Otimo

From the enormous kitchen windows ten stories up, Antonia watches the morning sun glow on the water. Usually, anyone here on a Friday would see her smile at the sight over her coffee break as if in quiet joy. But today, instead, she frowns about the message she just read on her phone.

Fado night isn ' t working out as we'd hoped. W e' r e just not dra w ing enough additional pat r ons to justify the cost of live m usic nights, so we' r e switc h i n g to st r ea m ing.

Just like that, the joy of singing to a room of people who want to share the sounds of her faraway home slips away. It didn't pay much and the hours were troublesome. But she loved it. Another m atter for another m o m ent. Her attention turns back to the job on which she actually depends. She sets her cup aside and heads to the laundry separated from the kitchen by huge ash wood barn doors that match the floors and trim throughout the loft. As she pulls Egyptian cotton sheets out of the dryer and notices a slightly frayed edge, Antonia realizes that she has cleaned the Carmichael residence once a week for almost a year. A year next month.

Desperate for a side job, she had found the typed, old-fashioned index card on the freshman bulletin board in the student union. Something about it just felt safe. Mr. Carmichael— Nicolas although she never calls him that—pays shockingly well, better than her teaching assistant work. It demands only one morning a week, and he covers her train pass.

Of course, it made her suspicious at first, hearing creepy stories and horror stories, especially from the girls who don't have legit student visas like she does. So, she made up a kind of uniform in self-defense—loose khakis, a tan and cream striped boatneck shirt with elbow-length sleeves, and deck shoes, her long hair in a low tail. It does little to tone down her appearance. But she needn't have worried. Mr. C has always been gracious, with impeccable propriety. He never makes her feel like a servant either.

His son, Rusk, on the other hand, home for the summer from grad school, has wandering eyes and an acerbic tongue. Another m atter for another m o m ent. She thinks that to herself a lot, it's a way of coping, taking time to think things over.

Around Mr. C, she feels a pull. She doesn't think he has caught her looking at him. Even just being here when he's home, which isn't every Friday, his scent drifts through the loft and puts her mind on other things than her work. "Filho da mãe," she curses quietly. Distracted, she put the clean sheets back in the washer and started it, costing herself almost an hour.

Antonia's not a movie trope, the beautiful girl who doesn't know it, she's heard too many whispered (and sometimes shouted) adjectives to be unaware. Accustomed to turning around and finding some guy or several staring at her backside, not to mention holding conversations with people who're talking to the front of her shirt, she has concluded that Americans are more forward than the continental Portuguese. But the attention has always

been there, regardless of language or social context. She has a rare inheritance, willowy with a long waist, shapely legs and generous curves, light eyes and thick, dark hair. Good things and unpleasant things come to her because of her looks even though she never consciously uses them.

Nic instinctively understands. In the interview, he could see her struggling to not lose focus, she tried to be attentive without staring while he worked to put her at ease. His various press bios all play on a theme, "1950's movie star crossed with modern cologne model... dazzling, sheepish smile... incredibly fit, sartorially sharp... touch of gray in his dark hair... difficult to believe that he has a twenty-something kid." A successful man with money, and now time, Nic takes care of himself. He doesn't go for flash like crazy cars, but his clothes are all bespoke, the fabrics rich and smooth, his dress shirts neatly tailored to fit athleticall y, in colors that make his eyes stand out.

Down the hall, on the phone in his home office with its own dazzling view of the lake, Nic speaks to one of his lawyers, the one who handled his divorce. "Sarah, just give her what she asks," he says, mildly. "Life's too short for me to spend more than four minutes thinking about it." First wife died, second wife... not compatible, and she's still angry about it. He's not bitter, more a little sad, maybe resigned. "I know. Send me whatever disclaimer you have to, and then please do as I ask. Don't make a big deal about it, just one line or two in your response. Thank you, I always appreciate your advice."

Nic hears Antonia's deck shoes softly tapping on the wood as she heads upstairs. The loft has a double-high great room on the first floor that flows into the open kitchen. A gorgeous, seemingly floating staircase lets light from the floor to ceiling windows all the way through the middle of the place. His office is past the staircase, guest room, and downstairs bathroom in the "back." The one drawback to the loft design is how sound carries. He doesn't mind on days that she's working. He adores the sound of her voice, humming or sometimes singing softly when she forgets to be self-aware.

