Page 17 of Sinful Beauty

The office isn’t my reason for needing a glass of wine. This afternoon, I received official notice from the attorney I hired that there are no grounds for appeal in my father’s case. There’s no hope that either he or my brother, a brother I barely remember, will be released from prison early. They’ll die in prison.

“You want to talk about it?” William asks.

“No.” I admit and force a smile. I don’t wish to tell him my father is in prison. It’s not that he would judge me, but it’s something I don’t offer freely. William isn’t Swiss, but he’s not Brazilian either. He’ll assume my father and brother did something truly awful. To throw him off, so he doesn’t think I’m down over something worth digging into, I add, “I’d rather leave it at the office.”

“Right smart of you. It’ll be there in the morrow.”

William turns to the back cupboard where he stores the wine glasses, and I pull out my phone. I should update Aline. She and Geraldo love my father and brother. But there’s no need to distress them while they are celebrating retirement. I can wait a month to tell them and it won’t change anything. We’ve been waiting months for this attorney to take action.

It took years, but I finally had extra money to put towards legal fees. I finally held hope. I’ll let Aline and Geraldo carry that hope a little longer.

An icy blast coats my back with the opening of the pub door. I’ve picked barstools poorly, but I don’t have the energy to move. William returns with a glass and a bottle, and greets the newcomer behind me with, “Nice to see you again.”

He pours the wine into my glass and I watch closely as he pours far more than he’s supposed to into my glass. That’s another reason to be a regular. He slides it to me and the hairs on my neck rise when a familiar, deep voice responds with, “I’ll take aTrois Dames.”

The stool two down from mine scrapes the floor. The man who frazzled my boss, the same man who came here last Friday, removes his outer coat and lays it over an empty stool.

His eyebrow lifts in recognition as he sits heavily on the chair. Last Friday, he’d been mysterious with an undercurrent of mischievous. Today, there’s no trace of humor and for a reason I can’t put my finger on, he seems older.

I glance at William, the resident therapist. Does he see it too?

A pint of golden comfort slides across the wood.

“Can I get you anything else?” William asks the gentleman.

“No. This is good for now.”

William glances between the two of us, nods once, and goes to the far end of the bar.

“Is this your regular spot?” The man asks me.

“Close to work.” The tip of my finger traces the base of the wine glass. “I guess that’s why you ended up here?”

I’d expected to see him again today, after he left with Mrs. Wagner, but he never reappeared. I had his office prepared, an office which is too close to my workstation. Mr. Peltz didn’t assign him the worst office, after all, he has a window. But it’s probably the smallest office with a window in the building. At least, that’s my guess, since we’ve used it for storage for as long as I can remember.

The silence has me spinning slightly to him. His shoulders slump and his arms rest on the wood. I have this urge to knead his shoulders and tell him everything will be okay.

In lieu of giving in to maternal urges, I ask, “Did your meetings not go well?”

“They went fine.”

Either they went the opposite of fine or something else is weighing on him, so I step in where William should. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He taps the wood lightly with his fingers, and his eyes narrow. Will he open up? To a lowly assistant?

“I can think of few things I would prefer less.”

I straighten the stool and stare straight ahead, feeling like a reprimanded, nosy child.

“That’s not saying I wouldn’t love to carry on with you. I simply don’t want to talk about it.”

I sip my wine and wonder what in heavens the executives threw at him today. “They’ll warm to you. They’re territorial right now, that’s all. Once you settle in, you’ll find it’s a nice lot.”

“I’m sure they are,” he says, and lifts his beer for a long swallow. When he sets it down, with his body positioned straight ahead, he turns his head and attention to me. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“You stop in for a drink every weekday, including Monday, or is there another reason you’re drinking alone?”

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