Under My Boss's Authority (Under Him)

The landscape rolled outside the window like a film reel. Switching from downtown streets, to manicured suburbs, and finally to open highway. An expanse that would follow us the rest of the way there.

Time began to blur, my excitement leaving me unable to tell if it was minutes or hours passing me by. I hadn’t really thought about how long the drive would be. All I knew was that Hugo lived in California, which narrowed it down a bit. Even if it could still be hours.

I hadn’t exactly done much exploring of the state, spending most of the last five years in San Jose and rarely venturing out. It seemed longer, of course, it always did without a reference point, but it was actually just under two hours on the road. The green expanses of the wine country appeared like an oasis in the desert.

The car took a turn, its first in over an hour. The smooth pavement of the highway turned to the bump and grind of gravel as we rolled up on the house. Just as a light rain began to dot the windshield.

Standing like a footman outside a carriage, Cassidy opened an umbrella at the same time as the door, giving me shelter as we walked from the car to the house. I gazed in awe at the remarkable structure, which was built in an 18th century French style. A beautiful building out of place and time. Suddenly, the term ‘anachronistic’ had a new dimension of meaning.

Delivered safely to the door, I was left to my own devices. Cassidy ventured back out into the gathering deluge to put the car in the garage. Better to prevent rusting. Even that far from the open ocean.

“You must be Vega.

I’d never heard my name so much outside of school. It was disconcerting, but kind of nice as well. This most recent instance had originated from a pleasant looking older woman who had appeared out of nowhere.

“Yes,” I said, my vocabulary still handicapped by wonderment.

“This way please, he is waiting for you.

“Are you his maid?” I asked as we went deeper down the hall.

“Maid, head cook, gardener, surrogate mother, you name it,” she chuckled, “Here we are.

The door was as heavy as it looked. Creaking dramatically on old hinges as I entered the study. A true paragon of the type, complete with roaring fire, and bookcases so high they required a ladder. The door closed behind me, leaving little choice but to approach.

Inch by inch, he came into view. Like a rotoscope as I came around the couch. Looking like a painting as he read on the antique couch. Dressed more casually than I expected in slacks and a black sweater.

“What are you reading?” I choked out, my mouth going a little dry at the sight of him

It seemed like as good a place to start as any. Books, and their creation, particularly as a physical object, were our major point of commonality.

“The Plague.

“Sounds depressing.

“It is Camus,” he said with a shrug.

His eyes never left the page. A compulsion I understood more than I probably should have. Glass houses and all that.

“May I sit?

“Please,” he replied, gently patting the cushion to his right.

I curled up next to him as he continued to read. Basking in the warm crackle and pop of the fire as it devoured the logs. It was odd, but even his silence was oddly comfortable. I was almost resisting the urge to lay my head on his shoulder

“Is that a first edition?”

I meant to remain silent, but when I saw the page I had to wonder. The text was French, which came as a little bit of a surprise. More unique were the font and imprint depth. Indicating a pre-1980s printing process. Camus died in 1960, so the dates fit.

“Tres bon,” he said warmly, his accent flawless.

He put the book down on the low coffee-table. Setting it next to a clipboard I hadn’t noticed until then.

“There we go,” he said, turning his beautiful gaze to me, “my apologies, I wanted to finish that chapter.

“I understand all too well,” I replied with a laugh.

“Shall we go over the contract?”

“Please.

I may well have been the only person in recent history to beg for a business contract. Yet that was what I had come to.

He handed me the clipboard with attached pen. Much like the one Nina had brought. I wondered if he did all the paperwork. A pondering I soon confirmed as I read over the contract. By far the most beautifully put legally-binding document I had ever encountered.

For all its elegance, it also laid things out plainly. What would be expected of me and what he would do in return. I had expected something more one-sided. There seemed to be a fair amount of reciprocity baked into the DNA of the agreement, besides the bonus he was offering. It was always nice to find a way for everyone to benefit.