The Pool Boy Page 8

  “Let me guess. He let you stay.”

  James nods and we share a smile. I finally take a bite of my pasta, holding back groan because it’s so delicious, and I appreciate it even more as I listen to James’ voice while he continues with his story.

  “Antony kept letting me work whenever I showed up, and I tried to do the best work I could so that I would always be welcome back. He finally got me to admit that I was homeless, and he let me move in with him, sleep on his couch. He trained me in construction, and I finally started to get my own jobs when I showed people the solutions I’d found for using less expensive material.”

  “He sounds like an amazing person,” I said.

  “He was. And when Antony died, he left me his house.”

  “Wow,” I say. We take a moment to eat, and James feeds me a bite of his fettucine, which is without a doubt the best I’ve ever had.

  “I owe everything to him,” he goes on, “and I knew that if I screwed up he would come back and kick my ass. So I changed my name—I never knew my mom’s and I always used the name of my foster family. London, California was the place where that house with the big yard was, and it was the last place I felt truly happy. That became my last name. Then I started my own one-man company with the jobs I already had, and slowly started to get more. I would work every possible odd job on the side until I could support myself. I swore that I would never be homeless again.” He takes another bite of his dinner. I watch as each chew softens the expression on his face. “But to answer your original question, I don’t know if I have siblings. Maybe. I’ll probably never know for sure.”

  I can’t think of anything to say. What is the response to that? My own life has been so different that the contrast is shocking, and I’m immediately embarrassed by the ridiculous wealth that he sees every day at our house. “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I say, hoping that it’s the right thing, or at least not the wrong thing. “And so young. You’re so strong. I wish…it had been different.”

  He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I don’t. Tough as it was, it made me who I am. And I can’t go back and change any of it, so staying angry or sad about it, or holding onto what hurt, doesn’t help anyone.”

  “That’s a really great view.”

  “Antony also sent me to therapy,” James says, chuckling. “But it’s true. I’m not sad about it. It led me to where I am. And I’m very happy where I am.” He squeezes my hand and I feel it in my gut. A deep and expansive feeling I’m not familiar with.

  I drop my gaze into my pasta to avoid his eyes, both hoping and fearing I’ll see that same emotion clearly displayed on his face.

  He squeezes my hand again. “Do I get questions too?”

  “You already know a lot about me.”

  “I don’t know why you want to build houses for poor people.”

  After his story, I feel like the way I stumbled upon the concept pales in comparison. He has real life experience, and he knows what it’s like to have nothing. I’ve never wanted for anything in my life. “It’s going to seem silly.”

  James sighs. “Vera, it’s not your fault you were born wealthy, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’d never resent you for it. We both have things to learn from the other, and both experiences are valid.”

  “I was in Peru,” I say, finally. “Family trip, and we were sight-seeing. It was the first time that I had seen something like that, these people who lived in these patched-together structures, and barely had a roof over their heads. I didn’t understand why their houses looked like that. I was young, I’d only ever seen L.A., or Paris, or cities. My father’s buildings. I realized that that was all they had, and I never forgot it.”

  “That doesn’t sound silly at all.” His gaze pierces into me, warm and supportive, and I feel the tightness in my chest start to loosen.

  “My father pushed me to go into architecture. I knew it was because he wanted me to work for him. I told him from the start that I didn’t want to do that, that I wanted to do something better. He didn’t listen, and now…here we are.”

  He smiles, and I take the time to drink him in. I like every curve and angle of his face. I like where the light is captured, and the shadows form. I could lose myself in his eyes, dark as they are. I could spend a very long time looking at him. I’ve never been good at artistic drawing, but his face—oh god, his body—makes me want to try. He’s spent his entire adult life building houses, and now I know exactly where that body came from.

  “You’re going to get the job,” he says. “You’re more than qualified, and you’re perfect for it. There’s no reason for you not to.”

  “Thanks. I kind of have to get it, though. My week is up tomorrow.”

  There’s something hanging in the air, and I can’t put a name to what it is. It’s unformed and hovering, waiting for either of us to make it real.

  He’s braver than I am. “I like you, Vera. A lot.”

  My stomach drops into a free fall, the kind of exhilarating sensation you get from going over the top of a roller coaster. He likes me. A lot. And I like him, so much more than a lot. I clear my throat and take a sip of wine. “You’re okay,” I say, winking.

  He laughs, a huge belly laugh that draws looks from others in the restaurant. “Maybe we should keep our date for tomorrow night.”

  “I think I’d like that.”

  He settles the check and reaches for my hand. “Drive you home?” he asks.

  “Not to your place?”

  “And take you to bed on a first date?” He returns my wink. “What kind of gentleman would I be?”

  12

  James

  Vera is quiet on the way back to her house, and I’d do anything to know what she’s thinking. But at the same time I think she might need some space. I’m sure that my story is a lot of information to absorb in a short amount of time. I know that I’d need some space if someone dropped that kind of personal history on me. But I’m glad it’s out in the open now, glad she knows the real me. I reach over and take her hand, and she weaves her fingers through mine.

