Before David could reply, his office phone rang.
"Yeah?" he answered. A pause. "Send her in."
He hung up and muttered, "That paperwork my dad was harping about. They sent someone over."
Daniel rolled his eyes. "And we were so close to freedom."
A knock came. David barely looked up. "Come in."
The door opened. A young woman stepped in, early twenties, blonde, composed. She wore a lemon-colored suit belted at the waist, tailored to perfection. Her heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she walked.
"Good afternoon, sirs," she said, holding a folder close to her chest. "I'm Miranda Edwards. I've been instructed to deliver these documents for review and signature."
David barely acknowledged her. "Put them there," he gestured to the desk. She did.
"The files pertain to the Q3 capital distribution analysis and projections. Your signature is required by close of day," she continued, calmly. "The board meets tomorrow."
David flipped through the papers, groaning softly at the sheer volume.
"Why is this just arriving now?" he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I missed my flight," Miranda admitted. "My dog fell ill. I drove here instead."
David looked up slowly. "And you're telling me that like it's a valid excuse?"
Miranda stiffened. "I apologize for the delay, sir. I only wanted to explain—"
He raised a hand. "Spare me."
Daniel, still lounging, spoke for the first time. "What's your dog's name?"
Miranda turned, startled by the question. "Bruno."
"Cute," Daniel said. "He must be special."
"He is," she said, her voice softening, unsure whether he was mocking or sincere.
David's irritation flared. "Are you daft?" he snapped. "Is this a joke to you?"
Miranda flinched. "No, sir. I'm very sorry."
"In that case, get out. Now."
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then gathered herself and left the room in silence.
As the door clicked shut, Daniel watched her go. "She's pretty."
David scoffed. "She's clumsy."
"That doesn't mean she isn't pretty."
David looked at him. "Is she the one, then? The replacement for Sandra?"
Daniel chuckled darkly. "No. But I imagine she'd be warm in bed."
David smirked. "You mean a one-time thing."
"You know me."
"Well, then use protection," David said dryly. "And forget the paperwork for now."
Daniel raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
"My dad owns the company. He'll deal."
He fished out his car keys. "Let's go clubbing."
Daniel stood. "I brought my own ride."
"Which one?"
"The grey one."
"Nice. I'll have my driver take mine home."
As they headed to the door, Daniel glanced at the hallway. "Is she from this branch?"
David shook his head. "Another office."
Daniel nodded slowly. "Okay."
David looked sideways at him. "You never quit, do you?"
Daniel's smirk returned. "Why would I?"
*********
It was a surprise that he'd washed the beddings himself.
Tasha overheard the cleaner chatting with the fair-skinned woman in the black apron tied over her red, polka-dotted gown. The woman was pinning her white headscarf in place, preparing to fry plantains on the kitchen counter.
Mrs. Sandra had requested fried plantains and eggs for lunch. Her husband was away, inspecting the vast new property he had recently acquired, hectares of land he had proudly spoken about. She'd been visibly downcast when he arranged the trip. Mr. Cornell had kissed her forehead before leaving, promising to call as soon as he stepped off the jet. She'd watched him depart with the driver, and after failing to reach Clinton, who hadn't answered any of her calls, she'd called her daughters instead.
Tasha felt a cold bead of sweat on her forehead as she arranged the glassware into the cupboard tucked into the eastern corner of the kitchen. Her hands stilled when she heard the calm-voiced woman mention that she'd seen what looked like blood on the sheets, the ones the boy had stuffed into the laundry machine earlier that morning.
Mrs. Aisha had been whistling down the hallway after cleaning the lower-floor lavatories, lavatories that were rarely used, but which she insisted on mopping daily. As she passed the slightly ajar door of the laundry room, her instincts had nudged her to shut it. When she turned to do so, she heard a rustling inside.
She hadn't expected to see a family member.
