Blue Waters in Your Eyes

Sybil had set her purse on her desk. "How long before they need it?"

"As soon as possible. There's a 10:00am. meeting with two reps from the company. Once you find the documents, rush them upstairs yourself to Mr. Kildare's secretary."

"Alright. I'll be as quick as I can."

As she'd known, it wasn't a task to be speedily accomplished. It was 10:30am. before she was bustling into the elevators and up to the 3rd floor offices with a file in her arm. Mr. Joel Kildare's secretary wasn't at her desk, so Sybil went straight for the office.

She knocked and was bid come in. Five men—three of the firm's lawyers and the two ChemTech representatives—had been in the office. They were seated in a loose circle around Joel Kildare's desk. The smell of cigarettes, cologne and coffee hung in the air. All five men had looked up as Sybil entered with hasty apologies.

"These are the documents you asked for, Mr. Kildare. I'm sorry there's only one copy of each. I brought them straight up here because there wasn't enough time to send them to the typing pool. I can make a few quick copies myself, if your secretary wouldn't mind me borrowing her desk for a few minutes."

Joel Kildare was in his late 50s and a senior partner; the son of the late Mr Kildare who had opened the firm in 1914. "At least they're here now." He had beckoned her closer with an impatient wave. "Leave them here and you can go. I'll tell Patrice to send them down for copies after the meeting."

"Of course, Mr. Kildare." Sybil had advanced into the office and set the folder on the desk.

As she'd turned to leave, she had caught the gaze of one of the lawyers. He had evidently been scrutinizing her. Sybil had stared back at him for a beat. He had a lean face with vibrant honey-brown eyes, brown hair liberally streaked with gold, and a nice build that filled out his black suit. His hands had been folded in front of him. Large hands with long, elegant fingers.

Very beautiful hands.

He looked about 30 years old. A man of 30 was too old for her, yet she found herself blushing. There was something so unashamed in how he looked at her. Turning away with burning cheeks, Sybil went for the door and escaped in a brisk walk.

Through some subtle asking around, she had discovered that the lawyer's name was Levi Simões Castanheira. He was an Associate, one of the lawyers being assigned to the team handling the ChemTech account. ChemTech was the firm's newest client. A pharma company that would soon be pushing out a patented new drug and wanted to beef up their legal representation.

Sybil hadn't believed she would cross paths with Mr. Castanheira again, but she'd been mistaken.

A week later, she got called into Mrs. Hayes's office. At first, she'd been worried she was about to get fired for something she hadn't realized she'd done wrong, but it turned out she was getting promoted.

"I'll make this quick," Mrs. Hayes had begun. "The firm's taken on a new client, and it'll obviously create more work for the lawyers on the team. Mr Castanheira, one of the Associates, is going to need a personal secretary from now on. He's specifically requested that he'd like this new secretary to be you. This naturally comes with a pay rise, but the office manager will discuss that with you later. For now, please finish up whatever you were doing, then clear your table and move to the desk outside Mr. Castanheira's office. It's on the 2nd floor." Mrs. Hayes had paused, eyeing Sybil shrewdly. "But I suppose you already knew exactly where his office is."

Sybil blushed at this not-so-subtle insinuation, but had been too stunned by the sudden promotion to attempt denying any personal ties to Mr. Castanheira. She probably wouldn't have been believed anyway. All she could say was "Of course, Mrs. Hayes" with as much dignity as she could muster.

As she had settled at her new desk that afternoon, some of the paralegals, legal assistants and other secretaries working on that floor came over to introduce themselves. They acted pleasantly, but she hadn't been fooled—she had noticed their sly smiles and subtle innuendos. It was obvious everyone thought she'd gotten this promotion because she was sleeping with Mr. Castanheira.

Not that she entirely blamed them. After all, wasn't that the reason a lawyer might ask for a particular secretary with zero experience? Still, it had been annoying that people thought she was sleeping with a man she'd never even spoken to yet.

She had gotten to speak to him 30 minutes later. He'd been returning from lunch. He stepped off the elevator with another lawyer, they parted, and Levi Castanheira walked alone towards his office. As he approached, he had fixed her with that direct gaze again.