  The pit of my stomach warms up at the action, the heat spreads, and I feel it again. Something was in the air while we finished dinner. It’s strange, and I think she felt it too. I feel impossibly close to this girl even though we’ve known each other such a short time. I haven’t told anyone my history, not even Mike. But I wanted to tell her. I want to tell her more. I want to tell her absolutely everything about me.

  I stop myself. Wow.

  The air in the car grows close and I find it hard to breathe as the realization hits me like a freight train: my feelings for Vera are far deeper than I thought they were, and those feelings are far deeper than they have any right to be. The rest of the ride flies by as I grapple with whether or not I am falling for—screw it—I am falling for her. I’ve never felt anything this deep or this fast. I’ve never really gotten to know any woman well enough for it to even be a possibility.

  What would Vera say?

  She’d probably think you were crazy. That’s what. For sure, now is not the time to bring it up with everything on her mind about her dad and her career. Everything in me hopes that she gets the job. Not only would she be doing what she loved, but she could work with me. There is something warm at the thought of us working together. A hazy vision forms in my mind of all the things we could accomplish together with her brilliant designs and my practical skills.

  I park down the block from her house, not wanting to alert her parents. They’ll find out eventually I imagine, but that’s her call until then. In the meantime I’ll push her boundaries as far as she’ll let me, but I’ll never cross them. I turn to her, and with our linked hands I lift the back of hers to my mouth and press a kiss to her skin. “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says, and I can see her blush in the dark. “Sorry I’ve been so quiet. I’m still anxious about how the interview went.”

  “You’re going to get it,” I say. Please g
od, let her get it.

  She laughs, but it has no heart. “It’s out of my hands, right?”

  “That’s right.” I pull her close to me, wanting to feel her in my arms as much as possible in the small space. I kiss her, and it’s a whole new world. In this moment, the softness of her lips are the only thing in existence that I could ever want. I want her. I want all of her. She kisses me back, and when her tongue runs along my lips I feel my cock wake up. I pull away gently, and I place one final chaste kiss on her lips.

  “Unless you want to ride me in this car,” I say, “we have to stop here.”

  “That’s an idea,” she replies with a twinkle in her eye.

  “As much as I”—and my cock—“love that idea, I think you need sleep tonight.”

  There it is in the air again as she leans against me, kissing my lips, my jaw, my neck.

  “James,” she says softly, and it sounds so much like a moan I have to force myself not to take her right here. “I like you, too.”

  Before I can think of a reply, she gets out of the car and slams the door. I watch her walk away, putting the car back in drive after she waves from the gate. As I head home I can only think one thing: I’m still in so much trouble, but this is the kind of trouble I want.

  13

  Vera

  When I wake up, I find I have an email from Rebecca asking me to call her at my earliest convenience. It’s only nine, and she sent the email a half-hour ago. Such fast news must be good, right? It has to be. I shake myself awake and grab my cell. I dial her number and wait for an answer. Butterflies are in my stomach. This is it. I can feel it tingling in my toes.

  The receptionist. “The Harrison Foundation. How may I direct your call?”

  “Good morning,” I say, “this is Vera Caldwell calling for Rebecca Harrison.”

  “One moment, please.”

  I wait on the edge of my seat as chirpy hold-music plays in my ear. It doesn’t even take a minute. “Rebecca Harrison.”

  “Hello, Rebecca. It’s Vera Caldwell.”

  “Vera,” she says, sounding happy, “I’m so glad you called.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She clears her throat, and my stomach tightens. “I have to say I am so sorry that you won’t be joining us, but your father explained the situation and I wanted to thank you personally for the donation. With that, I’ll be able to take on ten new charity homes.”

  What? I don’t understand. She keeps talking.

  “I do hope you’ll consult with us, though. Your low-income plans are exactly what we’re looking for here.”

  There’s a sinking feeling in my gut and tears spring to my eyes. I do my best to keep them out of my voice. “Of course, I’d be happy to.”

  My father called her.

  My father bought her off and she was going to give me the job. The job I’ve been working my ass off for and dreaming about for half my life.

  A fury nothing like I’ve ever known fills me, followed by a crushing sadness. Because that money my father donated? The Foundation needs that money. Those families need that money, need the houses those funds will build. Rebecca continues with her thankful speech, and I don’t know how much more I can listen to it, when I know she’s thanking me for my father’s betrayal.

  “Just let me know if you need anything, Vera.”

  An idea forms, the very least I can do with this situation. “Actually, I have a request.”

  “Name it,” she says.

  “You have a contractor—James London?”

  “Oh yes!” Her voice lights up. “We love James.”

  “He’s a good friend, and I know he does good work. The homes you choose to build with the donation—schedule permitting, of course—would you consider giving those contracts to him?”

  She laughs, “That seems simple enough. We’re always happy to have him on board.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “I hope that we’ll be speaking soon!” And she signs off.

  I sit on my bed, utterly unable to move. I’m at war with myself, wanting to destroy something and at the same time wanting to crawl into my bed and hide for days. Then a resolve forms. No. No hiding.

