Art sees himself to the door.
It’s strange to walk through the house alone, his footsteps echoing off the floor and into the air. Art never dreamed he’d get this job—it’s a surprise, a shock, a genuine miracle. Kinsey will be ecstatic. Art pictures himself living here, in this massive, beautiful home, not having to worry if he’ll have a roof over his head or enough money for groceries or bills or debt payments.
It’ll be a far cry from how he’s lived.
Art is hopeful things will be different. He’s twenty-six years old and hasn’t even begun to live. School didn’t work out. Nothing’s worked out. This job is a godsend. Art might finally have a life.
The Ee-state Man-ee-jer is waiting at the front door, lips puckered. Art gives her a smile. Danielle doesn’t smile back. “Congratulations on your employment, Arthur.” Ah-zur, she says. “If at any time working under this roof you need something you will come to me, and if I need something I will come to you.”
“You, uh, already know I got the job?” News travels fast around here.
“The walls are thin.” She holds out a hand, long nails cut into points. “The others and I are excited to welcome you to the family.”
She’s lying. Art swallows, locks their palms, says, “Thank you,” and drops her hand.
Danielle Reneaux does not drop his.
She stares, gaze motionless, ruby lips set in a flat line. Studies him. He might as well be under a microscope. Art doesn’t know what to do, stands stock-still, holds his breath until it hurts. It’s only for a moment; the animosity melts away, replaced with a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. She lets go.
“You will move in this Sunday and begin work immediately. Be here noon sharp.”
She shuts the door in his face. Art blinks at it a few times, bewildered and alarmed. Jean and Danielle have a similar aura about them, confident, faultless, dangerous. He hardly understands it. Has he offended her somehow? Art stretches his arms above his head and lets the sunlight cascade over him, melting away his doubts. Warm, beautiful sunlight.
He did it. He got the job.
Art can’t resist—he pumps his fist in the air in victory, prances down the steps, light on his feet, lighter than he’s felt in years. Who cares if he’ll have to see Caite every day? Who cares if Jean’s estate manager is weirdly apprehensive of him? He got the job.
Art scrambles for his phone. The glass is cool against his ear as the line rings once, twice, three times.
“This is Kinsey. You know what to do.”
The machine beeps, and Art gushes, “Kinsey, I got it! Call me back when you have a moment, I can’t believe this is happening! I never thought he would actually hire me!” Art pauses before the gate, shoes coming down heavy on the pavement. “Why did he hire me?”
Art thinks of his new employer—black eyes and inky hair, skin as fair as paper, smile as bright as the moon. What does such an accomplished man want with someone so woefully unqualified?
Art’s never been a butler.
Hell, the only job he ever had was licking envelope seals in a law firm mailroom, and that was hardly something that required a college education.
Art isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but even though he’s desperate to end the welcome he’s overstayed at Kinsey’s apartment, something isn’t quite right. How many people did Jean interview before settling on him? If he’s a bad fit for the job, what the hell were the other candidates like?
“The message has stopped recording. If you would like to send your message, press one. To re-record, press—”
“Shit,” Art mutters, fumbling with his phone. He’s centimeters from the round number two on the screen when it slips out of his hand, and clatters to the ground, sliding just under the lower iron lip of the gate. Art groans. “Perfect, exactly what I need.”
He almost hopes it’s broken. When he gets his first paycheck, he can buy a new phone, though it’ll be strange to get something new instead of used. Art can’t remember the last time he bought something for himself.
The hill is steep and long, but his cab left and pressing a multitude of buttons reveals his phone won’t be able to call another, so he sets back into Calgary on foot. Maybe one day he’ll have a new phone so he can call cabs even if the screen cracks. Maybe one day he’ll have a car.
Jean’s black gaze is present every time Art shuts his eyes. There’s something about him. Something that’s more than a generous millionaire, a mild-mannered university professor, a very poor judge of characters when it comes to employees. There’s something chilling beneath the soft smiles and polite demeanor, the quiet observation.
Art doesn’t know what it is, and frankly, he’s sick and tired of doing detective work. He’s had enough of mysteries to last a lifetime.
--- --- ---
Art passes the hospital on the way back to the city. Passes. Doesn’t go in.
He hasn’t in a while.
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