Again, thank you for it.
Delilah Kent
I set my phone off to the side and continued sipping my tea. The sun was slowly rising in the sky, casting a warm glow over the field that backed up to my cabin. At any other point in time, it would’ve been considered inspirational.
But for some reason, it only struck me as normal.
I finished my cup of tea and headed in from the balcony. My mind was at a stand still, so I figured a day of rest would do me some good. I closed the balcony doors, grabbed my phone, and headed down towards the fireplace to cozy up and read a book.
I didn’t get four pages in before my work email rang out again on my phone.
And it was another email from Preston.
Miss Kent,
I am glad to hear the art-based vacation is going well. Painting anything worthy of The Louvre? As far as people slacking off, there is plenty of that. But slacking off is only worthy of a decent chastising. Nothing has affected how the company operates and profits, so nothing of that magnitude has occurred. I figured it would settle your mind, if you still thought I was going to fire you.
P. Walker
A grin spread across my face as I read his email. I wasn’t in fear of losing my job any longer, but it was interesting that he was worried I was still thinking that. Did the infamous Preston Walker suddenly care about what I thought? That wasn’t possible. That wasn’t who he was. He didn’t care about what anyone else thought. All he cared about was women, money, and glory.
But my stomach fluttered with every email I received from him.
Our correspondence went back and forth like that for the rest of my retreat. And every time I got a response from him, a picture emerged to the forefront of my mind. It took a couple of days to solidify the color scheme and the shading, but once it was brought to life in my mind’s eye, I couldn’t shake it. Back and forth we went with our emails, bouncing around from work to our personal lives. And the more I learned about him the clearer the picture became.
But then, there was one particular email. One email that changed the tone of our correspondence. And it had nothing to do with the content of the message.
Instead of using my last name, he used my first.
‘Delilah’.
He called me ‘Delilah’ instead of ‘Miss Kent’.
Delilah,
I know you only have a few days until you return to work, so I’ll make this brief. Could I see one of your paintings?
P. Walker
I looked up at the painting I was finishing up and sighed. It was the best one I had done during the three weeks I had been here. In the time we emailed back and forth, I learned a bit about his prep school days and about his frustrations with the company. I learned a lot about his years in Harvard Business School and how he always toed the line between the cool man on campus and the workaholic. I got to see yet another side of him. A side that was unfiltered and more raw without the risk of seeing judgment roll across someone’s face.
It made me wonder if he could be like this in person with someone.
But I couldn’t send him a picture of the painting I was working on. It was too personal. Too primal. In a way, I couldn’t even explain to myself why I had chosen what I had. Why my mind had been so hellbent on bleeding this image through my fingertips. So I hopped off my stool and started taking pictures of my sketches. Shaded doodles of the landscape and sunsets I was going to bring to life on my laptop whenever I couldn’t sleep at night.
Because I couldn’t show him what I was most proud of. What my mind had retrieved as important during the course of our conversations. I couldn’t show him the painted picture of his naked body lying in bed that morning. When I stood, naked and vulnerable, in his penthouse apartment. I couldn’t show this to him for many reasons. Because it was personal. Because it was private. Because it etched itself inside a deeper part of me that had only ever been accessed by one other person.
Because then I would have to talk with him about why I had left him that morning.
And I was never going to be ready for that conversation.
Thirteen
Delilah
My return to the office was less than triumphant. In fact, no one really knew I was gone. Marcie, the front desk secretary for the office building, greeted me as if it was just another day. I walked through the office building with everyone oblivious to the fact that I was there. Everyone was talking and gossiping about the latest drama in the office, not even noticing that I was returning after a three-week hiatus. The only reprieve I felt I had was the fact that I was about to see Preston. I was about to walk by his office with his door wide open, and I thought about sticking my head in there. After all, we had been conversing via email for the past week and a half.
I felt confidence surge through my veins as the elevator door opened on my floor.