Peeking in, she'd spotted the boy, Clinton, in pajamas, hurriedly shoving linens into the machine. It struck her as odd. He never woke before noon, never ventured into common rooms. The cook usually brought him breakfast and lunch directly to his room. Cleaning up after him was always someone else's job, hers or Georgette's.
When Aisha had offered to help, he'd glared and said, "Do you want to lose your job?"
He dismissed her flatly. "I'm busy. Go away."
Before leaving, she noticed it, the red stains on the blue-and-white quilt he was loading. She'd paused, wondering if it had been a trick of the light. Or her imagination.
"Do you think that's why he did the laundry himself, so early?" Aisha now asked, leaning against the kitchen wall, her left hand resting on her waist. She watched as her colleague retrieved a frying pan from a nearby cabinet.
The other woman sighed. "Whose blood would it be?" she replied, beginning to peel ripe plantains. Her tone was skeptical.
Aisha shrugged, uncertain herself.
"You probably saw wrong," the cook added, slicing the yellow fruit into a bowl.
"But why would he get up so early? Don't you think it's—"
She was cut off.
"Ma'am Aisha, would you like some lemonade juice?" Tasha asked suddenly, her voice tight and forced. She smiled quickly when Aisha turned to her, trying to disguise the nervous tremble in her voice.
Tasha had blurted the question without thinking, an act of panic. She knew the conversation was veering dangerously close to truths that needed to stay hidden. What happened that night was not for curious minds. It was meant to remain between her and Clinton. A secret. A memory. Something delicate, and devastating. Something that had left her staring at the dried blood between her thighs the next morning, silently wondering if he had felt what she felt.
Aisha blinked, thrown by the offer, then nodded. "Sure."
"It's in the fridge. I'll get it for you." Tasha said quickly, moving toward the refrigerator and brushing her elbow lightly against Aisha's arm. "Sorry," she murmured, pulling out a transparent jug. "It's freshly squeezed. I made it myself."
Aisha took the glass, grinning. "Thanks. I didn't realize how much I needed this."
"You're very welcome," Tasha replied, still smiling.
"Wouldn't you offer me some too?" the cook asked, dabbing her hands with a purple towel as Tasha poured her a glass.
Tasha bit her lip as the woman drank. "Do you like it?"
Rita gave her a thumbs-up. "I enjoyed it."
"What's your favorite color, Mrs. Aisha?" Tasha asked quickly, trying to steer the conversation away again.
"Blue and grey," came the reply.
Tasha nodded. "That's a lovely combination." She gave a nervous laugh.
"Can I have some more lemonade?" Rita asked, her voice warm.
"Of course," Tasha said. She moved back to the fridge, refilled their glasses, and handed them over.
As the women praised her lemonade and made light jokes about how lucky her future husband would be, Tasha basked in the distraction. Her heart, however, stayed tied to the boy who had been the first. The one who had entered her body, and now seemed lodged in her mind, too.
She helped fry the eggs and bacon, plating the food carefully. Rita fed her three slices of fried plantain straight from the basin. Tasha chewed happily, plantain was her favorite, and always had been.
She arranged a tray with a fork, knife, and a glass of lemonade, just as Rita suggested, and stepped out of the kitchen. Aisha had just rushed off to answer Mrs. Cornell's phone call.
Tasha climbed the staircase carefully, balancing the tray. She found Mrs. Sandra in the upstairs sitting room, typing on her laptop, a glass of wine beside her.
"Your lunch is here, ma'am," Tasha said gently, folding her hands behind her back.
Mrs. Sandra looked up, her expression softening. "Thank you, dear. Bring it here," she gestured to the side table next to the couch.
As Tasha approached, Sandra set her laptop aside. "That reminds me—your father told me about the college entrance exam you took."
Tasha nodded. She had recently completed high school and sat for the local scholarship exam, unsure whether her name would appear on the winner's list. It was a long shot, but she had tried, clinging to the hope of studying at the town's College of Arts and Humanities.
"Would you like to go to Babcock College to further your education?" Sandra asked, cutting into her eggs.
Tasha's breath caught.