A couple of weeks ago, he had overheard her comment in a rare personal call, likely in response to a girlfriend's woes, "Oh dear, I'm so sorry, it's a hazard of being a smart girl, boys are just... delayed. Perhaps that's why I've always been drawn to older men." It started him thinking differently, noticing her surreptitious glances his way. He used to think that she was just intimidated despite all his efforts to make her comfortable. She comes from a society that honors hierarchy and he enjoys position, maturity, and wealth. Intimidation made sense. Now, he admits to himself that the idea that she possibly finds him attractive beyond just a first surprise impression—the same one everyone has—thrills him. But Rusk is home and Nic isn't blind, he can see how much his son is attracted to this woman. It doesn't seem mutual, but maybe that's his vanity rearing its unwelcome head. He glances at the engraved invitation between his fingers and wars with himself.

It isn't as though he hasn't fantasized about her. He's been reluctant to date since the divorce, which is probably why the few attempts have felt stilted. He prefers women closer

to his own age, who fully understand what it means to strive in life, who know what pleases them and aren't shy about pursuing it. On the other hand, Antonia is here in his sanctuary, moving through his home with light, humor, and beauty. Over the year, they've become easy around one another. When she's present, his observations of her are carefully cloaked. He'd be appalled if she were to ever think that she had to service him in order to earn her daily bread. In his fantasies, there aren't those complications of being part of her livelihood.

When she's not around, he allows her to haunt him. He's free to imagine her walking into his office, pulling her shirt over her head to release her full, natural breasts, and straddling him in his chair, pressing against his tightened trousers. Her scent, of which he is all too aware on a regular basis, deepens as he pays experienced attention to her breasts... often, he doesn't last longer than that. He has never had a problem with holding off, but this woman tries his capacity for patience.

He's always able to put his armor back on and never let her know what he feels. At least, until now.

*

Rusk purposefully delays coming home until just before Antonia leaves. She generally cleans his rooms last. She's unaware of his bookshelf webcam that allows him to know when she's finishing. Sometimes, he watches her the whole time she's picking up his room and changing his sheets. He enjoys how she moves as she works. Whether she likes him or not, she's always meticulous with his things. And he never catches her looking in the mirror, posing for herself, like others have.

He prefers to encounter her in the lobby. Coming up from the garage, he doesn't need to stop there, but he does, on pretense of checking the mail. It gives him something to do if she's a few minutes off schedule, like today. There's something about having her in their space that he resents, as much as he benefits from her labor. Admittedly, it could be residual from the stepparent experience. Rachel. There had been a lot to admire about her from a distance, but she had been imperious up close and they had clashed early and often. Nic couldn't see that she was different with him and with others—always a bad sign. It was only after the separation that his dad felt he could put any of what Rusk thought of as the family photos back out in the open. Rusk hadn't cared for the impersonal feeling of the house without them even though Rachel had put up the new wedding photos that included him. He thought that it didn't say much about Rachel that she had to try to purge a dead woman, erasing his childhood in the process.

Perhaps his own competitive streak put them at odds from the beginning. His father never neglected him for Rachel. And from an early age, Rusk has always focused his sense of competition on Nic, not on the women in their lives. He can't figure out why Antonia feels different, why he has the urge to spar with her. She's smart, a TA for advanced math, but he generally isn't threatened by smart women. Compelling in a way that he doesn't find among his peers, she seems older than she is. One might think that would lead him to try

to charm her. Instead, he finds that an almost cruel streak surfaces when she's around. He tries to stifle it, opting for an aloof, cutting demeanor. This job is too damn good for her to quit it, so long as he doesn't cross any lines—Rusk feels free to walk right up to them.

An elevator chimes as he drops the last of the unwanted paper in the stylish, metal recycling bin, leaving himself three envelopes in which to pretend interest. "Well, hello, Antonia," he says, when she steps out of the elevator, a bit of sharpness in his voice. "Running behind?" For some reason, it always flusters her if he comments on her schedule. Pleasingly, color comes up underneath her tawny complexion.

"Hopefully, I haven't inconvenienced you." she replies, with the slightest frown. It only serves to fetchingly wrinkle her nose and freckles. She shifts her backpack restlessly.