To give herself something to do, Sybil had begun moving things around her desk until he reached her. Then she had cleared her throat, aiming to sound brisk. "Good afternoon, Mr. Castanheira. I was told to come here by my boss—that is, former boss. She told me to start my duties first, then the office manager would speak with me about the details later. Here I am, all settled in now. Please tell me whatever you need me to do."

Levi Castanheira had looked at her for a second. His lips had quirked, as though he'd been trying to suppress some secret amusement. "I won't be needing anything for another couple of hours, so take some more time to settle in. Relax. You can come into my office by, say 3:45, and I'll let you know what I expect starting tomorrow." His lips had quirked again. "Sybil, isn't it?"

"Oh, I—yes. Sorry. Yes, I'm Sybil Hammond."

He nodded and walked past her into his office.

For the first week being his personal secretary, Sybil was far more preoccupied with him than with her work. Everything about him was right. His looks, his mannerisms, his voice, his movements, the things he did, the things he said, the way he said them...

And he was a good boss, too. Tolerant and easy to please. Being a brand-new secretary, she had occasionally made mistakes. Mistakes he never made her feel bad about. He hadn't gotten angry with her when the coffees she brought him weren't hot enough or the cocktails weren't cold enough. Or when she booked his meetings too close together. Or that one time she scheduled a deposition on an inconvenient date. Or those few occasions when she put phone calls through to him when he didn't want to be disturbed.

He was frank about her performance but never lost patience with her. Once, he'd been the one to reassure her while she was beating herself up. "Forget about it, Sybinha," he had said, laying his hand on the small of her back. "It was an honest mistake."

Sybinha. She'd never been called that before, but it sounded like some foreign nickname of her name. Portuguese, probably, since it was his mother tongue. The nickname sent warmth running through her. As did the fact that he'd just touched her for the first time.

From that day, he'd no longer called her 'Sybil.' It was always 'Sybinha.' He never explained himself about it and she never asked him to. She just enjoyed hearing it, basking in the fact that he was the only person in the world who called her that. There was also more casual touching; a stroke of her nape to reassure her, a pat of her shoulder to thank her, a lingering hand on her hip while they shared a laugh.

Then, one Friday afternoon a month after she became his secretary, he asked her to have dinner with him.

"Nothing to do with work," he had told her with his usual frankness. "I just want to see you. I could pick you up at 8:00."

Sybil had looked down, cheeks pink. She shouldn't get involved with her boss—her older boss—but she couldn't bring herself to say no to what she'd been hoping would happen. Besides, everyone already thought she was sleeping with him, didn't they? One dinner date wouldn't do any harm.

"I'd love to," she'd replied, staring at her manicure. "Where are we going? How should I dress?"

"We could go to Correa's, a little place on 46th. Or there's a supper club at The Remington I've heard good things about. Your choice."

"I don't know. I've never been to either. Where would you like to go?"

"I'm used to Correa's. I've been going there for a few years."

"There, then."

Levi had smiled. "Then dress as casually as you like."

She had worn a simple blue dress—but that hadn't stopped her from freshly washing her hair, wearing her nicest earrings and adding a splash of perfume. He arrived promptly at 8 o'clock. Sybil, who had been waiting by the window, flew out to meet him as soon as she saw his car.

When they'd gotten to Correa's, she found that he'd been right to call it 'a little place.' It barely had 12 feet between its walls. It was a family-owned Brasilian restaurant where the waiter spoke Portuguese and there was only one dish on the nightly menu. That night had been chicken with pequi and a delicious dessert that Levi told her was made from sweetcorn and coconut milk.

She'd thought she knew Manhattan pretty well by then, but that block on 46th street between 5th and 6th was a revelation to her. It was Little Brasil; an enclave of salons, bars and eateries owned by Brasilian immigrants. A few buildings even flew the green-and-gold flag.

When they'd gotten back in the car, Sybil had searched for a polite way to voice her surprise. "The restaurant was nice. Thanks for bringing me. But I thought you were Portuguese. I didn't realize you're Brasilian."

Levi, starting the car, had given her a half-amused glance. "What you mean is that I couldn't be Brasilian considering I'm white, not ethnic."

"No, I—of course that's not... I'm aware that some Brasilians must be white, but I guess I assumed."

"You're not far wrong. Portuguese are ethnically white, but Brasilians come in every shade."