  I pull on clothes, not bothering with makeup. I don’t have time for it. My anger won’t wait for it. I go across the house to my father’s office and throw open the door. I push it so hard I hear it slam against the wall with a very satisfying crack. My father is at his drafting table and I’m gratified by seeing his pen snag across the paper in his surprise.

  “How much did it cost you?” I ask.

  He finds his blotter and starts to work on the mistake I just made him make. “What are you talking about?” He isn’t even looking at me.

  My voice is loud and I hear it echo as I shout—I don’t care, let everyone hear— “Bullshit! You know exactly what I’m talking about. The Harrison Foundation. How much did it take you to buy them off? How much did you lose to make sure they were fine with you withdrawing me from the position?”

  He looks up mildly. “Two million. I figured you would appreciate it.”

  “Appreciate it?” I seethe. “Why would I appreciate you sabotaging my career? I’ve dreamed of doing this kind of work since…” I trail off as my voice breaks with emotion.

  He just rolls his eyes. My father, the great Timothy Caldwell, rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Vera. You know you’re blowing this entirely out of proportion.”

  I take a deep breath, desperately trying to keep from screaming at him. “I’m not being dramatic. You bought someone off—”

  “I made a donation,” he interjects.

  “You bought someone off to force me to work for you.”

  He looks at me for a moment. “I suppose you can put it like that, if you insist. Though I’m doing it for your own good.”

  “If you were going to do this, going to force my hand,” my fingers squeeze into fists and I desperately want to hit something, “then why make that deal with me at all? What was the point of the past three months of me looking for a job?”

  The mistake on his plan fixed, my father puts his drafting tools away and fully turns to face me. “I wanted you to see just how hard it would be for you if you were on your own. I wanted you to appreciate the fact that I am handing you a career and a legacy on a platter. Most people would be grateful for the opportunity, Vera. I’ve worked hard to make sure you have a place in my company, and so you will accept it with grace. Understand me: this tantrum you’re throwing will be the last time you will be allowed to behave this way.”

  “Tantrum,” I say, a sudden and deadly cold flowing through my body. “Confronting you about this thing you did and standing up for myself is not a tantrum.”

  We stare at each other, and everything clicks with a horrifying certainty. Every rejection that I’ve received from my interviews referenced my father; my no-longer-future employers keep asking me to give him their best. I thought it was because he was famous. I’m realizing it’s because he paid them off.

  Every single interview I’ve had has been sabotaged by him.

  “You paid all of them off,” I say, my voice taut.

  He nods, as if there’s nothing wrong with it. “I consider it an investment in the future of my company. We both know that your place is with me at the firm.”

  My mouth is dry. “Did you ever mean for me to find out?”

  “Does it matter?” He shrugs. “It’s the same result. Don’t worry, I made a point of giving the money to the charitable divisions of all the companies. I figured that if you found out, the money would help you let go and get this charity kick out of your system.”

  “This charity kick is what I want to do. Not that you’ve cared to listen to that for the past four years I was working on my degree.”

  “And when you’re my age and well established, if you still feel that burning need,” he scoffs, “feel free. It will be your company by then. For now, you’re twenty-two, my daughter, you live in my house, I pai
d for your education, and you’re going to work for me.”

  I grit my teeth. “You can’t make me do this. You can’t force me.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” I say, straightening. “There are other options. Other places I can go.”

  My father leans back in his chair with an infuriating smile. “Where, exactly, would you go? To whatever slum your poor boyfriend lives in?” My mouth falls open and he grimaces. “You thought I didn’t know that you’ve been slumming it with one of the caretakers? Letting him fuck you all over our property? You can be sure he’ll never work for us again.”

  So this is speechlessness. My father doesn’t stop speaking.

  “And what would you do instead?” he asks. “The entire architecture community knows that I want you to work for me. No one will want to get on my bad side by hiring you now, and you’re trained for nothing else. You start on Monday. See you at nine sharp.”

  He gets up from behind his desk and comes around it, stopping in front of me. “I suggest you take this weekend to think very carefully about your future, Vera. Because if you’re not in my office on Monday morning, don’t bother coming back to this house.”

  I gape at him, unable to combat the fact that he’s ignoring everything but his own logic. He’s going to disown me if I disobey. I can’t believe this is happening. I turn and storm out of the office, brushing past my mother who is watching from the door. There’s a look of shock on her face, and I hear her voice mixing with my father’s as I sprint down the stairs.

  I go outside, unable to be in the house for a single second longer. I go to my garden, my refuge, and I scream at the top of my lungs. It feels so good that I do it again, louder, and then I collapse onto the bench.

  I’ve always used this garden as a refuge, as a safe haven. There is no other place that I would even think to go. Except for the fact that it doesn’t feel the same, and this isn’t where I want to be—the shock that I want to be with James comes just as strongly as the desire to be in his arms. I don’t question it. I can’t. Instead I run out of the garden and toward the back of the property. He was working on the hedges, I remember. There are so many that’s probably what he’s still doing.