Dipping the wet mop in the bucket, I pull it out and slap it down on the tiled kitchen floor on the first day at my new job. The job where I’ve only met Emilia, the combination caretaker/estate manager/personal assistant; I don’t even know what her official title is. This is my second task of the day. My first was to vacuum the rug in the upstairs hallway with the antiquated cleaner she’d shown me when I was here for the interview, and then I fully understood why the previous maid tripped bringing it down the stairs. It’s one of those models with a round base on four wheels. I make a mental note to ask Emilia if the owners could possibly upgrade to an upright one at the very least.
Emilia steps out from her office off the kitchen. “I’ll be leaving soon to run to the post office and pick up something for dinner. Will you be all right until I return?”
“Sure, but doesn’t the owner have a chef on staff?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “What can I say? He prefers my cooking. And he doesn’t like having more staff than necessary.”
I nod my head in understanding. “I see. Do you need me to do anything else?”
She shakes her head. “No, that’s all that needs to be done today. I don’t want to overwork you on your first day, to the point where you quit.”
“No chance of that,” I reassure her, thinking of the ridiculous amount I’m being paid for so little work.
“Good. If you want, you can leave after you finish and I’ll see you in a few days. You can just shut the front door behind you when you go.”
“That would be great. Thank you. I’ll see you then.”
After a few more swipes across the floor, I assess my work and decide the floor is spotless. I wring out the mop and leave it in the laundry room to dry out, dumping the dirty water into the sink.
Stretching my aching back, I head from the kitchen to the living room. I sit down on one of the worn couches and lean back, sighing loudly to myself. I take only a minute to relax because otherwise I’ll fall asleep on the spot.
When I sit up, I notice something through the French doors, a large object right in the center of the lawn. Emilia never said I couldn’t go outside. I carefully turn the handle on one of the doors, listening to it creak as I pull it open and step through.
The backyard is wide and empty except for the object, which turns out to be a sculpture of a naked man in a seated position, crouched over and cradling his head in his hands. To my left there’s a huge outbuilding in the shape of a barn, with a tall roof and wide doors that resemble ones that would usually be on a garage, and a long enclosed passageway that connects to the main house.
I slowly approach the sculpture. I take in the man’s broad back, his long fingers as they cup his head, his muscled thighs tight under his chest. Something about it moves me; it seems so familiar, just like that sketch in the house, the pain and anguish of the subject akin to The Lovers.
It couldn’t be…
I search for an artist’s signature but I can’t find one.
Maybe the house belongs to a wealthy art collector?
Suddenly, sounds of something being pounded and deep grunts divert my attention to the barnlike structure. I step the few yards to the building and quietly knock on the door. I give it a minute, but nobody appears. I slowly push the door open, and when I do, my jaw drops and my eyes widen at the sight in front of me.
It’s not a barn at all. It’s an artist’s studio. Scaffolding and ladders are scattered everywhere. A huge hydraulic lift takes up an entire corner. Boxes marked SCULPTING CLAY line one entire wall. Another wall holds various tools, like brushes and knives. Long wooden tables are covered in newspaper, charcoal pencils, and sketchpads.
But what takes my breath away are the pencil drawings hanging on a string right by the door, preliminary sketches of The Lovers…
Oh my God.
This house.
The “S” hanging over the front gate.
Those sketches in the house.
The sculpture.
I think…the owner of this house might be Grayson Shaw.
And the man hunched over a mound of clay, pounding it into shape right in front of me, barefoot and clad only in a pair of ripped jeans, is him. It has to be. Grayson Shaw.
I can’t look away from him. The rippling muscles of his back. His well-defined arms as they work the clay into submission. His skin, slick with sweat. His dark brown hair, which seems to slightly curl on top. I’m enraptured by the grunts that emanate from him with each movement.
The artist at work.
I’m mesmerized.
I can’t believe…
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I jump at the sound of his voice.
His dark brown eyes sear into mine, molten with fury. But then I gasp—one side of his face is beautiful, with chiseled cheekbone and lips, but the other is marked by three long scars starting from his forehead and extending all the way to his chin.
My entire body starts to shake and my mouth goes dry. “I…I…Are you Grayson Shaw?”
“Get the hell out of here!”
With my heart pounding against my chest, I rush out of the studio as fast as I can. I fly through the French doors into the living room, slamming into the sofa, grabbing it to keep myself standing as I pant for breath.
“Oh my goodness! What’s happened?”
I look to my right, where Emilia is standing. I point toward the backyard. “Is he…was that…”
The older woman exhales, then purses her lips together as she nods in silent understanding. “You met him, didn’t you?”
“If you’re talking about the man in the studio, then yes.” I finally catch my breath. “Emilia, do I work for Grayson Shaw?”
She exhales again. “Yes. Do you want to quit now that you’ve met him? Judging by your state, I’m assuming he did not treat you kindly.”
My face turns red at her assumption. “He was…he was angry. I interrupted him in his studio. But I won’t quit. Emilia, I need this job. Is he going to fire me for bothering him?”
Emilia inhales deeply, taking a few steps toward me, and pats my shoulder. “Leave it to me. I’ll smooth things over. Why don’t you go home? I think you’ve had enough for one day.”
My shoulders drop in relief, my hands and legs still shaking.
Thank God. I can’t get out of here fast enough.
* * *
Grayson
Run.
That’s what they all do.
I can’t blame them.
I’m a freak show.
I slide the gloss over the piece that arrived this morning. Thank God for the local artists’ colony, which is always willing to pick up my pieces for baking; otherwise I’d never be able to do it myself.
That’s not true. I have enough money. I could have an oven built here to handle the oversize ones. Something to think about.
Now I ensure every inch, every corner is covered, taking my time, making sure everything is perfect.
Perfect. Something I’ll never be. A word I only associate with my art, certainly not myself. But she was perfect.
I can’t believe Emilia hired her. What was she thinking? To bring someone so beautiful and innocent into this house of horrors?
I watched her from the window as she got into her car—or at least tried to—until she hip-checked the driver’s door so she could actually open it. She obviously doesn’t have the money to buy a new one, which must be the reason she took this job in the first place.
I step back to take in what I have completed. I exhale a breath of satisfaction.
As I clean the brush and secure the lid on the can of gloss, I stop as my mind wanders back to her. To Lily.
Someone like her could never understand true pain. She’s probably never experienced it.
I want someone like her to see beyond my scars and know the real me.
But I would never expect any of that.
I know better.
But she works here now. It’s just been Emilia and me for so long. Emilia’s the one who deals with the staff. I’ll have to get used to seeing Lily, and she’ll have to adjust to my scars.
I glance at the table with my brushes, pencils, and sketches.
Damn it all to hell! Why must I resemble an act in a carnival sideshow?
I roar in a rage, clearing the table with one swipe of my arm.
I collapse to the floor, my heart pounding, trying to pump fresh oxygen into my lungs.
My head sinks into my hands.
When will I be normal?
The answer to my question flashes in my mind.
Never. A word I’ve come to know all too well.