Across The Pond, page 5
“No, but I’d love to get to know him better,” she wheezes.
I look up to see her jaw on the floor. This is Rob’s first day of doing actual work on the house, and Amy’s first time to see him. Her reaction to Mr. Hotness’ hotness is not surprising. In fact, I’d be more surprised if she didn’t react the way she's doing now.
She catches me smiling and giggles at me, “Well, can you blame me!?”
“No, I can’t,” I reply, as I continue to tick off the detailed list of forks, knives, spoons, and whatnot.
“So that’s the contractor Mr. Chase has been going on about, huh? Wow. I wish he’d do stuff in our office. Fight you for him?” she giggles again.
Her laugh is so infectious that I can’t help smiling, wordlessly waving my hand at her in a “he’s all yours” gesture, so as not to lose count of what I’m recording.
“Don’t tell me you don’t like him,” she gasps.
“He’s eye candy, alright,” I agree. “But it would hardly be professional of me to jump his bones, now would it? Besides, he’s married. Notice the ring on his finger?”
She laughs harder, but falls silent as some of the workmen pass by. Rob follows several minutes later, and Amy begins flirting with him teasingly, making it obvious that she’s only joking with him.
He chuckles in response, flirts jokingly back at her, then goes his merry way outside. When Amy starts winking at me about the bantering, I find myself upset for some reason.
No. I know the reason. It’s just so unprofessional. So I remain silent, pretend I don’t see her winking, and focus on the list and items before me. Fortunately, she gets the message that I’m not in the mood for frivolity, and gets back to work.
No. That’s not true. I just lied to myself, again. I know why I’m upset: I don’t like the idea of Amy flirting with Rob. Even jokingly. Nor do I like seeing him do it, even to be friendly. Am I pathetic, or what?
The man’s married. I only noticed that earlier this morning when he came by and introduced his men to me, one by one. The sight of that gold ring glinting in the early morning sun hurt, but why should that have surprised me? A man like him? Single? Ridiculous.
I really need to get back across the pond as quickly as possible. Clearly, I’m losing my ability for rational thought.
She leaves a few hours later, but not before accepting the tea and scones I set out to make up for my coldness earlier. The men are wrapping up, too, but I insist they have some tea before they leave.
It is August, and despite the lateness of the afternoon, the temperatures are still high and humid, bringing an uncomfortable balminess to the air. Despite this, however, I’m sure the men will appreciate the hot tea. Everyone does, don’t they? It’s a stimulant, after all.
I walk upstairs to where the men have set up camp, and am amazed at how much they have already accomplished, managing to strip off all of the warping and moldy wallpaper. I am equally impressed at the way they have managed to clean up after themselves, sweeping and arranging things in as much order as possible, given the scaffolding, ladders, and other equipment strewn about the place.
The men are all in different rooms, still tidying up after themselves. They are all talking Spanish, and I am about to invite them downstairs for tea, when Rob comes out of one of the guest bedrooms, clearly having taken a shower. He is calling out to the others, wearing only his shoes, socks, and pants. He is struggling to put on a shirt, his head still jammed inside it, and walking somewhat zig-zaggedly toward me.
The sight of his massive, bare torso, rippling with muscles, and lightly carpeted by a fine pelt of dark hair, makes the breath catch in my throat, again. With the weak light still pouring through the windows, he looks like some model in a studio.
The orange-yellow light bathes one side of his body, leaving the other side in semi-darkness. His body is still partially wet, and I can smell the fragrant, astringent soap he used: Irish Spring, the same brand I’ve been using since I got here.
The vision of perfection before me burns itself into my brain. I don’t think I can ever use that soap again without remembering this moment. I stand paralyzed on the spot, mesmerized by the sheer beauty of him as he approaches.
He says something, but again in Spanish. I try to clear my throat to speak, and he repeats the statement, the lilt at the end telling me he is asking a question. As his head pops out of his shirt’s collar, he sees me, and his expression changes from one of casual cheerfulness to one of surprise.
“Oh! Sorry! I thought you were one of my men!”
“No. But I want you all to come downstairs for tea before you leave,” I manage to croak out smoothly,. I hope.
“Oh, uh, there’s really no need for that, uh…”
“It’s no trouble at all,” I insist, already turning away to hide the flush I know must be painting my face crimson. “I am impressed with how much you and your men have managed to accomplish on your first day alone. It will be served in the formal dining room,” I finish as I make my way downstairs.
I am annoyed at the formal and distant tone of my voice, but it is the only way I know of, to deal with such awkward situations. Awkward for me, that is. I am drooling, I know, and I would rather die than let him see it.
