The Best Man on the Planet, page 3
She sat with the bald detective in his grayish-tiled office, his desk hemmed in by plaques and bulletin boards tacked with wanted and missing persons posters and a large printout that read, oddly, “No Chewing Gum in Cell Area.” Behind the detective’s desk was an American flag next to a yellow flag with a red decal in the middle, the flag of New Mexico.
The detective said he could only discuss what had been released to the press, as the case was still under investigation, but Casey knew sources could get chatty. Mr. Foster had said he wanted to know all about what had happened to the victims, and perhaps she could learn something useful to the investigation. Once the research job was over, she could pitch a follow-up piece to an outlet.
“Most likely a robbery that went very wrong for whatever reason,” the detective said. “Perp tore through the house, ripped up some carpet. Sometimes word gets going around that cash is hidden in a home, when it’s not true. Couple wasn’t involved in anything that put them at risk for something like this.”
“It was an interesting time of day,” Casey said. “Alvira had come home at lunch hour, and the older kids were all at school and Maya was working at a fast food restaurant.”
“Could have been someone who knew them,” he said, noncommittally.
“Or someone who read the New York Times Sunday Magazine article. Alvira was quoted as saying she came home for lunch every day, it was her only way to get some alone time with her husband. Maybe whoever it was wanted them both there, but didn’t want to deal with thirteen children.”
“We’re considering everything,” he said, no nonsense.
Not wanting to risk alienating him, she didn’t offer any more theories, and refrained from asking the chances of solving the crime this many years later.
“Jewelry box was dumped out,” he told her. “Wedding rings were missing, and the male victim had his belt buckle cut off his belt. We released pictures in case they were sold, but gold is usually melted down right away. It was worth a shot.”
At night in her hotel room (she’d chosen a cheap place despite use of the foundation credit card), Casey sat on the dusty-smelling bed and transcribed her handwritten notes into her laptop. If she didn’t do it while the memory of an interview was fresh, her handwriting, with its messy abbreviations and shortcuts, became impenetrable. She rarely used her recording app. People were more open when they weren’t being recorded.
Jennifer’s look of hopefulness when she’d asked if her brothers and sisters could move in had moved Casey deeply. This family had been through so much. She wanted to be part of something pragmatic to help alleviate some of the family’s burden. Journalism had failed to offer her that.
The interview with the family had been depressing, but she let go of her vague worries that Mr. Foster couldn’t accomplish what he’d promised, and went to sleep feeling good about her usefulness.
A week after Casey’s return, she sat in her office, detailing the case to Mr. Foster, who stood facing the windows overlooking the tranquil side street.
“These children. Where are they all?” he asked.
She scrolled down her report, though she remembered most everything. “The two biological kids went with their grandparents. Others went to foster homes or group homes; their disabilities make them hard to place. I’m still trying to find Maya and her son; he’d be about six years old now. Maya aged out of foster care and no one knew where she went, though one person from their church thought she moved in with a boyfriend.”
“So they were all separated.”
“For the most part, yes. Not too many people are like the Nonezes.”
He drew away from the windows and slowly paced, arms locked in front of him, the melancholy in his voice peeling away in favor of its usual bark. “I want every single one of those children found. Hire a private detective; it will save you some time. Hire a decent one. I want two million to each child, also a quarter million to the original adoption agency.”
She nodded, mind crackling with the life-altering power literally at her fingertips. “The children are young. How will they handle all this money?” she asked.
“The funds will be in blind trusts, administered by my foundation. They’ll receive a fixed amount every year and, no, they won’t be able to do whatever they want with it. It’s for approved expenses, living, educational, healthcare. My family office will handle the details.” He looked deep in thought for a moment, then said, “Being they’re so young, make it three million each; include the young woman with the child. Maya? I’m sure she needs the extra million more than I do.”
Casey was momentarily too stunned to press her fingers onto her keyboard. Thirteen children: eleven adopted and two biological. When her fingers regained motion, she pulled up an online calculator. Thirty-nine million dollars!
Mr. Foster walked to the rose-colored sofa and sat down stiffly. “Anything else?”
“There’s an adoption magazine they subscribed to about to fold for lack of funds. It might be nice to donate to it. And they were big on getting out the word about adoption, especially of special needs kids. I wrote up summaries on two foundations that promote it, but can do more.”
Face inscrutable, Mr. Foster sat tapping the printed-out report against his palm. Casey wondered if their session was over, and what she was supposed to say or do.
