Chapter Text
Rody watched the rain dot his hurriedly packed suitcase, slowly darkening the dirty grey to black. Without an umbrella, the contents were going to be soaked in no time. His clothes stuck to his skin, amplifying the cold wind, as he stood on the sidewalk, holding his rusty bicycle and looking at the puddles reflecting his sorry state.
“Rody? Rody! Are you even listening to me?” demanded his landlord. Well, former landlord. She tapped her red high heels against the concrete, arms folded, as she glared at him from the safety of the awning extending out from above the apartment entrance.
His head jerked up, unruly ginger hair immediately flattening itself against his face. He reached up to tuck it out of the way and somehow managed to get a raindrop straight to the eyeball. “I– ow, um…” He blinked hard, trying to dull the slight stinging. Great, now it looks like I’m crying. “Yes, ma’am, sorry, I… I understand. I’ll have the money by the end of the week.”
“You’d better,” she snarled before turning and slamming the door shut.
After failing a surprise inspection (look, the microwave would’ve broken even if he hadn’t put a fork in it the night before, and the television was a freak accident, and–), the landlord had promptly kicked him after writing a long list of damages on top of the monthly rent, totaling to over a thousand euros.
Rody sighed and trudged aimlessly up the street, bike in one hand, suitcase in the other, hoping a cheap motel would appear. But he’d lived here long enough to know that there wasn’t one around. As he walked, he spotted a payphone and hesitated. Should he swallow his pride and call Manon, hoping she’d let him crash at her place until he got his life together?
But she hadn’t been answering his calls for the past week. Why would now be any different? Then again, he didn’t have anything to lose…. No. He didn’t want to ask anything more of her. Not now. Not with their relationship barely staying afloat as it was.
So he walked past it and stopped in front of the restaurant he had been working at. Looking inside through the glass door, he saw all of the distinguished guests, sitting on freshly polished chairs and tables, eating gourmet food while engaging in polite small talk, covering their mouths with their hands whenever they laughed. And he… looked homeless.
Who was he kidding? He was homeless. He looked down at his stained uniform and tattered suitcase that looked like a pack of dogs had used it as a chew toy. There was no way he could let the customers see him like this. So, he went around to the alley where the restaurant’s dumpsters were, leaned his bike against the wall, and knocked on the door, hoping one of the chefs or waiters would hear him.
His heart rate suddenly picked up, matching the tempo of the pouring rain. Why was he so nervous? He was just going into work… to see his coworkers… and beg for help… pathetically…. Yeah, that was why.
The metal hinges of the back kitchen door creaked open, and the manager, Richard, looked out at him. “Oh, hi, Rody. You’re not on shift until tomorrow morning. Did you forget something or…?” He stopped as he noticed his employee’s disheveled state. “Jesus, what happened to you?”
“Uh, can I explain inside?” Rody asked, struggling to keep his teeth from chattering as he spoke.
“Yes, yes, of course.” Richard quickly ushered Rody inside, through the kitchen– Rody saw a few of the cooks staring at him, bewildered– and into Richard’s office.
Framed on the patterned wallpaper, alongside Richard’s hospitality degree, was a picture of the bistro on opening day six years ago with the young owner, Chef Vincent Charbonneau, standing proudly in front of the entrance. Apparently, Charbonneau used to live in an apartment above the restaurant, but when he appointed Richard as manager, lodging was included with the position. Rody had never met Charbonneau and assumed he was probably settled down somewhere with a wife and kids.
Richard offered me the chair in front of the desk before sitting down opposite me. “So, tell me, what happened in the–” He checked his watch. “– two hours since your shift ended that’s left you looking like a drowned squirrel? And what’s with the suitcase?”
“Uh…” Rody fidgeted in the wheely chair. The heater was on, but the questions made him feel like he’d been dunked in a bucket of ice water. “I got evicted. And I don’t have any family or… I don’t have anyone in the area that can help me. So, I came here to…” To what? Make a fool of himself?
“Well, this is a restaurant, not a hotel.” Rody deflated, but his manager continued, “However, if you’re desperate, I can let you stay in the office if you don’t mind sleeping on the floor or finding a mattress. You just have to hide if the owner comes around. Wait, actually…” There was a pause. “Vince did mention that he needed more people to lease out rooms in that big-ass mansion of his. Perhaps he would entertain the idea of you being a tenant.”
“Oh, uh, well, I don’t want to bother him or anything if–”
Richard waved a hand, and Rody fell silent. “He’s always looking for new renters, says most just pass through the area for business and don’t stay long. I’ll call him once everyone goes home, and we’ll go from there.”
“I… wow, um, okay, thank you.”
Before Rody could say anything more, a chef knocked and opened the door. “Sir, a customer is requesting to speak with you.”