Definitely have to change my panties as soon as his team leaves. Damn it! This is becoming a habit with him!
~ Rigoberto
Huh?. Why are some of the hottest women such prudes? She said we could use the showers up here. I’m just glad she caught me coming out when I was half-dressed, and not before. You should have seen the way she looked at me as soon as I popped out of my shirt: like some sort of… heck, I don’t know. An insect?
I guess men don’t walk around houses with their shirts off back in the UK? Women here usually like the sight of my body, with Carla, Massey, and their kind being the exception, of course.
Not this one, though. She looked so red staring at me, I thought she’d faint. Still, you have to give her an A+ for style.
“I require your presence for tea,” she said, making me forget I was in Jersey for a moment, and see castles in the distance. The way she walked off, I was half-expecting someone to hold an umbrella over her head, and another to roll a carpet before her feet.
I lead the men into the formal dining room, and hear the gasps. Danny has laid out all the best china, together with the silverware she was cleaning earlier. The men are not used to such fancy utensils. Heck, I’m not used to them myself.
Besides tea in a silver pot, a four-course meal has been set out: soup, salad, meat and vegetables, as well as pastries. Set in the middle of the long, 12-seater table, is a candelabra, complete with lit candles.
So here we are,: five men dressed in jeans and work shirts, in a 5-star dining restaurant. I think we all feel like a bunch of deer caught in headlights.
“Please sit, gentlemen,” she says, sitting at the head of the table, and waving her hand at the chairs beside her.
It is awkward. We are not used to such things, though I’ve been to a few expensive restaurants in the past. Still, she has not asked us to sit, she has ordered it, and there is something in the Mexican psyche that responds to commands given by one with such an aristocratic attitude.
She is oblivious to everyone’s discomfort as she begins pouring out tea in dainty and expensive saucers. I sense the fear coming out of my men, probably terrified they’ll break one of the fancy cups, but she starts putting on the charm, no doubt to fill the uneasy silence.
I jump in, and the men give me grateful looks as they sit back and begin enjoying what the English call tea. A first for us all. She is not satisfied talking to me alone, however, and patiently but persistently manages to draw the others in. It is amazing to see them respond, even despite their uncertain and halting English.
It is now six, and the atmosphere has changed. Danny has managed to get everyone to call her by that name, refusing to be called “señora.” The woman who disapproved of my exposed torso is gone. In her place is this friendly woman who can actually smile, though I can see that it does not touch her eyes, still sad with whatever it is that has hurt her.
But she is determined to make friends, to get to know me and my men, and I am impressed. The men have relaxed, no longer overly awed by the foreign señora who speaks English in such a strange, and hard-to-understand (for them) accent.
But they know she is kind, touched by the genuine effort she put into making them feel at ease. And they, too, sense her sorrow. Let them make fools of themselves with their awful English, they are thinking. If it makes the señora Danny happy, then it is worth the price.
As we leave, the men hold their heads up high. They have been given a rare honor. It is not every day that an Anglo puts out their best dishes for Latinos like themselves. They may not have enjoyed the meal, so alien to what they’re used to, but they are flattered by the service. Me? I loved it.
Strange. Danny’s not quite the snob I thought she was. This is a good contract. I’m glad I took it. Now if only I can put a real smile on her face. And make her laugh again.
~ Catalina
“Good first day on the job, huh? Knew it would be,” I tell my dad, seeing the goofy grin on his face as he walks in.
“Mija!” he grins as he picks me up and plants a big smack on my head. “How was your day, huh?”
“Boring, as usual,” I sigh, standing aside so my abuelita (that’s ‘grandmother’ to you) can give him his hug.
“I’ll eat later,” he says as she pulls him toward the dinner table. “She actually served us English tea. English tea! Complete with silverware and china! Did you know tea is the meal between lunch and dinner? And that they call dinner ‘high tea?’”
“Ai!” my abuelita gasps. “But I cooked your favorite!”
“I know ma, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t say ‘no’. They have dinner late on the continent, apparently, and she put so much effort into the whole thing.”
Interesting. My dad can’t stop grinning. Could this contract be that good? Or could there be more to this English woman? Hmm… I like mysteries.
My abuelita’s not happy, banging pots as she laddlesladles stuff out onto bowls. I run to help out, keeping a careful eye out on dad. Normally, he has the decency to look sheepish when these things happen, even when he isn’t feeling sheepish at all.