“What do you think about my throwing all of this money around?” he asked, not looking at her.
She hesitated before speaking, wanting to give her answer due consideration. “I wouldn’t call it throwing it around. You’re giving it to people who need it.”
“That was almost one-third of my net worth, right there. If you don’t count this monstrosity we’re sitting in.” He looked at her, and unexpectedly grinned.
Casey was astonished. One-third of his net worth to strangers? It was unfathomable to her, even more so than the idea that he was worth over one hundred million dollars. She’d read of billionaires who gave away almost all of their wealth, but at least they had the sense to stagger it out into their old age. She wondered how much money he planned to keep to live on, but didn’t feel it was her place to ask. Maybe he planned to move to a monastery in Tibet.
“Do you want children?” he asked.
The question startled her. She wanted to remain diplomatic, but it was an inappropriate question for an employer to ask. “I haven’t thought about it today,” she said, smiling tightly.
“Of course.” He sunk deeper into the sofa cushions. “What you and your boyfriend decide for the future isn’t my business.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said, too quickly, a small part of her wondering if he’d meant to elicit this very information.
“Forgive me.” He met her eyes and they were sapped of energy. “What you decide in the future. I’m thinking of all of those children, who find a home for the first time in their rotten lives, only to be orphaned a second time. And whoever did this, still out there. How can anyone begin to understand the evil in the world? I’ll call it what it is—evil. I hope this will help them.”
The timber of his voice began to resonate within her as an internal antennae tuned into a distant frequency. When he stood with a long, languid stretch, his body silhouetted against the wintry light of the windows, the gravitational direction of the room subtly rotated, making her aware of him in a heightened way that hadn’t existed a few moments ago.
“I’m sure it will,” she offered.
“Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I go off. I’ll read everything tonight. Good work.”
She watched him leave and drummed her fingers on the desk, letting the dynamic of their first session settle in. She thought it went pretty well. Maybe dealing with him wouldn’t be so bad.
Still, it was eccentric to be giving away such wealth to strangers on this micro level. Even for a rich man, thirty-nine million dollars in one shot was hard to take in. Although, for all she knew, this is what some wealthy people did. It’s not like she’d ever hung out with one before.
She didn’t want to ask him more pointed questions, worried they might shake him as if from a hallucination and he’d scuttle the project —and with it, her salary. Her financial tenuousness was no longer chafing the edges of her sleep, rubbing her half-awake in a raw panic, and she wanted to keep it that way.
Besides, who was she to bother about what a filthy rich man did with his money?
6
“So how’s the job going?”
Casey knew Astrid didn’t only want to know about the job, but she played along. “It’s interesting, but sad. Researching these people’s lives, knowing how they’re going to end.”
“Sounds awful,” Astrid said, breezily. “How’s the guy?”
“Yeah, tell me about the guy,” added Kate, a former coworker, as she topped their glasses of Zinfandel. “I haven’t heard the scoop yet.”
Kate still worked at City News, and they’d been gossiping about the people there and how a senator was suing the paper after it insinuated his third wife used to be a professional escort.
Casey was cooking for the three of them at the apartment. She diced an onion, banging the dull knife into the scars of the wood cutting board, not wanting to get into “the guy.”
She didn’t know how to articulate everything she’d felt at the mansion over the past three weeks. With its oversized rococo furnishings, fusty-smelling rooms, and mullioned windows that absorbed more light than they emitted, the house had a majestic but faded, mournful glamour. She also had the strange feeling that the house was all knowing, as if the walls had eyes.
In the morning, Miss Brock would let her inside, and while she mouthed superficial niceties (“Would you care for coffee, Casey?” “Mr. Foster will come see you in an hour,” etc.), it was all said with such bloodless efficiency that Casey had the sense that the woman didn’t want her there.
She hadn’t figured out the exact nature of Miss Brock and Mr. Foster’s relationship. Miss Brock treated him courteously, but not deferentially. To Casey, she referred to him as Mr. Foster, but otherwise called him Samuel. There was a familiarity between them that spoke of long acquaintance.
Miss Brock took care of the day-to-day. Casey had seen her directing deliveries of boxed groceries, coming in with a stack of dry cleaning bags, and coordinating a trio of women who scattered into the cavernous rooms with cleaning paraphernalia. At one point, the three women were on their knees using tiny brushes to scrub the Moorish floor tile in the foyer. The tile, with the letters F-O-S-T-E-R spelled out in a black leaf pattern, was misshapen in spots and the grime ground in so deep that, even after hours of scrubbing, it still looked dirty.
