“It’s fine, Clara,” Annie says. “Come in.”
“Are you sure?” She steps inside as Annie slips the bills back into her bag. “Because I got a job offer and could use some advice.”
“Of course,” Annie says, zipping the bag shut. “Have a seat, let’s talk.”
Chapter 31
The light is on when Sam wakes up, the room is quiet around him. He holds his breath and listens for Albert Bitterman.
“Albert Bitterman Jr., to be exact. The son my father always wanted.” That’s what Albert said to Sam, the day they met. He’s been combing what’s left of his memory for what he knows about this guy and it came back to him earlier—their first meeting. Annie was in New York, finishing the last two weeks of her fellowship, and Sam called her from Chestnut Hill, where he’d spent the morning touring the terrible selection of available offices for rent, resigned to settling on something subpar. And then, like magic, he stopped at the bank and came out to find the flyer on his windshield. “Office space available in historic home, perfect for a quiet professional.” He couldn’t believe his luck.
Albert was standing on the front porch when Sam pulled into the driveway twenty minutes later, excited to show him the space for rent downstairs. “It’s got good bones, but it needs a little work,” he said, leading Sam down a path along the front of the house. “You’re welcome to design it the way you want it. I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to do that.” He unlocked a door and led Sam inside. The room was large and open, empty other than a stack of boxes along the wall. “All this space, it would be nice to do it right.”
Sam looks around, guessing he’s in a room on the first floor of Albert’s house, the one down a hallway from the kitchen, and just above his office. Albert had given him a tour of his house the day Sam came inside to check a leaky faucet. It was part of their deal, a deal Sam never wanted: free rent in exchange for helping with odd jobs—raking leaves, changing lightbulbs, nothing too strenuous, Albert assured him. Sam tried several times to refuse, telling Albert he’d prefer to pay rent, but Albert insisted, said Sam would be doing him a favor.
Strange. That’s the word Annie used when Sam told her about the unbelievable offer: a raw space at the garden level of a Victorian mansion, which he could design himself. “It’s not strange,” Sam said. “It’s called being nice. It’s what we do in the country. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”
And it was nice: Albert told him to spare no expense, and so he didn’t. Radiant heat under the floors. Central air. A floor-to-ceiling window offering a calming view of the backyard. The office was perfect, far better than anything he’d ever dreamed. But then Albert was always there, lingering. Drinking his tea on the porch in the morning when Sam arrived. Stepping out to check the mail as Sam was leaving for lunch. Appearing with that goddamn tray of drinks at the end of the day. Hey there, heartbreaker, how was your day? Sam felt sorry for the guy. He was lonely up here, with nothing to do all day.
“Hello?” Sam calls out. “Albert? I need to make a phone call.”
Silence.
He looks at the door to the hall, gauging the distance. Seven feet, eight at the most. He can manage that. He ran the fastest mile on his cross-country team; surely he has it in him to get himself from this bed to that door, and then out to wherever Albert Bitterman keeps the heavy, black cordless phone someone like him probably has.
Of course Sam can do that.
He takes a deep breath and throws off the blanket, horrified by the sight of his legs. The casts are a disaster, one of his feet twice the size of the other. He puts that concern—along with the question of how, exactly, his landlord has either the supplies or the wherewithal to apply casts to his broken legs—aside for the moment and considers his options for getting out of the bed. Shimmying? Rolling? He chooses a marriage of the two: shimmying to the edge of the mattress and then attempting a gentle roll onto the floor.
“Fuuuuuucccccckkkkkkkk,” he moans as quietly as he can as his chest hits the floor hard, his casts close behind. He rests his throbbing forehead against the pine floorboards and breathes through the pain, waiting for the sound of Albert’s footsteps racing frantically down the hall.
But it’s quiet.
He hoists himself onto his elbows and drags himself toward the door, his legs like boulders attached to his hips. He’s sweat-soaked and out of breath when he gets there, but he does it—he reaches the door and grabs for the knob.