"Yes, that's what I meant."

He had smiled, not unkindly. "I'm both Brasilian and Portuguese. My family is Portuguese, but they emigrated to Brasil soon after the revolution. I've never been to Portugal. I was born in Brasil and served for Brasil, so I see myself as a brasileiro only."

Served? In the war? Until then, she hadn't known that he was one of the young men who'd secured victory against Nazi Germany. She'd had no idea that Brasil had even been a member of the Allied forces. Levi had seen war. Her heart swelled with tenderness for him, but she hadn't been sure what was appropriate to say. Besides, she had needed to spare herself from showing her ignorance about Brasil in World War II, so she shifted the topic for the time being. She would do some reading on the subject later.

"What made your family leave Portugal?" she had asked instead.

"The usual reason—better opportunities. We're originally from Trás-os-Montes in the northern region. It's always been poor, and the political situation after the revolution made it even worse. Portuguese families moved to Brasil in droves. I call it a good thing, since it's saved us from life under Salazar."

Again, Sybil shut her mouth. She had no reply. She knew nothing about Salazar and foreign politics.

She'd spent the rest of the drive feeling awful about herself and not responding much to his attempts at conversation. Why did he even care what she had to say, anyway? He was older, and strong, and brilliant. And she...she was a stupid child in comparison.

But she'd cheered up soon.

Levi had parked his car near her tenement. "I hope you had a good time tonight."

"Very much." Sybil had tried to sound bright. "I'd invite you up for a drink but my roommate goes to bed early. I'm sorry."

This wasn't true. Her roommate was a night owl. The truth was that him seeing the inside of her cheap little apartment would mortify her even more than she already was.

Levi had given a faint smile. "Only an 'I'm sorry'? Can't you think of another way to soften my disappointment?"

She'd sat still for a second. Then, slowly, had leaned over the gearbox and laid her lips on his.

She'd barely done that before his arms banded around her body and he brought her closer. The gearbox was still in the way, but what she could feel of his chest was so nice; broad and tough. His lips had opened, catching at her lower one. Her pulse roaring in her ears, Sybil wrapped her arms around him. His big hands had moved down her sides, heating her body through her dress.

He eased back to look at her. "I want to see you tomorrow. If you haven't already made other plans, we could drive up to Tomkins Cove and have dinner in The Village on the way back."

"Yes," Sybil had whispered without hesitation, her lips close to his. "I'd like that very much."

This had been the start of a whirlwind courtship. They spent all Saturday at the cove. Monday morning, they had made plans to go straight to Correa's for dinner after work. Soon, they'd been spending all their time together. At the office, she was his right-hand woman; scheduling all his meetings with clients and co-counsels, taking the minutes, writing all his letters, drafting and typing all his documents, making all his travel arrangements for depositions, and fielding all his phone calls. When working hours were over, she was still by his side; having dinner with him, or going to an event with him, or taking long drives with him.

For their 5th official date, they took a long Sunday drive up to Peach Lake. Returning later in the evening than they anticipated, Levi suggested that instead of a restaurant, they go to his place for a dinner of cheese and cold meats before he took her back to her apartment.

It would be her first time being at his place—and alone, too. A frisson went through Sybil, but she'd done her best to sound cavalier as she replied, "That's a great idea."

His place had been in Lenox Hill, a compact one-bedroom townhouse suited to a single man with a comfortable salary. After he'd helped her out of her coat at the entrance, he'd gestured to a door. "Go on through to the living room and get comfortable. I'll get our drinks."

In the living room, Sybil had discovered two things she hadn't been expecting. The first was an odd painting above the mantel. The subject was a coiled golden snake in a lush green forest, smoking a cigarette and looking out at the viewer with challenge. Even when she looked away from the painting, she had the feeling that the smoking snake watched her every move in the room. The second was a Steinway.

She was running her finger along the glossy wood top of the instrument when Levi had returned with two glasses; a caipiroska for him, and a white wine for her. She'd turned to him. "I like the piano. Do you play?"

He had smiled. "A little."

Sybil had automatically glanced at his hands. No wonder he played. He had such beautiful hands; large, long-fingered and elegant. So far, he'd never really put those hands on her. He'd only kissed her on their dates. Would he ever put those hands on her body? How would they feel?

