Read Online Bee-Loud Glade by Steve Himmer - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steve Himmer
Ads: Link
was going to tell me at all—why take the risk of being demanding? I looked over his shoulder at the huge window because it seemed like the sort of thing a relaxed person would do as he waited for an inspection of himself to finish.
Behind glass so clear the room was practically open to the outside, a long green slope rolled away from the house. In the near distance there were thick trees and low bushes speckled with flowers, and half-hidden in plants was a mound of gray rocks, like a small mountain standing alone. An impressive, expensive-looking telescope stood on a tripod in front of the window, and I noticed that it was aimed not at the sky as I would have expected but down, toward the ground and the garden. A pair of binoculars and a brass sextant and an elaborate tabletop compass all stood near the window on a low built-in shelf, and they flickered in silvery light from, I supposed, a screen concealed under the desk.
“You answered my email, Mr. Finch. So let me tell you what I'm looking for in this position. It is somewhat... ” Mr. Crane paused mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open just enough to look gracefully thoughtful rather than vacant. His hands froze in a gesture that kept his index fingers and thumbs outstretched toward each other while his other fingers curled in; his hands framed an upside-down heart shape over his chest, and the dark red of his tie made it a heart full of blood.
“It is somewhat unusual,” he finally said.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. I'd never been one for formal titles—ma'ams and sirs and your highnesses—but something about this house, this room, had me speaking like the butler, only, I'm sure, less convincingly. Mr. Crane's voice had changed as talk turned to business, the jocularity of his greeting replaced with a flat, no-nonsense inflection, and while it wasn't as friendly, I was more comfortable with it. This was what I expected an employer to sound like, not lamenting the design of his office or asking my opinion about it, but sharpening his point before pinning me down.
“It's a demanding position. Full-time, residential. I'll be looking for a multiyear commitment. After a probationary period, naturally.”
He seemed to have skipped over telling me what the job was, or else I had missed it, but it seemed too late to stop him and ask, to backtrack and confess that my mind had wandered while he was talking. So I let him go on, not that he sounded like a man who could be stopped by much. He was reassuring that way, wearing his authority right on his sleeve but in a quiet way that made me more relaxed the longer he spoke.
“There won't be much opportunity for contact with your family or friends, or... with anyone, really. But I don't imagine that will be much of a problem for a man of your constrained social circles.”
“No, I... I don't think so,” I said, and wondered what was in his file, the same sort of plain beige folder the submanager had opened before me at Second Nature. Did he have my accumulated history of browsing and searching?
Mr. Crane laughed, and leaned toward me. His arms didn't look long enough to reach from one side of the desk to the other, but somehow he managed to rest his hands on both ends at once. “But you'd like to know what on earth I'm talking about before you agree.”
“I guess so, yes, sir. If you don't mind.”
He stood up and moved toward a bookcase, drawing a thick leather-bound volume from a shelf but not opening it. “What we need to know about a people, Mr. Finch, we know from their gardens.” He turned to the window, his back toward me and the book still in his hand. “The French like everything ordered. Straight lines, trimmed hedges, paths lined with coral or stone. The French keep a businesslike garden. They know where everything is, when it will grow, what will grow in time to take its place. Everything under control.” He slapped his palm against the book when he said, “control,” not hard, but it made a loud,
Behind glass so clear the room was practically open to the outside, a long green slope rolled away from the house. In the near distance there were thick trees and low bushes speckled with flowers, and half-hidden in plants was a mound of gray rocks, like a small mountain standing alone. An impressive, expensive-looking telescope stood on a tripod in front of the window, and I noticed that it was aimed not at the sky as I would have expected but down, toward the ground and the garden. A pair of binoculars and a brass sextant and an elaborate tabletop compass all stood near the window on a low built-in shelf, and they flickered in silvery light from, I supposed, a screen concealed under the desk.
“You answered my email, Mr. Finch. So let me tell you what I'm looking for in this position. It is somewhat... ” Mr. Crane paused mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open just enough to look gracefully thoughtful rather than vacant. His hands froze in a gesture that kept his index fingers and thumbs outstretched toward each other while his other fingers curled in; his hands framed an upside-down heart shape over his chest, and the dark red of his tie made it a heart full of blood.
“It is somewhat unusual,” he finally said.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. I'd never been one for formal titles—ma'ams and sirs and your highnesses—but something about this house, this room, had me speaking like the butler, only, I'm sure, less convincingly. Mr. Crane's voice had changed as talk turned to business, the jocularity of his greeting replaced with a flat, no-nonsense inflection, and while it wasn't as friendly, I was more comfortable with it. This was what I expected an employer to sound like, not lamenting the design of his office or asking my opinion about it, but sharpening his point before pinning me down.
“It's a demanding position. Full-time, residential. I'll be looking for a multiyear commitment. After a probationary period, naturally.”
He seemed to have skipped over telling me what the job was, or else I had missed it, but it seemed too late to stop him and ask, to backtrack and confess that my mind had wandered while he was talking. So I let him go on, not that he sounded like a man who could be stopped by much. He was reassuring that way, wearing his authority right on his sleeve but in a quiet way that made me more relaxed the longer he spoke.
“There won't be much opportunity for contact with your family or friends, or... with anyone, really. But I don't imagine that will be much of a problem for a man of your constrained social circles.”
“No, I... I don't think so,” I said, and wondered what was in his file, the same sort of plain beige folder the submanager had opened before me at Second Nature. Did he have my accumulated history of browsing and searching?
Mr. Crane laughed, and leaned toward me. His arms didn't look long enough to reach from one side of the desk to the other, but somehow he managed to rest his hands on both ends at once. “But you'd like to know what on earth I'm talking about before you agree.”
“I guess so, yes, sir. If you don't mind.”
He stood up and moved toward a bookcase, drawing a thick leather-bound volume from a shelf but not opening it. “What we need to know about a people, Mr. Finch, we know from their gardens.” He turned to the window, his back toward me and the book still in his hand. “The French like everything ordered. Straight lines, trimmed hedges, paths lined with coral or stone. The French keep a businesslike garden. They know where everything is, when it will grow, what will grow in time to take its place. Everything under control.” He slapped his palm against the book when he said, “control,” not hard, but it made a loud,
Similar Books