Casey had glimpsed Miss Brock in the kitchen, which she could see down the long hall in a direct line from the foyer. The kitchen had a iron fireplace so large it looked as if an average-sized adult could stand in it, though she’d never seen it blazed with a fire. She’d also seen Miss Brock wielding an actual dust ruffle, swooshing around vases, mantels, and tabletops with an air of devoutness to the cause of eradicating dust particles.
As for Mr. Foster (Casey still called him that), sometimes he was perfectly approachable, bordering on chummy. But without warning, he would turn curt with her. The brusqueness could seem artificial, as if he was irritated with himself for letting his guard down and had to reverse it. Perhaps his wealth had insulated him from real life, so that he’d never had to be consistently personable. Given everything he was doing with the foundation, Casey couldn’t dismiss him as a mere jerk.
Other than those times when they discussed the project, she wasn’t sure what he did all day. He did take a jog every morning, and would be loosening his limbs on the bottom step as she arrived. At first, she’d smiled and greeted him. But when he’d returned her greetings with a terse nod, she’d grown irritated and stopped. It was only then he’d started saying good morning.
“He can be kind of rude,” she told Kate. “But you can’t argue with what he’s doing. He’s passionate about it. It’s strange, but rich people are supposed to be strange.”
“Rich, rude, and strange. Sounds like a movie,” Kate said.
“Show her the picture,” Astrid urged.
Casey abandoned her chopping and on her phone pulled up Polo Today, a site she’d found in her cyber sleuthing. Looking at the pictures again, she burst out with inane laughter. Mr. Foster was on a slick, galloping chestnut horse with a braided tail, the caption under him reading, “Samuel Foster drilling a 60-foot penalty shot at the Westbrook Polo Club.”
In the next photo, looking bored, he held a small trophy of a man on horseback swinging a polo mallet. Casey passed the phone to Kate, who almost slammed her wine glass on the counter. “Not bad!” she said. “Not bad at all.”
“Those are old. I couldn’t find anything recent for him. It’s hard to explain, but he looks different now. Almost as if the person in those pictures is a twin—someone him but not him.”
Kate handed the phone back, her lips pursed. “Well, he’s pretty cute.”
“Listen, girl,” Astrid said. “If you’re not interested, theeeen…” She spread her hands out until they framed her photogenic face and clear green eyes.
“He’s my boss. I’m not there to set him up.”
“Casually, Case. Have you considered he’s in a bad mood because he hasn’t met the right woman yet?” She pitched her cinnamon hair over one shoulder, her arched brows suspended.
“I’m sure he’s just waiting around for you.” Casey resumed chopping, the harsh fumes of the onion drawing water from her eyes.
“What’s the problem?” Kate asked. “Don’t you want Astrid to be set for life?”
“Oh, yeah!” Astrid yelped, and the pair did a bump and grind into each other.
Casey pushed the onions into a pile and forcefully switched to a carrot.
“Seriously.” Astrid oozed onto the island until she was almost under Casey’s nose. “It’s not about his money. I’m just tired of the hipsters with their bad bands and Appalachian beards. I don’t see what the big deal is. Unless you like him.”
“Astrid,” she said, losing patience, “let it go.”
But over the course of next week, the idea gained in allure. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, and Casey had seen no evidence that he had a girlfriend. Perhaps if she introduced him to someone he liked, he’d be in a better mood in general, as Astrid had said. It couldn’t hurt to have a happy boss.
By now, his voice had lost much of its crabby vigor, and there was a friendly little bond that had formed between them, a small gateway he’d opened to something less formal.
It started when Miss Brock had come into Casey’s office, asking if she would like lunch prepared for her and listing the foods on hand. The idea of being waited on was uncomfortable and, besides, Casey looked forward to the half an hour she took for lunch in the small park across the street. Even with the lingering chill in the air, she needed time away from the mansion so its watchful walls didn’t oppress her.
She was calculating how to respectfully turn down the offer for lunch when Mr. Foster appeared in the hallway over Miss Brock’s shoulder. His expression went wooden, his eyes locked straight ahead, and his jaw opened and closed like a marionette.
Uncertain at what she was seeing, Casey watched, confused. When she realized he was imitating Miss Brock, it was all she could do not to smile. Miss Brock turned to see what had caught Casey’s attention, but he’d quickly moved on.