He cocks his head at her. "Why not at all." He lets his eyes drift down her face to rest on her mouth. She does have a lovely mouth, both full and muscular. He lingers there just long enough to leave some discomfort in his wake. "Have a good week." It sounds as breezily insincere as he intends. He taps the elevator button with the back of a wrist.

"You as well." She leaves with long strides, headed to the commuter station two blocks away. He watches her hips sway until she's out of view.

Coming in quietly, Rusk can hear that Nic is on the phone in his office. He drops the mail on the kitchen counter and goes straight upstairs to the shower. Like Nic's, his bedroom has its own bath. He flips the lock on the door just in case his dad is feeling chatty.

As often happens, discomfiting Antonia has aroused him. He doesn't analyze it. Instead, with hot water sluicing off hours of PR client meetings and the gym, he sees to himself vigorously, stifling a long groan as he stripes the tile.

Afterward, tilting the showerhead to rinse the wall, he smiles, thinking of Antonia scrubbing the tiles, unwitting.

He dresses and pads downstairs to make an espresso. Nic's there, staring out the window with his own cup in hand. "Dad," he says, cordially, "good day or trying day so far?" It's well-ingrained patter. The bright smile he receives makes him a little ashamed. Nic hugs him.

"Little of both. It's still an adjustment not to be pep talking sixty-four employees and fighting fires. I think I sometimes make up tasks that I don't have to be doing. Funny to think that I'm more comfortable with all that hassle." Nic laughs lightly at himself, which dispels Rusk's darker mood.

"You'll adjust. Don't get me wrong, all that success stuff is great, but I want you around while you're around. You weren't really having fun. Do the things you want to do."

The sidelong reference to the health scare—a false alarm but a wakeup call— makes Nic shake his head. "You're right, of course."

"Bike ride tomorrow morning?" Rusk offers. It's a regular Saturday thing now, but he offers so his dad will know that he enjoys it. He's rewarded with an even broader smile.

"Looking forward to it."

*

The sunny, not-too-hot morning provides excellent conditions, and they talk over their weeks as they ride. Sometimes, this is the only time—after practical and intellectual topics have been aired—that they discuss anything truly personal.

Nic sets a modest pace, lagging just a little so that Rusk can stay a bit ahead without pushing them past a comfortable conversation speed. He wishes he understood what to do differently so that his son wouldn't feel so competitive with him. Counseling was of some, but limited use. Insight isn't really half the battle.

Rusk's too smart for social ease with the vast majority of his peers. An only child, he emulated the adults around him from the beginning. He has his mother's wit although Miranda kept her strong judgmental streak largely to herself, her equally strong compassion allowing her to err on the gracious side. Nic fervently hopes that Rusk will get there himself. Nic doesn't focus on accomplishments, he doesn't pick apart Rusk's behavior, he sticks with constructive criticism, if he comments at all. Still, he sees Rusk's quick anger and defensiveness, the claws are sheathed but always at the ready.

"I'm seeing this girl," Rusk says, somewhat out of the blue. "So far, it's an arrangement I can appreciate. We're compatible company, great in bed. Elgin's not making demands. She's quite frank, so I don't think she's manipulating the situation to appear cool about it."

Nic stifles a smile. Not making demands seems to be the Gen Z gold standard. He doesn't commit the common past error of saying that he'd love to meet her. He searches for a safe response. "Elgin, that's a rare name. It's got a nice ring."

"No comment about the Irish?" Rusks teases. His grandparents' pride in being Scottish gets carried a little far sometimes.

"Eh, leave that to your Nana."

Rusk makes a half-scoff, half-laugh. "Anyway, we have plans next Friday to go skiing for the weekend, hope that works for you."

"Absolutely. Anything you need?"

"Nah, got it covered."

They focus on the uphill for a few moments. As they coast down, Nic realizes that if he doesn't broach the difficult subject now, it'll look like he's sneaking around, taking advantage of Rusk's absence. Better to rip off the bandage.

"At the risk of playing into about fifteen stereotypes, I'm thinking of asking Antonia to go with me to Jonas' gallery opening next Saturday night."

Rusk sits up and slows his pace, looks at his dad. Nic has never gone out with someone even close to Rusk's age, let alone younge r. Moreover, he's caught surprised because of his own attraction. He feels a spark of annoyance, but it isn't anger. "Enrichment opportunity for the working-class foreign student, eh?" he says, trying to sound nonchalant.

