear more ''humble'. However, the day was a whirlwind of arrangements, she had them planned to the letter. All the while,
Grace had not eaten, barely had enough to drink, never complained, and had met or exceeded every single goal they had set for this business endeavor involving so
many entities, not to mention how it affected everyday people. They had saved jobs, maybe even lives, by negotiations and brokering they had done. Oliver also
realized that most of the clients, prospects, connections, statistical analysis, projections and remedy ideas (plural) were directly the result of Grace's hard work,
relentless grind and focus. She was a genius, he had decided. She was a miracle. He thought of all of this as he watched her shift in the wingback chair trying to get
more comfortable. He smiled at her and approached her quietly. He stood beside her as she softly snored. He thought she looked angelic.
"Miss Farrell."
She continued to snore softly, shifting slightly again.
"Miss Farrell. . .. You've fallen asleep." He said this gently. She made a slight sigh of acknowledgement but was clearly still in dreamland.
"Miss Farrell." Oliver said a little more loudly, trying to wake her but not startle her. He didn't dare touch her.
She shifted in the chair once more, and as she did so, she muttered sleepily:
"Oliver, I love you so…"
His eyes widened at the sound of these words – he couldn't quite believe what he had heard, but he was sure that he heard it. His heart was pounding in his chest. He
took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He paused for a good 30 to 45 seconds.
He spoke again: "Grace, you've fallen asleep. Grace, dear."
It was out before he could stop himself. He had called her 'dear'. He had called her 'Grace'. "Good Lord, what have I done?" he thought to himself.
She inhaled sharply as she opened her eyes, confused for a moment, then slightly embarrassed and feeling vulnerable. She looked around the room. She was just as
surprised as he was that she had fallen asleep so soundly. She had no idea how long she had been asleep. She thought she had heard him say "Grace, dear." Again,
he offered her his hand as she stood up. He leaned down and picked up her shoes.
"I'll walk you to your rooms." It was not a question.
When they got to her door, he handed her the shoes. She smiled, embarrassed by this utter disregard for decorum. "How had I let him carry my shoes down the hall
like this?" she mused. She could smell his aftershave as he handed her the shoes. "I think these are yours. I'm afraid they would never fit me." She smiled at the joke
from him, feeling a little better about the situation. He gazed at her unabashedly and said: "Get some rest. We will win more battles tomorrow." He paused before
asking, looking directly into her eyes: "Are you quite alright?"
She smiled and said: "Yes, I am just exhausted. I am fine, and you, you get some rest, too. If we are winning more battles tomorrow, we need a retreat from the
trenches for a little while." She couldn't believe she had said something so corny, and yet it was so right. He smiled at her again, taking a half step back, he took both
of her hands into his and said: "Good night. See you in the morning. I won't be mad if you come in late." He laughed a little at this, and she smiled and stared at their
hands. His hands enveloped both of hers. She was not pulling them away but instead wanted to hold his hands and never let go. They both stood still – frozen – not
wanting to part. He simply stared at every centimeter of her face, coming to rest his gaze in her eyes. There was less than a foot of space between them. She wanted
to wrap her arms around his waist and bury her head into his chest. She wanted to touch his face and kiss his lips, his face inches from hers now. Her mind wandered,
intoxicated by his very essence. Her attraction to him was chemical, emotional, and physical: there was no remedy other than capitulation. She knew it and was
exhausted by the fight. She wanted to take him by the hand, lead him to her bed in the alcove, and kiss every inch of him as they hurriedly removed articles of
clothing. Neither one of them seemed to be able to stop this reverie and catapulting toward both of their minds' eyes… Startlingly, the tall colonial grandfather clock in
the hallway struck 2 A.M., the chimes breaking the spell, they both remembered where they were. It was late. He squeezed her hands gently once more. He let her
hands go, turned on his heel. He looked back at her, tipping an imaginary hat toward her and started down the hall toward his rooms.
"Good night, Miss Farrell."
"Good night, Mr. Warbucks."
She leaned against the door as she closed it behind her, closing her eyes and reaching for the button on her collar.