She thought it was a blip in his personality she wouldn’t see again; perhaps he’d had too much caffeine that morning.
Casey didn’t see much of Miss Brock, but once in awhile she made an appearance—asking if Casey would like a space heater in her office, asking if she’d like coffee, offering to make her lunch a few more times despite Casey’s polite but increasingly awkward declines. Three days in a row, Mr. Foster popped up behind Miss Brock with his impersonations, as if he’d heard her from his study and rushed out to entertain Casey with his pantomimes.
As she became accustomed to his performances, even looked forward to them, her reactions grew spontaneous, and she’d watch him bemusedly. After Miss Brock left, the two of them would share a guilty laugh.
Casey hadn’t expected anything playful had lurked in his gruffness, and she hadn’t expected his smile to be so luminous, as if an ordinary mound of earth had crumbled open to reveal a jewel. These moments humanized him to where it was acceptable, almost required, she ask him a personal question.
So early Friday afternoon, she hovered outside of his study, waiting for him to look up from his laptop. When he did, his face was open and sociable, which emboldened her more.
“Is it all right if I subscribe to LexisNexis?” she asked. “It’s a database to help me identify people. I can get you price quotes.”
“No price quotes needed. That’s why I gave you a credit card.”
“Great,” she said, bustling in with forced confidence, and writing things on her notepad that didn’t need to be written. No price quotes. Credit card.
She threw a glance at the wall of windows as if she might see a person across the street, one who could snap her out of what she was about to do. “This is a little embarrassing, but I have a question for you.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Are… are you single?”
“I’m sorry?”
The shocked look on his face made it apparent she’d made a grave mistake.
“Ah, no,” she said, flailing her hands. “That came out wrong.”
“How should it have come out?” He eyed her curiously and, she thought, rather coldly.
“I—oh God, I’m sorry. This was a bad idea.” Her face was so hot she knew she had to be blushing horribly. Why had she done this?
He crossed his arms, leaning over his desk. “Are you asking me out, Miss Matos?”
“No!” she practically screamed, flinging one arm out as if he’d chucked a hard object at her face. “I have a roommate interested in meeting you if you’re interested. She’s very beautiful.” She emphasized the word beautiful, tossing it out like a lifeline, for what man, a heterosexual one at least, wouldn’t grasp onto the promise of meeting a beautiful woman? “I’m asking for her.”
The detective said he could only discuss what had been released to the press, as the case was still under investigation, but Casey knew sources could get chatty. Mr. Foster had said he wanted to know all about what had happened to the victims, and perhaps she could learn something useful to the investigation. Once the research job was over, she could pitch a follow-up piece to an outlet.
“Most likely a robbery that went very wrong for whatever reason,” the detective said. “Perp tore through the house, ripped up some carpet. Sometimes word gets going around that cash is hidden in a home, when it’s not true. Couple wasn’t involved in anything that put them at risk for something like this.”
“It was an interesting time of day,” Casey said. “Alvira had come home at lunch hour, and the older kids were all at school and Maya was working at a fast food restaurant.”
“Could have been someone who knew them,” he said, noncommittally.
“Or someone who read the New York Times Sunday Magazine article. Alvira was quoted as saying she came home for lunch every day, it was her only way to get some alone time with her husband. Maybe whoever it was wanted them both there, but didn’t want to deal with thirteen children.”
“We’re considering everything,” he said, no nonsense.
Not wanting to risk alienating him, she didn’t offer any more theories, and refrained from asking the chances of solving the crime this many years later.
“Jewelry box was dumped out,” he told her. “Wedding rings were missing, and the male victim had his belt buckle cut off his belt. We released pictures in case they were sold, but gold is usually melted down right away. It was worth a shot.”
At night in her hotel room (she’d chosen a cheap place despite use of the foundation credit card), Casey sat on the dusty-smelling bed and transcribed her handwritten notes into her laptop. If she didn’t do it while the memory of an interview was fresh, her handwriting, with its messy abbreviations and shortcuts, became impenetrable. She rarely used her recording app. People were more open when they weren’t being recorded.
Jennifer’s look of hopefulness when she’d asked if her brothers and sisters could move in had moved Casey deeply. This family had been through so much. She wanted to be part of something pragmatic to help alleviate some of the family’s burden. Journalism had failed to offer her that.
The interview with the family had been depressing, but she let go of her vague worries that Mr. Foster couldn’t accomplish what he’d promised, and went to sleep feeling good about her usefulness.
