He headed into the kitchen and started brewing some coffee. I waited in the other room for a minute or two, anticipating an angry shout to bellow out once he noticed what was missing. The shout didn't come. I ventured in.
He was sitting and looking up at the empty shelves where the alcohol bottles had sat. In a surprisingly calm voice, he asked, “Doing some spring cleaning this morning?”
“Yes.” I refused to apologize.
“I see you respected the Douglas Scotch.” He nodded at the family’s brew. I nodded as well. “Okay, then.” He got us out two mugs, then poured us both some coffee. Astonished as I felt, I said nothing. I wouldn't let my surprise at his lack of response throw me off my game.
We both sat at the kitchen table. “Vic came over uninvited last night,” he began. “I sent her away right after you saw us.”
“And if I hadn't seen you? How would the night have gone then?”
“You don't have to believe me, Annie.” He looked rumpled and disheveled, as if he hadn't slept much either. “I'll tell you the truth regardless. I was going to end things with her before you got there.”
“Who is she?”
“A girl I used to spend time with.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
I could stop right there. It would probably be safer to stop, letting my anger continue to put distance between us. But I didn't stop. I continued my interrogation. “What type of relationship did you have with her?”
“Sexual.” He answered me frankly, even though I didn't like hearing it.
“For how long?”
“On and off over the past year or two.”
“Exclusive?”
He scoffed at the question. “Hardly.”
Then I asked what I really wanted to know. “What did she mean to you?”
He exhaled again, heavy. “An escape. Nothing more.”
I nodded, letting his words sink in. I took a sip of my coffee. It was good, nice and strong. I appreciated that he wasn't sugarcoating his relationship with this woman. He could easily have tried to squirm out of it, telling me she was someone he'd just met, saying they were just friends. This way, though, I could tell he was telling me the truth. But my pride had been hurt and I still felt mad.
“I know I probably shouldn’t be prying,” I continued. “I’m just your maid.”
“Annie.” He reached across the table and tried to take my hand. I kept it clasped around the coffee mug. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know you’re much more than that.”
“Yes, I also cook and buy your furniture.”
“I mean more than that.” He reached out to my mug this time, peeling my hand off and taking it in his. He caressed me with his thumb. Angry as I felt, his touch mesmerized me. I watched our hands, where our bodies joined, feeling myself start to melt.
“Am I?” I didn't want my voice to come out frail and squeaky, but it did. I’d never been any good at hiding my emotions.
“You are.” He brought his other hand up as well, capturing my palm, cradling it between his. With the most sincere expression I'd ever seen on his handsome face, he admitted, “I know I’ve handled things badly, Annie.”
“You can be so cold.” He wasn't being that way at the moment, but I forced myself to remember some of what had upset me in the first place. I'd been in a state even before Vic had shown up in her skivvies. The night before last, I’d found myself shivering, naked and alone on a couch, promising myself I'd never let my guard down with Ian again.
“I don’t know how to do this.” He gestured between us. “Whatever this is.”
“It’s a transaction, right? Remember you told me that?” I tried to put some distance and reality into this conversation. The way he was looking at and touching me, he was drawing me in all too quickly. He had a way of making me feel so safe, so cocooned in his presence, as if he cherished me and wanted to be with me always. I had to remember that was all in my head.
“I said that, didn't I?” He scratched his head, looking sheepish. “I can be quite unpleasant, can’t I?”
“You can be a real ass.”
“Yes, I can. I apologize.” He looked at me and, dammit if I didn't feel a smile tugging at my mouth. There was nothing like admitting fault to disarm me. I could get all puffed up and angry over someone who insisted that they were right. But the minute someone apologized, I never could stay angry.
“You’re different, Annie. I'm not saying it excuses my behavior. But it does explain some of it. I’m used to dealing with women like Vic.”
“I did not like her.”
“She’s harmless, Annie,” he assured me. Looking into my eyes, holding my hand, he promised, “she doesn’t mean anything compared to what you mean to me.”
I caught my breath. He looked a little taken aback, too, as if he hadn’t meant to say that. He took his hands away, coughed into his palm, and finished his mug of coffee. “Well, I don't expect you to forgive me all at once.” He brought his coffee mug to the kitchen sink, then gave me a rueful smile. “I'll have to do some work to get back into your good graces.” He left the room.
I sat at the table, speechless and motionless. Just when I thought I'd figured him all out, he threw me this curveball. I didn't know what to think. But I knew what I felt. Happy.
* * *
§
* * *
Over the next couple of days, if I didn't know any better I’d say that Ian was romancing me. He brought me flowers. They were plain wildflowers picked from the grounds of his estate, but I couldn't have liked anything better. Lush purples and blues, he held them out to me and said, “Simple and beautiful, like you.”
He didn't push. He seemed to be giving me space. The irony was, of course, I wanted the opposite. I'd forgiven him. But he stayed away, nowhere to be found in the evening.
The next day, I noticed new artwork in the living room. He'd taken down a rather monstrous portrait of what I assumed was a long-deceased ancestor. In its place now hung a watercolor painting of the gardens outside and the ocean beyond by an up-and-coming Scottish artist, none other than Ms. Annie Mitchell.
He found me standing and staring at it, wondering how it had come to pass. I'd never given him permission to go through my artwork. I mostly sketched, rough, quick, and in a hurry, but in the last few weeks at the estate I found myself with more time on my hands than usual. I’d rustled up some cheap watercolors and brushes at home, and splurged on some nice paper. Seeing it hanging on the wall in such a magnificent frame, I had to admit I felt impressed.
“What do you think?” He gestured to my painting. “I'm not sure the light in here does it justice.”
“How did you get it? How did you even know I'd painted it?”
“I watched you paint it. And I got it by looking through your artwork.” He said it as if it was no big deal, common sense.
“Really?”
“Are you upset that I framed it?”
“I'd be more upset if I weren't so flattered.” I had to smile, tilting my head and looking at my work from another angle. Even though I was a harsh critic of my talent, I could tell it was good. “I’m happy you framed it.” I gave him a sly look. “Just tell me you're not rifling through my underwear drawer.”
“You're safe on that count.” He ran his hands along his legs, reminding me of his disability. He would not be walking up the stairs to rifle through my bureau.
“Right.” I shook my head. I didn't know how to explain my oversight. I saw him in a wheelchair all the time, but I sometimes forgot. He was just Ian to me. I saw his eyes and his smile, felt the power and warmth of his touch, and somehow his inability to do much walking faded into the background. When we sat together on the couch, I wasn't thinking about his physical constraints.
“No problem.” He turned his attention from me and back to the paint again. Tilting his chin toward it, he told me, “You know, one of these days I'm going to insist that you move to Edinburgh and do something with your talent
.”
I laughed, shaking my head at his simplified version of the world. “Yes, I’m sure I could show up with my notepad and have a high-paying job within a week. How about you?” I turned the tables on him, preventing yet another back-and-forth about how I was squandering my talent. “I get you don't have to work. But don't you want to do something?”
“Have you been talking to my father?” He had a glint of humor in his eyes as he asked, taking the edge out of his question.
“Is that a favorite question of his?”
“One of his most favorite. He'd like me to run the distillery.”