Tea With Miss Abraham | #loveintragedy

Chapter Two

Behind the Pain

             One evening after his shift, Clifton sat with Betty in Miss Abraham's office. She signed the man's check and placed it in his hand.

"You sign for Miss Abraham?" he read the signature, identical to their boss's.

"I do. I've known Miss Abraham since she was a little girl. She trusts my judgment, and I believe your work around here makes your check well-deserved. I'll walk you out."

              As the co-workers ambled through the mansion's halls, an angelic melody streamed, causing Clifton to stumble.

"Beautiful, isn't it? That's Miss Abraham's piano. She keeps it in the art room." Betty heaved. "I wish she'd come down and play more often, but she stays up in that attic."

"Miss Abraham lives in the attic?" the gardener blinked, ogling the mansion's foyer: a candle chandelier brightened the dome ceiling and classic paintings bordered the main hardwood stairs. "Why?"

"She likes keepin' to herself. Miss Abraham's a kind woman, but she's been through a lot. Most employees fear that temper of hers. They keep their distance and do their jobs. I'm the only one she's forced to see."

"Does she fire people because of her temper?"

"Occasionally, but she can't fire me: I've got the house key." The head employee nicked her hip. "I'll keep coming back to make sure she's actin' right and doing what the doctors say."

"Doctors?"

"Never mind that." Betty opened the front door. "Enjoy your weekend."

"Betty, may I..." he pointed toward the music.

"Mm-mm." Betty wavered. "Miss Abraham's one of those onion types. You have to peel her back: a day at a time. Goodnight." She steered him out of the door, but Clifton dodged her final nudge and booted down the hall.

             The piano's notes shrilled and slurred, producing a vivid harmony. The golden curtain concealed Clifton's boss as she played, but her slender silhouette showed her careful posture over the instrument's shadow. "You're a talented player, Miss Abraham."

The woman's finger jammed a pitched note. "Mr. Underwood?"

"So, it is you."

She sighed. "I wish you wouldn't sneak up like that."

"I'm sorry, but I was curious." He walked along the honey-hued border. "So you paint, play piano, and own a bakery?"

"Is there something you needed-something Elizabeth can't solve? I need to practice."

Clifton licked his lips. "I know becoming friends with my boss isn't conventional,  but it's something I would like." When the silence built between them, Clifton nodded. "Goodnight, Miss Abraham."

"Mr. Underwood, wait. I would like to be your friend, but as your friend, you still aren't allowed to see me. You won't let it bother you. Will you?"

"But it shouldn't matter."

"It shouldn't...but it does. Think about it. Goodnight."

              Music flowed through the room once again.

"Miss Abraham?" her music halted in a breath. "It's not something I need to think about. If your injury makes you uncomfortable, there's no reason we can't be friends this way." A stillness swallowed his boss' side of the curtain. "Miss Abraham?"

"I'm glad." Chords resonated upon the obscured piano. "We'll see you next week." A light melody sprang past the curtains, drowning any answer Clifton had left to give.

              The young gardener smiled and exited the art room.

*

        In  the following days, Clifton and Miss Abraham became better acquainted: during his lunch breaks, over sandwiches and tea, and during the evening. Clifton grew up in Georgia, raised by his uncle. His parents died in a car accident when he was eight years old. For months, Clifton kept to himself in his bedroom, but his uncle bonded with him through a mutual love for nature and gardening. By the year Clifton began high school, his uncle had formed a landscaping business, a lucrative one.  The uncle's success prompted a new interest within his nephew: a love for numbers. Clifton graduated Stanford University in accounting, top of his class, and moved to New York after finding a job at an accounting firm.

         But when the stock market crashed in 2008, and the country announced a recession, Clifton's limited experience, along with his youth, considered him a liability at the firm, as well as several other financial businesses around the state. Homesick, and barely able to make ends meet to pay bills, he came back to Georgia and worked for his uncle.

"Not exactly where I planned to be at twenty-eight." The gardener confessed, rubbing his neck.

"I believe your parents would be proud of the man you've become, and how you helped your uncle build his business.  The accounting firms will hire again, and when they do, you'll have a good referral from me."

"Thank you, Miss Abraham." 

The art room's clock chimed seven. 

"I'm sorry." Miss Abraham said. "I didn't even think about how you've been here all day."

"No, I wanted to stay." Clifton assured, getting off of the couch.

"Clifton," Betty entered the room, "you're still here, honey?"

"I was talking to Miss Abraham." He motioned toward the curtains.

"Miss Abraham, I brought you some water." Betty called.

"Thank you, Elizabeth."

"Dinner will be ready in half an hour, Clifton. Why don't you join us? This house has plenty of extra rooms to wash up in, and ten times as many spare clothes."

"No, Betty. It's late. Mr. Underwood was just about to leave." Their boss insisted.

Clifton and Betty exchanged glances. "Why don't you come over here for your drink, darlin'?"

"Why don't you bring my water over here like always, Betty?" the young woman snapped.

"Maybe I will come over-right after I find Clifton here a spare room." Betty glared.

"No, Betty, it's alright I have an early morning tomorrow, anyway."

Her gaze softened. "Alright, sugar." Betty glared back at the silent curtain before leading Clifton through the halls. "Not what you expected, is she?"

"No, not at all." He smiled, glancing back. "For the first two months, you and the others talked about her like an old woman."

"Humph. Far from it. That girl's a few years younger than you and stubborn as a jack-mule!"

Clifton chuckled while Betty unlocked the front door, "Betty, can I ask you a question? Miss Abraham and I talk a lot, but...she never mentions her family. Whenever I ask, she avoids it."

Betty sighed. "It's fair you know. Come with me." She sneaked him to the second floor and removed a key from her apron, unlocking a door.

    The woman turned on a lamp. A bedroom appeared, frozen in time: a dollhouse and fairy wings propped in a corner.

"This is Miss Abraham's room. See that painting?" a grey-eyed child with rosy cheeks and sunshine tresses, smiled within the frame. "That's little Miss Lark--Miss Abraham's sister. She died almost a year back. Kelci hasn't stepped foot in this room since."

"Kelci?" Clifton repeated. "...Miss Abraham." Betty nodded, "Why are you telling me this if she keeps the room locked?"

"Because she's lonely, Clifton-and hurting. In spite of all her money, her business, partners, and employees, Kelci's terribly lonely. Until you came along." He lifted his head. "Keep this between us."

"Yes, ma'am."