Stay

"There is a house in New Orleans" blasted from the radio. My hands trembled, and my pencil dropped.

"Sometimes lyrics are just lyrics." a guttural voice put more gas on the fire.

After seven long years, we were both ready to move out. I counted the days to the defense of my Ph.D thesis, and I suspected he counted the days until his investment would pay off.
"This house is cursed; it hadn't seen a wedding in 200 years," my boss joked. This little tidbit our data analytics program discovered made the house price go through the roof when it made the audit report.

"Are you sure you searched every nook and crane of this house; is the inventory complete?"

I could detect an edge in his voice. His fingers tapped his right thigh and he stuffed his hand into his pocket when I raised my head.

Thirty seconds before my answer would have been a decided yes.

"I could schedule a final inspection this afternoon."

"I thought you were professional! Everything should have been in place by now!" he huffed before he slammed the door as he exited my office.

"The fifth professional" I muttered. The first had been a graduate, and he had sent him back as he rung the door. He was not paying that kind of money for a novice, he wrote in a displeased email later. The second, a seasoned researcher presented her resignation in tears. The third lasted six months. We considered him the toughest and the most knowledgeable member of our staff. My boss received a long list detailing the "awful and unprofessional mistakes" the man did.

"I expect the final inspection done by tonight, the results before 10 PM in my office." his voice thundered through the door.

The fourth lasted two years. She was my shy cube neighbor.

"It would take a century!" his angry letter reproached.

"He pays his bills fully," my boss shrugged.
"You'd live in the house, reports are published and peer reviewed. A great opportunity for a Ph.D student." "Any takers?"

"Did he agree with this?" I rolled my eyes.

"A bit too fast." my boss wondered then looked in question at us.

"I'll take it!" I blurted. I couldn't miss my only chance at a Ph.D.

"We can only arrange an interview." I appreciated his polite way to remind me I didn't meet the qualifications for this difficult position.

I made it through the interview and the next seven years. Barely.

"Would you have time to do the final inspection together?" I yelled back.

"How many times I told you my time is off limits?" he slammed the door as he entered my office again.

Three times. Each time it ended with.... I sighed in silence. It ended with a published paper.

"I'll meet you downstairs at 5pm, sharp."

I watched him lower his head as he exited. "Tall, dark and bald" my shy cube neighbor used to say with a shiver. No hair poked through his ever-present bandanna, and in time I surmised the same.

I had only a few hours to make a plan. Perhaps we should spend more time in the west wing. We should go again through the old furniture that didn't make the catalogue. Perhaps the old armoire, the clock or the dirty candelabra needed one more look. I knew well there was nothing there beyond a teapot and a few chipped teacups.

When I discovered them, he was sitting in a recliner in that very room. The large picture of the rising sun on the armoire unsettled me. I listened in awe to the trove of legends his family gathered over generations. So entranced I was that I raised on my feet and kissed him goodnight....

I run and researched the stories which corroborated much of the past research. I came back with the first draft, ready to be fired. He read the article then reminded me we had a meeting with the auction house later that day.

The alarm sounded ten minutes to five, and I grabbed the plans. To my surprise, I felt eager for the meeting. I hurried to make sure I make it well before five then I stopped in my tracks.

He waited leaning against the handrails. A vase used to sit where he was, and my legs weakened in discomfort.

After another night of stories in the armoire room, during which I conspicuously kept myself at the other end, he politely accompanied me downstairs. As I turned to leave, he reached for me and held me tight.
"Don't run from me, I..."

I flailed my arms and knocked one of the antique vases resting at the base of the handrails.

It broke and revealed a piece of forgotten history. "One of the most spectacular finds of the century; Millionaire donates an important artefact to Smithsonian, to Sotheby's dismay," the papers titled.

He raised his head at my noisy arrival and my enthusiasm plummeted. What I refused to even think, sank in. It was to be the last time I'd see him. After this final walk, he would sign the completion of the SOW, and the contract would end.

"I should be happy I am rid of this grouch." I kicked myself.

Then I added one more kick for good measure. I found him handsome and instinctively I took a step back. He frowned.

"All rooms are empty, miss. Except one."

He took my arm and nudged me to climb the stairs.

"This house is cursed", he had murmured last time we've been here. It started with stories of heartbreak and ended with another paper on the dynamics of social relationships.

Wrong. It had ended with me falling for him head over heels.

I felt my face redden, and I reached for the door.

I knew the curse lifted when he reached for my hand and bent down on one knee.

His bandanna fell as he raked his fingers through his hair and murmured.
"Stay."