A week after Casey’s return, she sat in her office, detailing the case to Mr. Foster, who stood facing the windows overlooking the tranquil side street.
“These children. Where are they all?” he asked.
She scrolled down her report, though she remembered most everything. “The two biological kids went with their grandparents. Others went to foster homes or group homes; their disabilities make them hard to place. I’m still trying to find Maya and her son; he’d be about six years old now. Maya aged out of foster care and no one knew where she went, though one person from their church thought she moved in with a boyfriend.”
“So they were all separated.”
“For the most part, yes. Not too many people are like the Nonezes.”
He drew away from the windows and slowly paced, arms locked in front of him, the melancholy in his voice peeling away in favor of its usual bark. “I want every single one of those children found. Hire a private detective; it will save you some time. Hire a decent one. I want two million to each child, also a quarter million to the original adoption agency.”
She nodded, mind crackling with the life-altering power literally at her fingertips. “The children are young. How will they handle all this money?” she asked.
“The funds will be in blind trusts, administered by my foundation. They’ll receive a fixed amount every year and, no, they won’t be able to do whatever they want with it. It’s for approved expenses, living, educational, healthcare. My family office will handle the details.” He looked deep in thought for a moment, then said, “Being they’re so young, make it three million each; include the young woman with the child. Maya? I’m sure she needs the extra million more than I do.”
Casey was momentarily too stunned to press her fingers onto her keyboard. Thirteen children: eleven adopted and two biological. When her fingers regained motion, she pulled up an online calculator. Thirty-nine million dollars!
Mr. Foster walked to the rose-colored sofa and sat down stiffly. “Anything else?”
“There’s an adoption magazine they subscribed to about to fold for lack of funds. It might be nice to donate to it. And they were big on getting out the word about adoption, especially of special needs kids. I wrote up summaries on two foundations that promote it, but can do more.”
Face inscrutable, Mr. Foster sat tapping the printed-out report against his palm. Casey wondered if their session was over, and what she was supposed to say or do.
“What do you think about my throwing all of this money around?” he asked, not looking at her.
She hesitated before speaking, wanting to give her answer due consideration. “I wouldn’t call it throwing it around. You’re giving it to people who need it.”
“That was almost one-third of my net worth, right there. If you don’t count this monstrosity we’re sitting in.” He looked at her, and unexpectedly grinned.
Casey was astonished. One-third of his net worth to strangers? It was unfathomable to her, even more so than the idea that he was worth over one hundred million dollars. She’d read of billionaires who gave away almost all of their wealth, but at least they had the sense to stagger it out into their old age. She wondered how much money he planned to keep to live on, but didn’t feel it was her place to ask. Maybe he planned to move to a monastery in Tibet.
“Do you want children?” he asked.
The question startled her. She wanted to remain diplomatic, but it was an inappropriate question for an employer to ask. “I haven’t thought about it today,” she said, smiling tightly.
“Of course.” He sunk deeper into the sofa cushions. “What you and your boyfriend decide for the future isn’t my business.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said, too quickly, a small part of her wondering if he’d meant to elicit this very information.
“Forgive me.” He met her eyes and they were sapped of energy. “What you decide in the future. I’m thinking of all of those children, who find a home for the first time in their rotten lives, only to be orphaned a second time. And whoever did this, still out there. How can anyone begin to understand the evil in the world? I’ll call it what it is—evil. I hope this will help them.”
The timber of his voice began to resonate within her as an internal antennae tuned into a distant frequency. When he stood with a long, languid stretch, his body silhouetted against the wintry light of the windows, the gravitational direction of the room subtly rotated, making her aware of him in a heightened way that hadn’t existed a few moments ago.
“I’m sure it will,” she offered.
“Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I go off. I’ll read everything tonight. Good work.”
She watched him leave and drummed her fingers on the desk, letting the dynamic of their first session settle in. She thought it went pretty well. Maybe dealing with him wouldn’t be so bad.
Still, it was eccentric to be giving away such wealth to strangers on this micro level. Even for a rich man, thirty-nine million dollars in one shot was hard to take in. Although, for all she knew, this is what some wealthy people did. It’s not like she’d ever hung out with one before.
She didn’t want to ask him more pointed questions, worried they might shake him as if from a hallucination and he’d scuttle the project —and with it, her salary. Her financial tenuousness was no longer chafing the edges of her sleep, rubbing her half-awake in a raw panic, and she wanted to keep it that way.
