A Place Beside Him

Damian looked at her for so long Clara wished she hadn't answered.

Then he turned to Vince.

"My office."

Vince nodded as though the instruction contained several paragraphs.

"Here or at the club?"

"Here. Clear the inner room. Get a bed in there."

Clara took a step forward.

"You don't have to—"

"I heard you the first six times."

He stood, took out his phone, and called somebody.

"Owen. Where are you?"

A pause.

"Good. Stay there. We're coming up."

***

The private elevator was behind a door marked STAFF ONLY.

It opened into a corridor with no flowers, no paintings, and no guests trying to find the ice machine.

Clara felt herself relax a fraction.

Damian's office occupied the corner of the top floor. There was a large desk, bookshelves that held more folders than books, two sofas, and a low table covered in papers.

An open doorway led into a small room with a bathroom and built-in cupboards.

A thin man in glasses stood beside the desk, holding a laptop.

"This is Clara Bennett," Damian said. "Clara, Owen Mercer. He makes sure I don't go broke."

"I try," Owen said.

His handshake was dry and brief.

Clara liked him immediately.

"She's staying here," Damian said.

Owen glanced toward the inner room.

"Then we should move the filing cabinets. And the floor lamp."

"And that ugly vase."

"You bought it."

"I've bought plenty of ugly things. Doesn't mean we have to keep them."

Owen put down the laptop and began moving papers.

Nobody asked Clara to justify herself again.

That almost undid her.

***

Within two hours, her belongings had arrived from the Nightingale.

Vince brought them upstairs himself. Two hotel maintenance workers followed with a bed frame, then a mattress so wide it looked as though it belonged in a different room.

Owen stood in the doorway with a tape measure.

"It won't fit with both nightstands."

"Lose one," Vince said.

"She'll need somewhere to put her things."

"She's got cupboards."

Damian looked at Clara.

"What about that table women use?"

She stared at him.

"A vanity?"

"That's it."

Owen looked at the wall. Vince looked at the remaining nightstand.

A maintenance worker rubbed his jaw.

"We could cut down the spare console from the second-floor lounge. Put a mirror above it."

"Do it," Damian said.

Clara watched the men solve the room around her.

At university, she had once spent an entire afternoon waiting for a borrowed screwdriver to fix a drawer. Here, a thought became a measurement, a measurement became a phone call, and twenty minutes later somebody was carrying away a piece of wall paneling.

"You're all very good at this," she said.

The maintenance worker smiled.

Vince looked pleased.

Owen said, "Please tell him that when the next invoice arrives."

Damian glanced at her and pretended not to enjoy it.

They ate in the outer office near midnight.

The kitchen sent fish, vegetables, soup, bread, and a pot of coffee Owen moved away when Damian pointed at it.

"Not for her."

"I can make my own decisions about coffee," Clara said.

"You made some excellent decisions about rental agents today."

She put down her fork.

Owen quietly passed her the water.

Vince shook his head at the food, delighted.

"Much better than noodles. Right, Mrs.—"

Clara looked up sharply.

"Clara," Damian said.

Vince corrected himself.

"Clara."

Owen's expression didn't change, which somehow made it worse.

"I'm not anybody's wife," she said.

"Nobody said you were," Damian replied.

She looked at Vince.

He devoted himself to his plate.

Damian signed the papers Owen put beside him, then nodded toward his two friends.

"Owen handles the money. Vince handles people. If you need something, ask one of us. Don't wait until you're in a hole and then tell me you didn't want to be a nuisance."

Clara turned her glass between her fingers.

"All right."

"Go on, then. Ask for something."

"Now?"

"You just agreed."

She looked from one man to the next.

They were all waiting.

"Could Shelby move to this side of town too? It's quieter."

Damian set down his pen.

"That's what you're asking for?"

"She's helped me a great deal. It feels wrong to be comfortable when she's still sharing those bathrooms."

Vince's fork stopped moving.

"She said she liked it there," Damian said.

"She does. It's just—"

Clara hesitated.

"She got into trouble because I was staying with her. I don't want you to think she did anything wrong."

Owen looked at Vince.

Damian watched Clara.

"Who gave her trouble?"

"Coworkers, I think. She didn't say names."

Vince put down his fork and took out his phone.

"Excuse me."

He went into the corridor.

Clara's stomach tightened.

"Please don't make things difficult for her."

Damian leaned back.

"Finish your dinner."

It wasn't an answer, but his voice had lost its edge.

***

When they left, Damian stayed a moment at the door.

Clara stood beside the newly made bed.

There was a lamp, a glass of water, a charging cable someone had found for her phone. Her books had been stacked upright on a shelf instead of left on the floor.

"There's a lock on this side," he said, pointing to the bedroom door.

She looked at it.

"Thank you."

"Use it if you want."

"It's your office."

"It's where you're sleeping."

She had no answer to that.

He gave her a key card.

"The elevator. You won't need to go through the lobby."

"Damian."

He waited.

She looked at the card resting in her palm.

"I will pay you something when I can."

He sighed.

"We'll have this argument another night."

He left before she could thank him again.

***

In the corridor, Vince put his phone away.

"Nobody complained about her staying. Not one person. Half the staff thinks Shelby's your girlfriend. They're scared to ask her to cover a shift."

Damian stopped walking.

"Why?"

Vince spread his hands.

"You helped her family. Put her in the best staff room. Moved her to the hotel job when she asked."

"Clara asked me to help her sister."

"I know."

"Her cousin. Whatever. You know what I mean."

"I do."

Damian rubbed a hand over his mouth.

A phone rang in Vince's pocket. He checked the screen.

"Shelby. Work number."

He answered, listened, then covered the microphone.

"She's frightened alone in the room. Wants to know if you could come over."

Damian looked at the closed office door behind him.

"Tell her to call her mother."

***

Clara used the lock the first night.

The second, she fell asleep before remembering.

Nothing happened.

Damian came by to sign papers, sometimes before work, sometimes late at night. He ate with her when their schedules overlapped, asked whether the kitchen had sent dinner, and left.

Owen brought files and occasionally asked her to print something when the office machine misbehaved. She organized the growing pile so Damian could find the pages he needed.

His clothes began arriving in garment bags.

She hung them in the empty half of the cupboard because leaving good wool folded over chairs felt wrong.

One morning before dawn, she woke to a quiet knock.

"Clara. Can I use the shower?"

She opened her eyes.

Damian stood in the doorway with frost melting in his hair.

Without thinking, she reached up and touched it.

"Are you cold?"

He stood very still.

Then he smiled, a small, unguarded expression she hadn't seen before.

"Not anymore."

"Go shower," she murmured, already falling asleep again.

When she woke for work, the other pillow was dented.

He was gone.

She looked at the narrow impression along the far edge of the enormous mattress, then at the space he had left between them.

On the shelf, her books stood beside his folders. She moved one folder a little farther from the edge so it wouldn't fall.

That night, she didn't think about the lock.