The great room was on the small side, compared to other examples. Mostly named so in relation to the other rooms in the house. Sizable in its own right, built in an 18th century French vineyard style, it fell just short of a palace. Still more than enough for my needs, even with the in-house staff. Most of whom knew enough to keep out of the way. I’d honestly lost track of how many there were. I remembered there being ten, though it was anyone’s guess whether that was still accurate.
The pattern on the rug pointed the way as I made my way down from my quarters. Winding down the levels, which seemed longer until they usually did, until I eventually touched down on the solid floor of the ground level. The plush, Persian carpeting gave way to smooth stone floors, the occasional rug still making an appearance here and there, mostly for show.
Not that I particularly had anyone to impress. Other than the live-in staff, there were maybe forty people who had ever been to the vineyard. And the majority of them were kept under the strictest secrecy.
It was a joyful day. The enthusiasm barely contained within me. Were it not likely to be considered a crime against humanity, I would have burst out in song. While painting and writing came easily to me, music definitely did not.
The clocks had timed tortuously, counting down the teasing minutes until her arrival. I looked forward to meeting her face to face, and not only so we could get started. I’d been through so much conjecture. So many scenarios of how things might go. I wanted to know if any of them were correct. Or if the universe had something else entirely in mind for us.
I had put in my best effort. Though any improvement was likely to be immediately noticeable, and more than likely shocking. The general state of affairs, particularly in terms of my appearance, could typically only be charitably described as ‘disheveled.’
Freshly bathed with my hair combed, encased in a suit I hadn’t worn in literally years, I entered the dining room., resisting the urge to jig as I did so. I perched on my chair at the head of the table. Eyes closed and mind attuned. I could almost hear it as the limo approached. A physical impossibility, considering how well I kept it maintained, but a nice illusion nonetheless.
The doors, I did hear. As well as two pairs of shoes as they approached the house, one set of footsteps slightly lighter than the other. She had arrived. It was time for the preliminaries to commence.
She glowed like a goddess from a long forgotten religion. The candles caught her at just the right angle to create a soft halo around her silhouette.
So this was Vega Alejo face to face. While I wanted to say something witty, something charming, my mouth went dry and my mind went blank at her approach, and the only words I could conjure were: “Please, take a seat.
She sat down gingerly in the chair I’d pulled out for her. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” she says shyly
“The feeling is mutual,” I replied with a smile.
Vega looked up, her brown eyes wide in surprise, but her lips curling up into a smile both flattered and a little nervous.
I know I’m being hasty, but I can’t help myself. “This project is on contract,” I said, sliding over a hard copy, “please read it over carefully and ask any questions you may have. You do not have to agree if you are uncomfortable.”
She already knows what this “project” of mine entails. For the next two weeks, Vega Alejo was going to be my “Valentine.”
Some might find the arrangement disagreeable, sleeping with my employees, but the women who come out are always informed beforehand, and willing. And Vega, at least from the e-mails I’d exchanged with her over the last few weeks, was more than willing.
My initial instincts about her had been correct, and her work had been more than impressive, too. Something even in those simple digital correspondences with her had been enchanting, so I’d broken my own rule, and extended the prized invitation to her in spite of her newness.
For an additional five, torturous minutes, she read the contract, taking care to go over each page, her lovely face unreadable until finally, a smile spread over her lips. “Do you have a pen?” she asked, looking up from the last page.
Using the 1956 Waterman I always kept in my shirt pocket, Vega signed the contract, her hand gliding across the page like a figure skater.
“When do we start?” she asked, replacing the cap to the pen like a punctuation.
“Now, if you’re up to it,” I said, curious to see just how willing she is to dive into this