Even abuelita knows he isn’t feeling sheepish, but she likes it when he pretends that he is. She’s not stupid. Every month, some contractor goes out of business for lack of jobs. Not dad.
He’s forgotten the game. Look at him. He’s sitting at his usual spot at the head of the table, grinning from ear to ear. He’s juggling two contracts, at the moment, both here in Jersey, so we’re good on the business end. And since I’m his unofficial secretary, I know he has a contract to redo the de los Santos’ kitchen after these two.
Unlike most others, the longest that dad has ever been without a contract is about two days, since he likes to spend the weekends with me. Hmmm…
Note to self: find the address of this British lady and keep your fingers crossed. A British mother. Wow. I’ve never even considered the possibility of having one, before. I wonder what Europe’s like. Never been there.
A British mommy, hah! Oh. Wait a minute. British… Ah, heck. At least my abuelita can cook.
“So what did she serve besides tea? Scones?” I ask, being careful not to give away what I’m thinking.
“It was a four-course meal,” my dad replies. “That’s what tea is. Tea served with soup, salad, meat, and dessert.”
“Dessert, huh?” my abuelita asks, still a little ticked off that someone else fed my dad dinner. “Just out of curiosity, what kind of meat did she serve?”
“Thin slices of chicken, marinated with some sort of sauce, with a side dish of vegetables. It was actually Indian. They do Indian in England. Whatcha think of that, mija?”
I’m thinking that I can do Indian, but I just smile in case I give myself away. I’m also feeling relieved that this woman can cook something both palatable and with flavor. Gita, one of my friends in school -? Her parents own an Indian restaurant, and the food is gooood!
My abuelita is still not happy, but holds her tongue. If a client wants to cook for a contractor, all well and good. SoAs long as they pay our fees on time, that is. Which gives me a great idea.
“We should return the favor,” I say to my abuelita. “Consider it a goodwill gesture. I read somewhere that successful businesses thrive on freebies and goodwill. Don’t you think?”
“We’ll see,” she replies guardedly.
But I can see that the idea is already taking hold in her mind. My abuelita lives to entertain, and is incredibly proud of her cooking. Judging by my dad’s expression, he likes the idea, too.
Hmmm… I think this might be it. Damn! Am I good or what!?
***
~ Daniela
It’s been a week now, and things are shaping up well. Very well. We have fallen into the habit of having tea, but no longer from 5 to 6, but from 3 to 4, instead. Amy joins us, and seems to enjoy it, as well.
In the beginning, she tried to sit right next to him, but I quickly curtailed that. I always sit at the head of the table, of course, making him sit to my right, and her to the left. They can flirt with each other all they like, so long as I’m in the middle.
Actually, it is Amy who does the flirting. Rob takes it good-naturedly, but I can tell he’s really not into it, since he only responds to it, never initiates it. Though why I’m relieved, I can’t rightfully explain.
No. I’m lying again. I like him. I really do. Not that anything can come of it, of course. I want to tell Angie about him, but for some reason, I want to keep this one to myself.
The good news is that the inventory process is over, thank goodness. My grandparents kept quite a diverse set of items, ranging from silverware, some jewelry and porcelain, as well as books. Some have already gone into storage while I decide what to do with the rest.
Amy has been incredibly hard working, and I don’t think I’d have managed without her. After this evening, she’ll no longer need to come by, no doubt to her immense relief. It couldn't have been fun going over a list of items, one by one, as we have done for almost the last two weeks.
I hope she’ll like the Fendi bag I got her. I noticed she has a vast collection of fake accessories, so maybe a real one will be appreciated. I’ll give it to her after tea, before she leaves.
As tea ends, the men begin the usual ritual of helping me put stuff away, but I shoo them off. I might actually let them help me when Amy stops coming by next week, but not just yet. As we walk into the kitchen with the utensils, she looks out the windows into the garden with a smile on her face.
“Still haven’t made up your mind about that, huh?” she points outside with her chin. “Man, I would love to have a garden and a town house like this one. You should see the studio I stay at. It’s about the size of one of your guest toilets.”
“I’ve been putting that off, haven’t I? I just can’t see the value of doing something about it, considering the fact that I’ll be going back to London. It still looks good with the bit of watering I’ve been doing, though. Don’t you think?”
“Oh yeah! No question about that. It’s just that if I actually had the money to be able to afford the rent in a place like this, t? That garden would be the absolute clincher, is what I’m saying.”
“True. Oh, before you leave, I’d like to give you something to thank you for all your hard work and patience…”
“Oh gosh, no! Listen, it’s part of my job!”
“Oh shush! I insist!”
