This also feels private, but less grim than the room down there. These are people’s heirlooms, their leftovers, the overflow of their lives. It does seem like if I found a blanket and pair of socks here, it would be fair for me to use them. After all, Mr. Rochester is supposed to provide room and board. Not freezing room and board, the regular kind.
That’s how I justify it to myself as I start peeking into the boxes.
There doesn’t seem to be much order to what’s here. I find beautiful china in a box with old crayons and Legos. Paintings stacked against an old row boat. There’s a journal lined with blue velvet that’s soft to the touch and missing the layer of dust over everything else.
A creak in the wood from behind me.
I drop the journal and turn just as a hand grabs my wrist.
My scream pierces the darkness.
Mr. Rochester looks down at me, his eyes fierce, his face glowing from the light of his phone. “What the fuck are you doing up here?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, instinctive panic making me desperate. It’s more than just fear of losing my job. It’s the reality of being in a tight space with an angry man. This hasn’t ended well for me before. I’m rambling because I’m nervous. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“A blanket,” I say, stumbling over the syllables. “And socks. I’m cold.”
He looks incredulous, as if he hasn’t noticed that it’s twenty degrees outside. His dark gaze takes me in all the way down to my bare legs, to my feet, my freezing toes. “You’re looking for a blanket. In a goddamn attic? Nothing is usable here.”
“Is there… a linen closet somewhere?”
He growls, the sound animalistic in the small space. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you come to dinner?” I really have no right to demand answers of this man.
It’s just an automatic reaction to his tone.
In the twenty-four hours since I met Beau Rochester, he’s taken on a larger-than-life space in my mind. He seems taller than men should be, stronger than they usually are. Fiercer in every way.
It’s a figment of my imagination, of course.
A side effect of meeting him in such a strange situation. But now that I see him standing over me, his chest bare, revealing muscles and a dark covering of hair, the gauzy light tracing the planes of his body, I realize it was accurate all along.
He shakes his head, still shocked about the whole cold situation. “You got here last night. Were you shivering in your room then, too?”
“Pretty much.” Maybe I was exhausted by the plane ride and the kitten interview, because I eventually went to sleep. Though I was frozen solid when I woke up.
“There’s this crazy thing called the Internet. Even here at the Coach House we can get deliveries from Amazon. Why didn’t you just order something with same-day delivery?”
“Because someone threatened to fire me, and there’s barely enough money in my bank account right now for a flight back to Houston until I get paid.”
“Christ.” He looks more furious than he should be for an employee being cold.
“Listen, if I found something that was clearly special—an embroidered baby cap or a wedding dress—I wasn’t going to touch them. I just thought there might be a pile of blankets around. It seemed like those would be useful here in Maine.”
“Ms. Mendoza. The attic is strictly off-limits to you. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Follow me.” He turns and stomps down the steps. I follow him more slowly, not eager for him to yell at me more or to return to my freezing room.
Mr. Rochester opens a door opposite mine. Inside I see a navy bedspread. It must be his room. He yanks the bedspread off and holds it up without a word. His brown eyes glint in the moonlight, sharp with demand or promise or something I’m afraid to name.
“I couldn’t. It’s your bedspread. If I take it, then you’ll be cold.”
“I went camping at Acadia National Park when I was ten. I won’t die. You, however.” He takes in my hard nipples and goose bump-covered legs in one dismissive glance. “I don’t need the agency asking questions if you freeze to death.”
“Is there maybe another room we could take it from?”
“No.” The answer does not invite more questions.
“The room with the watch and the teacup? It’s bigger than this one. The master bedroom.” I look around the room, as small and bare as mine. “Why don’t you sleep there?”
“You went in there? Jesus Christ.”
“Let me guess. That one’s forbidden too. Like the attic.”
He makes a grunt in agreement.
Yes, sir. That’s the only appropriate response, but something makes me ask. “That room’s clearly the master bedroom. It’s bigger than this one. Why don’t you sleep there?”
“Leave it the fuck alone.”
With a shivering hand I accept the blanket and clutch it against my chest. “Thank you.”
He closes the door in my face.
What I didn’t realize is that his bedspread would carry the faint musky scent of him. I close my eyes, but it doesn’t go away. It only gets stronger. Now I know what it would be like to press my face against his chest. To be enclosed in a hug. I head back to my room. When I climb into bed, I pull the bedspread up and wrap it tightly around my body and fall into a deep slumber.
The next afternoon several packages arrive. There’s a thick down comforter for my bed. There’s also buttery soft socks, fur-lined boots, and a padded jacket.
I’m warm, finally, and it feels like bliss.
He doesn’t ask for his bedspread back, and I don’t offer it. I continue to sleep with the bedspread wrapped around me each night.
CHAPTER FIVE
We settle into an uneasy routine, spending most of our time caring for the kitten and lounging in the large rooms with Paige’s favorite game in the world—Monopoly. She wants to play. And then she wants to play again. I go along with it, hoping that we’re developing a rapport. The weather continues to be gloomy, so I don’t force her to spend time outside. Which means she can continue to wear her clothes better suited to warmer climates.
I mention schoolwork to her a couple times a day, aiming for casual, hoping for cooperation. But whenever I bring up the subject, she shuts down completely.
Her one-word answers go to complete silence.
She walks away from the Monopoly board game and refuses to play.
Amidst some printed subtraction and fill-in-the-blank sentence worksheets, I find the login to the parent portal for her school.
A small icon shaped like an envelope has a little red number beside it. Fifty-one. There are fifty-one messages from her teacher, her principal, the administrator of the school.
Dear Mr. Rochester, We’re so excited to be working with Paige. She’s just a delight and so smart. We noticed she hasn’t turned in her summer reading essay. Can you please contact Mrs. Temple so we can clear this up?
Dear Mr. Rochester, Unfortunately Paige missed her last two sessions of mathematics and science. She’s in danger of falling behind. Of course her academic progress is of utmost importance. Please contact my office immediately.