A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

A Gerhard Richter painting hung on the wall above a tall dresser. One of his earlier works––it was done in photorealism. The subject was a mother cradling her baby, the infant trapped to her breast. Their faces were smeared horizontally, preserving their anonymity.

The effect was startling. It could easily have been a dream or an old memory buried within my own mind. What a shame, I thought. Paintings like this belonged in a museum for everyone to appreciate, not in the corner of a rich man’s bedroom among the remains of all night bender.

I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the image, the consequence of which was an unexpected swell of emotion rising up. My mother had died of a blood clot shortly after giving birth to me and I often wondered how different my life would’ve been had she lived, how different I would be. Not that I had anything to complain about; my father had been a wonderful parent. And a patient man, thankfully, because all the questions I peppered him with over the years would have driven an ordinary person insane. He would spend hours at night telling me stories about how much I reminded him of her. The only things I had left were those stories, an old worn-out Polaroid of her at the beach, and a threadbare Hermès scarf… it wasn’t nearly enough.

As I turned away, I walked right into a subtle scent drifting up from the bed linens. Without permission, my body responded instantly. An unwelcome flush crept up my neck my attention riveted on the impression his head had left on the goose down pillow.

Impulsively, I traced the dent with my index finger, the fabric cool under my fingertip. After a quick scan of the open doorway, I pressed the pillow to my face and inhaled deeply. Sandalwood, neroli…and some other indefinable elixir that gave me goose bumps. The man looks at you like he’s surprised to find a pubic hair in his soup, argued that little voice of reason that often whispers in my ear. A sobering thought. I dropped the pillow and finished making the bed, committed myself to cleaning until all evidence of his night of dissipation was erased.

* * *

By early afternoon, I was done. As I was gathering the cleaning supplies, organizing them in the bucket to be put away for the day, I heard something move behind me.

“What are you doing in my room?” His raspy voice was low and quiet.

I snapped up straight, turned around slowly, and found him in the open doorway. Braced against the frame, he gripped it tight enough to turn his fingertips pale. His white dress shirt was taut against the swells of his chest, his tie loose, exposing the base of his throat. I watched his Adam’s apple rise as he swallowed. His expression looked wary, all the muscles on his powerful body tense.

What was he doing here? He usually stayed in the city during the week. I could feel the pulse on the side of my throat humming. It took me a while to respond. Whenever he was near, my mind took a vacation, traveling over every small detail of him while I patiently waited for it to return to work.

“My job, Mr. Horn. I was cleaning––now I’m done.” Oddly, his face relaxed at the bite in my voice. Strange man.

“You didn’t break or steal anything, did you?” he asked with cool candor.

My eyes must have been as large as dinner plates as I went through a list of scathing replies in my head. “No…and no,” I said, after extensive editing.

I moved to leave, gripping the bucket in front of me as a shield from more insults, but he remained in the doorway and continued to stare with that unnerving expression he always wore around me. It could only be described as fascinated disgust. I was about to blast him with a few choice recommendations on what he could do with that supercilious look on his face when he finally stepped aside, sparing me the pleasure. I walked out without another glance in his direction––but I could feel his eyes glued on me all the way down the hall.

* * *

“Charlotte…I have to tell you something.”

When I entered her bedroom, I found her sprawled on her stomach, her chin in her hands, her long legs kicked up behind her. Having worked at the estate for nearly two years had helped Charlotte save a considerable ‘little nest egg’ that afforded her a television. She insisted I come watch one of her favorite shows after dinner and having learned how persuasive Charlotte could be when she got something in her pretty head, I agreed and saved myself the trouble of an argument. The situation was worrying me. I needed to talk to someone about it and Charlotte had proven herself a friend.