Richard sighed and got up. “Damn, it’s probably Karen again. Alright, I’ll check on you before we close up for the night. There are some books on the shelves if you need something to do.”
Rody just nodded as Richard went back out to the kitchens. Maybe coming here was the right choice after all.
“Yes, Rody Lamoree, new waiter. Uh…” Richard looked Rody up and down as he pressed the telephone to his ear. “Messy red hair, grey eyes, freckles… yeah, that one.” He sighed and glanced at his watch. “I kind of need to go home s– yes, yes, sir. Alright, see you then.”
He hung up the phone and looked up. “Vince will be here in twenty minutes. I’m going to help the rest of the staff close up.” He got up and started for the door.
“Can I help?” Rody asked, scrambling to his feet and nearly tripping over his still-damp suitcase.
Richard shook his head. “No, just… try to make yourself look more presentable.”
More presentable? He looked down at himself, at the stains and wrinkles in his uniform from the few days that he had been employed here. The vest already had a few holes in it from whatever he was doing. In his defense, the apartment’s laundry room had flooded every time he tried to wash his clothes (though, now that he thought about it, nobody else in the building seemed to have that problem…), and he didn’t own a sewing kit for safety reasons. He tried to at least smooth out his shirt but otherwise just stood there like a lamb waiting for slaughter.
At seven o’clock sharp, a tall, pale man with black hair and piercing eyes swept into the office without knocking, followed closely by Richard, who quickly introduced them. “Ah, Vincent, this is Rody Lamoree. Do forgive his appearance; I believe he walked here in the rain without an umbrella.”
“I don’t own one,” Rody piped up helpfully and extended his hand. “Uh, hi, you’re the owner, right?”
Richard shot him a shut up before you embarrass yourself look over Vincent’s shoulder.
“I am,” Vincent said, not appearing to notice as he shook Rody’s hand. “I understand you’re interested in renting a room in La Maison de Saturne?”
“Um, yes,” Rody said, oddly distracted by the owner’s neatly manicured nails. He moved his eyes up the sleeve of Vincent’s black turtleneck sweater and up to his face. He was remarkably thin, especially for someone whose profession was preparing food. It seemed that he barely ate enough to live.
“Did you have a question?” Vincent asked coldly, withdrawing his hand and it in the pocket of his dark jeans.
Rody awkwardly put his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Oh, um, yes, what are the rooms like?”
Vincent pulled a few glossy photographs out of his back pocket and spread them out over the mountains of papers on the desk. “These are the three available rooms. They’re furnished identically, but the views are slightly different.”
Indeed, each room had a queen bed with black sheets and fluffy white pillows. Next to it stood a small nightstand with a minimalist style lamp. Across from the bed was a chair and desk with basic stationary. Even the abstract painting by the tall wardrobe in the corner was the same.
“These two rooms face the front of the mansion and have a view of the city,” Vincent said, pointing, “and this one faces the back with a view of the vegetable garden.
“Additionally–” He pulled out two more photos. “– every two rooms share a bathroom. I recently leased most of my rooms to a party of businessmen, but they’re all away for a conference, so you should have the bathroom to yourself regardless of which room you choose.”
The bathrooms were also furnished identically with white double sinks and combination shower bathtubs. Black bath mats stood in front of each sink and tub, matching the checkerboard colored tile.
“The kitchen and dining room are communal. I generally provide meals unless I have prior arrangements, though you may also buy your own food. Just make sure to label it.” Vincent took out the last couple of photos. There was a kitchen with a six burner stove with an oven, a large refrigerator, a knife block and cutting board, a blender, a double sink, and a dishwasher. On the other side of the white counter was a dining room. The long wooden table had eight places laid with a vase of slightly wilted red roses in the center. A very healthy lemon tree sat in the corner by the door.
Rody blinked as he looked from picture to picture. “How much is all of this going to cost?”
“Seventy five euros per month with free utilities.”
Even Richard, who was still standing in the doorway, made a small noise of surprise. Vincent turned to him, expression still blank, and said, “You may go home. I’ll lock up the restaurant before I leave.”
Richard hesitated, giving Rody one final glance, before nodding. “Alright, goodnight, Vince.”
Vincent gave a slight wave, then turned back to Rody. “So, what do you think?”
“I, uh, wow…” Rody just looked at him. “When can I move in?”
“As early as tonight.” Vincent pulled out a thick packet of papers and a pen from his back pocket. “This is the rental contract.” He flipped through the pages– Rody briefly saw one titled “NDA,” probably just “no damages agreement” or something– until he got to the last one. “Rent is due on the last day of the month. Just sign on the dotted line there.”
“Wow, uh, thank you, Mr. Charbonneau.” He took the pen and wrote Rody Lamoree in his messy scrawl, hoping it looked official enough.
For the first time in their entire interaction, the owner smiled. “You may call me Vincent. And the pleasure is all mine.”