Besides, who was she to bother about what a filthy rich man did with his money?
6
“So how’s the job going?”
Casey knew Astrid didn’t only want to know about the job, but she played along. “It’s interesting, but sad. Researching these people’s lives, knowing how they’re going to end.”
“Sounds awful,” Astrid said, breezily. “How’s the guy?”
“Yeah, tell me about the guy,” added Kate, a former coworker, as she topped their glasses of Zinfandel. “I haven’t heard the scoop yet.”
Kate still worked at City News, and they’d been gossiping about the people there and how a senator was suing the paper after it insinuated his third wife used to be a professional escort.
Casey was cooking for the three of them at the apartment. She diced an onion, banging the dull knife into the scars of the wood cutting board, not wanting to get into “the guy.”
She didn’t know how to articulate everything she’d felt at the mansion over the past three weeks. With its oversized rococo furnishings, fusty-smelling rooms, and mullioned windows that absorbed more light than they emitted, the house had a majestic but faded, mournful glamour. She also had the strange feeling that the house was all knowing, as if the walls had eyes.
In the morning, Miss Brock would let her inside, and while she mouthed superficial niceties (“Would you care for coffee, Casey?” “Mr. Foster will come see you in an hour,” etc.), it was all said with such bloodless efficiency that Casey had the sense that the woman didn’t want her there.
She hadn’t figured out the exact nature of Miss Brock and Mr. Foster’s relationship. Miss Brock treated him courteously, but not deferentially. To Casey, she referred to him as Mr. Foster, but otherwise called him Samuel. There was a familiarity between them that spoke of long acquaintance.
Miss Brock took care of the day-to-day. Casey had seen her directing deliveries of boxed groceries, coming in with a stack of dry cleaning bags, and coordinating a trio of women who scattered into the cavernous rooms with cleaning paraphernalia. At one point, the three women were on their knees using tiny brushes to scrub the Moorish floor tile in the foyer. The tile, with the letters F-O-S-T-E-R spelled out in a black leaf pattern, was misshapen in spots and the grime ground in so deep that, even after hours of scrubbing, it still looked dirty.
Casey had glimpsed Miss Brock in the kitchen, which she could see down the long hall in a direct line from the foyer. The kitchen had a iron fireplace so large it looked as if an average-sized adult could stand in it, though she’d never seen it blazed with a fire. She’d also seen Miss Brock wielding an actual dust ruffle, swooshing around vases, mantels, and tabletops with an air of devoutness to the cause of eradicating dust particles.
As for Mr. Foster (Casey still called him that), sometimes he was perfectly approachable, bordering on chummy. But without warning, he would turn curt with her. The brusqueness could seem artificial, as if he was irritated with himself for letting his guard down and had to reverse it. Perhaps his wealth had insulated him from real life, so that he’d never had to be consistently personable. Given everything he was doing with the foundation, Casey couldn’t dismiss him as a mere jerk.
Other than those times when they discussed the project, she wasn’t sure what he did all day. He did take a jog every morning, and would be loosening his limbs on the bottom step as she arrived. At first, she’d smiled and greeted him. But when he’d returned her greetings with a terse nod, she’d grown irritated and stopped. It was only then he’d started saying good morning.
“He can be kind of rude,” she told Kate. “But you can’t argue with what he’s doing. He’s passionate about it. It’s strange, but rich people are supposed to be strange.”
“Rich, rude, and strange. Sounds like a movie,” Kate said.
“Show her the picture,” Astrid urged.
Casey abandoned her chopping and on her phone pulled up Polo Today, a site she’d found in her cyber sleuthing. Looking at the pictures again, she burst out with inane laughter. Mr. Foster was on a slick, galloping chestnut horse with a braided tail, the caption under him reading, “Samuel Foster drilling a 60-foot penalty shot at the Westbrook Polo Club.”
In the next photo, looking bored, he held a small trophy of a man on horseback swinging a polo mallet. Casey passed the phone to Kate, who almost slammed her wine glass on the counter. “Not bad!” she said. “Not bad at all.”
“Those are old. I couldn’t find anything recent for him. It’s hard to explain, but he looks different now. Almost as if the person in those pictures is a twin—someone him but not him.”
Kate handed the phone back, her lips pursed. “Well, he’s pretty cute.”