Nic sighs but doesn't take the bait, "I've observed that you have a bit of a pull/push interaction with her... it suggests that you might be interested. If you are, I won't ask her."

With a snort, Rusk attends to the road again. "She's not for me, Dad. Hot, yeah, I can see it. But someone like her, that's a kind of relationship waiting to happen that I don't want. I'm a little surprised you'd risk it."

"Tell me more," Nic replies, as casually as he can muster.

"Well, she's cleaning our house, which suggests she doesn't come from money." "Most scholarship recipients don't."

"I think she has, like, four younger siblings and it sounds like she helped a lot with them." "And the family business. She's not to be underestimated."

"My point is just that she's got that caretaker baggage. I'm not looking for a mom myself or a mother of kids, let alone someone who needs what we have. I'm not saying that she's mercenary or anything, it's just a dangerous set of conditions."

It astonishes Nic that Rusk can reduce someone's complexity so quickly to that equation. He doesn't comment on it. "I appreciate the concern. I'm most worried about sending a signal that it's an obligation of her job here. I'm trying to figure out how to mitigate that if I can." He inwardly cringes at a Lonely enough to fuck the help no w? inner voice.

Rusk shrugs. "There's a risk that if it goes sideways, she can't keep working here. Where would that leave her?"

Nic feels a quick spark of pride and hope. Miranda's compassion is in there somewhere. "Ah, you just gave me an idea... thanks for that. And I'll be careful."

"I can't say it doesn't feel a little weird to me, but hell, Dad, go for it. You deserve the best parts of a midlife crisis. I was getting worried that you'd skip those and just take the shit."

The heavy irony of Rusk's tone signals that he's teasing. Nic takes it in stride with a smile as they take the last turn toward home.

*

Antonia stares at the email. She hears a bit of clamor downstairs and glances at her watch. Nearly lunch, and her two housemates are right on schedule. One more time, she rereads the Dean's note.

The college is pleased to a w a r d you a stipend f r om a private endo wm en t . Y our grades, extracurriculars, and cultural heritage w e r e all factors. So long as you m aintain your G P A and course load, the m onthly pay m ents w ill continue, yea r - r ound. W e hope that this w ill ease st r ess and allow you to focus on the m any opportunities to excel he r e.

She has already written an eloquent thank you to the school and the anonymous donors who made the stipend possible. She clicks send.

Down in the kitchen, she pitches in to make lunch. Professor Owen, whose classroom and research she assists, is telling a funny story, but she can't focus on it. Fortunately, Penny, the student from Wales who shares the house, is in full encouragement mode. They're laughing enough between them that she can just be present in the happy noise. Antonia has counted herself deeply fortunate, not only for the job with a favorite professor, but the housing that comes with it. Amid the various scandals that nearly ended faculty boarding of students, his little oasis has remained safe for women on account of his open preference for men.

Lunch passes pleasantly. She won't tell either of them about the stipend. Penny struggles too and it doesn't seem fair.

She has just finished editing Professor Owen's latest abstract when her phone vibrates. A

text from Mr. C.

"I'm over by the university this afternoon. May I buy you a coffee? I'd like to discuss something."

All sorts of emotions tumble over themselves. She hesitates. What if she's fired? Did she do something to offend him, or more likely, Rusk? She flashes onto the lobby encounter. What if she can't see Nic every week? C ar am ba! D on ' t think of him as N ic. Quickly, she types, "Sure. The Last Drop? I'm free after 2."

"See you at 2:30. Thanks."

After attending the assisting faculty meeting, she stops home, frets over clothing. She keeps her jeans on and opts for a crewneck T in deep green. At the last minute, she strips everything off and puts on clean, matching underwear before redressing. In her head, she makes fun of this precaution. It's at once willful—she has made up her mind to act—and silly given the invitation to coffee in a public place. And there's the fact that Mr. C has never given her reason to believe that he thinks of her in any way other than as a trustworthy college student who cleans his house. His unknown agenda for the meet still bothers her. It ' s b een a ye a r . I t h i n k I'd know if the r e w e r e skeletons in the closets I clea n, she jests to herself.