A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

My stomach plummeted to my feet. I couldn’t feel my lips as anxiety escalated to an unbearable pitch. I waited for him to say something but he kept silent, torturing me by slow degrees.

“Marquez.” Huh? “Do you like him?” My mind was slow to respond, like running through deep snow. “I guess you don’t read. Do you speak?” he added––rudely. No, I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t make a sound if I tried. “Forget it. You can take the rest of this shit away,” he muttered and turned his attention to the televisions over my shoulder.

“I prefer One Hundred Years of Solitude.” His sharp gaze returned to me. Staring and blinking. Blinking and staring. I took up the tray and turned towards the door. Relief washed over me. Somehow I had just avoided a disaster.

* * *

When I returned to the kitchen with the food he had refused, Mrs. Arnaud pursed her lips. “He will waste away at this rate,” she said, more to herself than anyone else in the kitchen. I thought it best not to point out that he was in no danger of wasting away, and was in fact rather deliciously in perfect shape.

By noon Mrs. Arnaud and I had managed to outline a menu for every day of the house party to be held at the end of the month. We worked effectively together. She was the butterfly, her mind wandering in all directions, full of creative ideas, and I was the net keeping her on track and organized. She handed me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and sat back down at the trestle table where our strategic plans were laid out.

“Do you have a chère ami, Vera?”

The question took me by surprise. “No, madame.”

Her nurturing eyes searched my face. “Don’t let time pass you by.”

“I was engaged once…back in Albania.” I shrugged. “Anyway, it didn’t work out.” I hadn’t meant to confide so much, but her gentle, soothing manner had me singing like a canary.

“Are you still in love with him? Is that why you’re alone?”

Alone? Yes, very alone. “No, not for a long time.” I was about to list all the valid reasons for choosing to be alone––fear of getting arrested and deported being the most significant––when something entirely different came out of my mouth. “I guess I’m alone because I haven’t met anyone that interests me enough.”

She smiled knowingly. “I see, a romantic.”

“Me? No, not at all. I’m a very practical person, but I have to feel something.” I thought of Aleksander. His betrayal had been devastating, although, in hindsight, a necessary evil. I had been so naïve, much too open and trusting.

Mr. Bentifourt walked into the kitchen sneezing.

“90 mg of zinc, olive leaf extract, and at least a thousand milligrams of slow release Ester C…you’ll be over it in no time,” I casually advised while my eyes remained on the seating arrangements.

“I haven’t asked you, though, have I?” His brusque reply spawned a series of uncharitable thoughts I kept to myself. His pocket rang and he retrieved an iPhone from it. Raising it closely to his face, he grumbled, “Bloody phone. I can’t read the bloody thing.”

“That’s because your glasses are on top of your head, Olivier,” Mrs. Arnaud reminded him, all warm tolerance. He rolled his eyes and placed his glasses on, his eyebrows rising comically high as he read.

“Vera, Mr. Horn would like a bottle of Pellegrino. Bring a chilled glass with you.” Me, again? I almost huffed. “Do hurry, he doesn’t like to wait.”

I grabbed the Pellegrino bottle and a glass from the refrigerator, refrained from slamming it shut, and stalked out of the kitchen muttering a series of vulgar words under my breath that I rarely, if ever, use. I worked myself up into a juvenile fit of temper as I walked back to his office. My knuckles rapped loudly on the door.

“You don’t have to break the damn thing down. Come in!”

For the first time in ages, I choked down a laugh. “You rang, sir?” I knew I was asking for it and I didn’t care one iota. I actually managed to keep a totally impassive expression as he glared at me. I stepped closer to the desk, his eyes following me the whole time, and handed him the frosty glass, then the bottle. He took one look at the glass and scowled.

“Why is this chilled?”

Is this a trick question? “I don’t know.”

“Go back and get me another glass. This will leak all over my paperwork. And if you’re not smart enough to get it right, send somebody that can.” It was as if he knew exactly what to say to turn my mind black with rage. His eyes returned to his paperwork, dismissing me. After a deep, calming breath, I walked out.

Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Arnaud cocked her head in confusion when she noticed the glass I held up. “He doesn’t want it chilled.”