Her Man Friday(4)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

When she glanced up at his face, it startled her to realize that beneath close-cropped, medium brown hair, and behind round, wire-framed glasses, Mr. Freiberger had beautiful hazel eyes—not quite green, not quite blue, not quite gray. They were eyes that reflected intelligence, wit and a generally easygoing disposition, and not a little heat. His other features were craggy, but pleasant—a square jaw, full, but finely chiseled lips, a straight nose, nice cheekbones. Oh, yes. Very nice cheekbones, indeed.

Quickly, she shook his hand and released it. Then she skimmed her gaze downward, and back up again, hoping he noticed neither her hasty inventory, nor the reluctant blush she felt warming her face when she completed it. Because even the baggy tweed jacket and trousers, even the rumpled white oxford shirt and outdated tie, did nothing to hide the solid body lurking somewhere beneath.

Goodness. Mr. Freiberger was built like a Mack truck. And he probably topped six-feet, though it was hard to say for sure, considering that nasty slouch of his. But even with his bad posture, he towered over Lily. Then again, she stood a mere five-foot-four in her stockinged feet—on a good day—and never wore heels any higher than one inch with her work clothes.

She stepped aside to allow the man entry, wondering again why the board of directors of Kimball Technologies wanted him to go over Schuyler’s home files. Something about a problem with last year’s tax return, Mr. Freiberger had explained, but honestly. She wished they would have given her more notice for an audit that sounded in no way urgent.

"Come in, Mr. Freiberger," she told the bookkeeper, sweeping a hand toward the expansive marble foyer. "I apologize for my hesitation. My mind is elsewhere. Mr. Kimball is out of town this week, so I have my hands full keeping things running on my own."

Not that she didn’t run things all by herself when Schuyler was there, too, she added to herself with not a little pique. Ten years had passed since she’d earned her first degree in business and Schuyler had suggested launching Kimball Technologies, but he had always been far too focused on the design work for the company to ever worry about anything else. Like so many other things, the day-to-day tasks here at Ashling invariably fell to Lily, regardless of where Schuyler was.

The bookkeeper nodded his thanks as he gripped his leather satchel more firmly. Then he strode forward, pausing just inside the door. When he passed her, Lily noted that he smelled… very nice. Not perfumey, but… clean. Earthy. Masculine. Somehow the scent was both wildly inappropriate and strangely suitable for him.

"Thank you, Miss Rigby," he said. His voice, like the rest of him, was a combination of opposites, the gentility edged with a roughness she couldn’t mistake. "I’ll do my best to stay out of your way this week," he added. "I’ll be quiet as a mouse. You won’t even know I’m here."

That was something Lily sincerely doubted. Already she was far too curious about Mr. Freiberger. In spite of his clothes, he looked like the kind of man she might meet in a South Philly bar, at the end of the work day and the peak of hockey season, downing beer and screaming on the Flyers to the Stanley Cup. Yet he dressed and spoke and carried himself as if he were an unassuming and inconspicuous… well, dweeb.

"Um, that’s okay, Mr. Freiberger," she said. "It’s pretty quiet around here when Mr. Kimball’s not in residence. And we tend to fall into a fairly casual routine, even when he’s home. I assure you, you won’t be in the way at all."

She closed the door behind him, but not before a breath of autumn scurried inside. The mid-October wind was cool and crisp, already hinting at the winter to come, redolent of apples and drying leaves. The expansive maples and oaks that surrounded Schuyler’s estate were ablaze with orange and red and gold, their leaves scattered about the grass like fallen handkerchiefs. Mr. Tooley, the groundskeeper, could scarcely keep up, even with the help of two college boys he had at his disposal. Then again, the house they cared for wasn’t exactly your run-of-the-mill estate.

Ashling, the thirty-four-room, twenty-nine-thousand-square-foot Georgian manor that was Schuyler Kimball’s primary residence, rested on forty-five acres of prime real estate in rural Bucks County. With its rose-colored brick and lead/copper roof, with its twelve fireplaces and nine bedrooms, with its gymnasium and movie theater, and with its majestic marble gallery that linked the house’s two wings, Lily knew Ashling surpassed even Schuyler’s expectations for living quarters. The name he had bestowed upon his home was a phonic representation of Aisling, an Irish name that meant dream. Because to Schuyler, that was precisely what the huge house was. A dream come true.

She supposed there were a lot of people who would consider the residence excessive, particularly for a single man who had made no secret of his confirmed—and womanizing—bachelorhood. Truth be told, Lily was one of them. But Schuyler had worked hard and sacrificed a lot to earn the wealth he claimed. She had seen firsthand how many obstacles he had overcome to achieve his current status, and how many battles he continued to fight every day to maintain it.

And it wasn’t like he did live here alone. There was a huge staff of hourly workers who filed in every morning to see to the day-to-day running of Ashling. Schuyler’s mother, Miranda, and his sister, Janey, were residents. Lily, too, with a handful of servants, lived here full-time, though her quarters were significantly more modest than the family’s. And, of course, she mustn’t forget Chloe.

As much as she might like to.

As Lily led Leonard Freiberger through the gallery toward the east wing that housed the private living area where Schuyler kept his office, she strove for polite conversation. "Leonard," she repeated. "That’s a lovely name. My mother had a chocolate point Siamese named Leonard. Of course, it goes without saying that we always called him ‘Leo.’"

She wasn’t sure, but she thought the bookkeeper grunted something in response to that. She sighed and tried again. "He was rather neurotic, though, even for a Siamese. There were times when we were convinced he thought he was a Turkish Angora."

Silence greeted the comment from behind, followed by what sounded to Lily like a very weary sigh. She was about to say something more, when finally Mr. Freiberger asked in a flat voice, "Um, why was that?"

Without breaking stride, she replied over her shoulder, "Well, he just thought he was so much smarter than everyone else, you know? I mean, honestly. A chocolate point Siamese. Can you imagine?"

When Mr. Freiberger responded with another lengthy silence, she glanced back to find that he was squinting at her—as if the light in the gallery had suddenly gone dim. Men, Lily thought with no small exasperation. They never did understand cats.