“Listen, girl,” Astrid said. “If you’re not interested, theeeen…” She spread her hands out until they framed her photogenic face and clear green eyes.
“He’s my boss. I’m not there to set him up.”
“Casually, Case. Have you considered he’s in a bad mood because he hasn’t met the right woman yet?” She pitched her cinnamon hair over one shoulder, her arched brows suspended.
“I’m sure he’s just waiting around for you.” Casey resumed chopping, the harsh fumes of the onion drawing water from her eyes.
“What’s the problem?” Kate asked. “Don’t you want Astrid to be set for life?”
“Oh, yeah!” Astrid yelped, and the pair did a bump and grind into each other.
Casey pushed the onions into a pile and forcefully switched to a carrot.
“Seriously.” Astrid oozed onto the island until she was almost under Casey’s nose. “It’s not about his money. I’m just tired of the hipsters with their bad bands and Appalachian beards. I don’t see what the big deal is. Unless you like him.”
“Astrid,” she said, losing patience, “let it go.”
But over the course of next week, the idea gained in allure. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, and Casey had seen no evidence that he had a girlfriend. Perhaps if she introduced him to someone he liked, he’d be in a better mood in general, as Astrid had said. It couldn’t hurt to have a happy boss.
By now, his voice had lost much of its crabby vigor, and there was a friendly little bond that had formed between them, a small gateway he’d opened to something less formal.
It started when Miss Brock had come into Casey’s office, asking if she would like lunch prepared for her and listing the foods on hand. The idea of being waited on was uncomfortable and, besides, Casey looked forward to the half an hour she took for lunch in the small park across the street. Even with the lingering chill in the air, she needed time away from the mansion so its watchful walls didn’t oppress her.
She was calculating how to respectfully turn down the offer for lunch when Mr. Foster appeared in the hallway over Miss Brock’s shoulder. His expression went wooden, his eyes locked straight ahead, and his jaw opened and closed like a marionette.
Uncertain at what she was seeing, Casey watched, confused. When she realized he was imitating Miss Brock, it was all she could do not to smile. Miss Brock turned to see what had caught Casey’s attention, but he’d quickly moved on.
She thought it was a blip in his personality she wouldn’t see again; perhaps he’d had too much caffeine that morning.
Casey didn’t see much of Miss Brock, but once in awhile she made an appearance—asking if Casey would like a space heater in her office, asking if she’d like coffee, offering to make her lunch a few more times despite Casey’s polite but increasingly awkward declines. Three days in a row, Mr. Foster popped up behind Miss Brock with his impersonations, as if he’d heard her from his study and rushed out to entertain Casey with his pantomimes.
As she became accustomed to his performances, even looked forward to them, her reactions grew spontaneous, and she’d watch him bemusedly. After Miss Brock left, the two of them would share a guilty laugh.
Casey hadn’t expected anything playful had lurked in his gruffness, and she hadn’t expected his smile to be so luminous, as if an ordinary mound of earth had crumbled open to reveal a jewel. These moments humanized him to where it was acceptable, almost required, she ask him a personal question.
So early Friday afternoon, she hovered outside of his study, waiting for him to look up from his laptop. When he did, his face was open and sociable, which emboldened her more.
“Is it all right if I subscribe to LexisNexis?” she asked. “It’s a database to help me identify people. I can get you price quotes.”
“No price quotes needed. That’s why I gave you a credit card.”
“Great,” she said, bustling in with forced confidence, and writing things on her notepad that didn’t need to be written. No price quotes. Credit card.
She threw a glance at the wall of windows as if she might see a person across the street, one who could snap her out of what she was about to do. “This is a little embarrassing, but I have a question for you.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Are… are you single?”
“I’m sorry?”
The shocked look on his face made it apparent she’d made a grave mistake.
“Ah, no,” she said, flailing her hands. “That came out wrong.”
“How should it have come out?” He eyed her curiously and, she thought, rather coldly.
“I—oh God, I’m sorry. This was a bad idea.” Her face was so hot she knew she had to be blushing horribly. Why had she done this?
He crossed his arms, leaning over his desk. “Are you asking me out, Miss Matos?”
“No!” she practically screamed, flinging one arm out as if he’d chucked a hard object at her face. “I have a roommate interested in meeting you if you’re interested. She’s very beautiful.” She emphasized the word beautiful, tossing it out like a lifeline, for what man, a heterosexual one at least, wouldn’t grasp onto the promise of meeting a beautiful woman? “I’m asking for her.”