Her stomach tightened. There was a warm ache between her legs. She'd looked away before he could see her blushing. "Would you play something?"

"I'll try." He'd handed her the wine, opened the instrument and sat.

He started with staccato notes in sets of three, then the magic began. His hands flew across the keys in leaps. The melody was ornate and fiendishly fast, yet he didn't hesitate or err. Even at that speed, his fingers never hit a discordant note. His right hand did the wide leaps, keeping up a counterpoint of trilling high notes. Then, with both hands, the music culminated in a rapid-fire crescendo.

Sybil was speechless for the four minutes he played. When he was done, she had managed: "You'll try, huh?"

Levi had laughed.

"So you were making fun of me when you said you only play a little?"

He'd laughed again. "Slightly. I'm sorry. Don't be angry."

Miffed yet utterly charmed, Sybil had smiled back. Who could resist this man? "What's the name of what you just played?"

"It's called 'The Little Bell' in English. It's one of the Paganini pieces Franz Liszt transposed for piano."

"I love it. Is it a favorite of yours? You played it as if you've played it many times already."

"I've played it more times than I can count." Levi had reached for his glass. "It's one of the more difficult pieces, so it took years of practice."

"It's the prettiest thing I've ever heard. Would you play it again for me another time?"

"Anytime you like, Sybinha."

That made her glow. "How long have you been playing?"

"As long as I can remember. I must have been about four years old when I first started."

"Wow." Sybil had perched on a chair, gazing at this man of many talents. "That means you've been playing longer than I've been alive. How come you started as young as four?"

"I have an uncle who worked as a lounge pianist for a few years. That was in Brasil. I started off playing on his piano. He gave me lessons every now and then, but I mostly learned by practicing tunes I knew by ear. I learned sight-reading later." As he spoke, his fingers had resumed moving over the keys; idly tracing a melody. His eyes were on her. Even without looking at the keys, his playing was flawless. Then he'd stood. "Hold that thought. I'll go bring the charcuterie board."

Sybil would rather not be left alone in this room again, so she'd gotten up after him. Nothing had been wrong with the room itself. It was tidy, comfortably furnished, and would have been a nice place to relax...if it weren't for that snake painting watching her.

"I'll help," she had said, rising.

Levi had paused, glancing at the painting before looking at her again. "You don't like it."

She'd thought she was subtle, but maybe not. "It's not that I don't like it. The artist did a good job, but it...I don't know. It's a little unsettling, that's all."

"It tends to have that effect on visitors."

"Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one. Where did you get it?"

"I commissioned it."

"Why in the world would you do that?" The question slipped out before she thought about it, then she'd frozen, worried she might have offended him. Or worse, hurt his feelings.

But that wasn't the case—he had laughed heartily. His eyes had closed, golden-brown hair falling over his face. "For its meaning," he'd replied. "Not so much for its artistic merit."

She'd frowned at the painting. "What does it mean?"

Levi retraced his steps into the room. "It was the emblem of the FEB, the battalion of troops Brasil sent to Italy. I was among those who got deployed in September of 1944." He'd joined her at the painting, placing his hand on her waist.

Sybil shifted closer to him. "But why a smoking snake of all things?"

"In Brasil, we have an expression called 'a cobra vai fumar.' It means 'the snake will smoke.' It was used sarcastically, to talk about something that just couldn't happen. Like saying 'when pigs fly.' Thing is, it took so long between our government declaring war on Nazi Germany and actually sending troops, that people started saying 'Brasil will join the war when snakes smoke.' That's why, when the Generals finally put together troops to send to Italy, they called us 'Cobras Fumantes', meaning 'Smoking Snakes.' That expression has an opposite meaning now. If a Brasilian says, 'the snake will smoke' they're promising that something serious will definitely happen."

Sybil had looked from Levi to the painting and back.

She'd read about Brasil and World War II after their first date, but none of this had been in the book. It had only given facts—the reason Brasil joined the war on the side of the Allies, the dates the troops arrived at the warfront in Italy, and the battles they had won.

She leaned in closer still. "Levi, what happened? I mean, when you and the other soldiers got to Italy?"

His hand had moved up her spine in a lazy caress. "A part of the battalion had already left Brasil in July. They had it the toughest. I was part of the second wave. I didn't see action until November."