Page 3 of Mr. Aster
I’d toured the main winery building when I first arrived. The lack of structure and style made me cringe as I looked aroundwhere they held wine tastings, seeing the employees walk around dressed as if they were at a beach bar in Mexico.
I had no idea where I’d start with this nightmare, and after learning I’d be sharing a section of the main home with Darcel—orDarcy,as the daughter insisted she be called—I was sure my father was punishing me.
I sat on the wooden chair behind a simple wooden desk, dropped my elbows on it, and ran my hands through my hair in utter exhaustion, irritation, and defeat. This could not be my life, and yet, somehow, in this purgatory I was living in without Melissa, it was.
I was forced into discomfort by my father, as if living without my wife wasn’t uncomfortable enough. I couldn’t think. I wanted to cry, but that was something I hadn’t even done at Melissa’s funeral. I couldn’t even remember the last time I did.
Pull it together, Seb,I scolded myself, sitting back in the creaky, old chair and staring up at the water stains on the ceiling.
This place was like a fleabag motel. It would’ve been hilarious if I had a sense of fucking humor about any of this. But I didn’t.
Knock! Knock!
After hearing the raps,I glanced over at the door. I wondered if the woman I’d met in the breezeway was rude enough to invade my only privacy as I waited for William to return my call and offer me a more private area to retreat to.
I got up from the chair and walked over to the door. When I opened it, William greeted me with a brilliant smile and a Corona beer with a lime wedge stuffed into the top. He wore khaki pants, a white muslin shirt, and some sort of god-forsaken woven leather sandals, which made me shudder at the thought of what his bare feet must’ve looked like with all the dirt around this place.
“Mr. Aster,” he greeted me like a circus announcer preparing the audience for the next act, “I got your message, but instead of calling, I felt it more polite to come and talk to you face-to-face.”
“That was not necessary, I assure you,” I said, confused by this man’s understanding of the wordpolite.
“Of course, it was, and I’m sorry that we didn’t think of your need for absolute privacy while staying with us.”
“I prefer it that way,” I said.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have anything on the estate that is more private than this area,” he said, seemingly sad and embarrassed. “That’s why our daughter stays over there,” he pointed down to the room where the beautiful woman I’d encountered earlier had disappeared. “She prefers her privacy, too, and when we’re having our tastings, it gets rather busy and loud.”
“This manor is quite large,” I said in confusion. “I’m surprised there aren’t more private rooms. I could’ve sworn I’d passed a few possibilities on my tour earlier.”
Seriously, this place had to be at least fifteen thousand square feet, styled like a Spanish mission with open hallways and a courtyard—pool and all—that all four sides of this home surrounded. So, I couldn’t understand why this spot on the second floor was the only space with any privacy.
“Those roomsyou might’ve seen aren’t furnished,” he cringed, “and they seriously need updating. We’ve never needed or used them, so we just sort of left them alone.”
“How long have you lived here, Mr. Burke?” I questioned.
“Fifteen years,” he answered. “And, in all that time, we’ve never needed those rooms.”
“It would have been wise not to neglect your home, and perhaps even do some upkeep,” I answered, feeling a sudden sadness for this man who seemed to fly by the seat of his linen-blend khakis.
Strange that I would feel pity for a man who’d shown me nothing but absent-mindedness, but it was there.
“We didn’t see the need,” he answered with a smile, shoving the Corona into my chest as if I wanted a fucking beer.
I needed a shot of whiskey. That’s what I fucking needed.
“No, thank you,” I pushed the beer back to him. “I’ll hire someone to remodel that area over there,” I pointed across the pool—past the plastic lounge chairs, fuckingtiki bar,and the rest of the wannabe tropical resort of a courtyard below—toward the area opposite of where we stood in ridiculous conversation.
“Remodel?” he laughed.
“Yes, remodel,” I answered resolutely. “You cannot expect a guest, especially one here to help you succeed, to stay in these living arrangements. I need privacy and a place where I can work in silence.”
“Butremodel?”
I stared at the man as if he hadn’t understood what the word meant. “Yes,” I saidagain. “There will be much of that going on while I’m here: remodeling, restructuring, and everything else to bring success to this location.”
“I understand, but this is our home,” he answered.
“Forgive me if it seems intrusive. In any case, I will consult with the lady of the house about what she prefers to be done in the updated area where I’ll be staying.”
