The Dwelling: A Novel by Susie Moloney Page A

from you, Mr. Huff,” she said quickly, firmly, before he had a chance to dismiss her. They met eyes. His flickered quickly to the V of her jacket and back again. So quickly it was hardly noticeable. I saw that.
    Her mind flashed possibilities as quickly as her heart skipped in her chest. Director of Patient Services was a good gig. A very good gig. The sort of position from which there was no (or little) looking back. From the Center she could move into an executive position. It was also an extra twenty thousand dollars a year.
    With slow, uncertain deliberation, she said, “I would like to take you to lunch, Mr. Huff, in an effort to better familiarize you with my experience and qualifications for the position.” She dared not look at his face. She swallowed. “Would tomorrow be a good time?”
    It wasn’t a terrible idea, and it wasn’t anything below board. Huff had had lunch last week with Lynn Sanderson from Accounting. No one had said boo. Craig Pollack had lunch with everyone and he was Huff’s boss.
    She dragged her eyes up to meet his. They were a clear, wet blue. They bored into her. Finally he said, “I’ll have Mary check my schedule and get back to you later today. What would you say, one?”
    She nodded briskly, just once, lowering her chin and bringing it back up. She stood on weak knees, squeezing her hands together to force them to stop trembling. “That sounds exactly right. Thank you, Mr. Huff.” She extended her hand over the desk. He rose and tugged his jacket down as he did, over a slight paunch. So he wasn’t without vanity. His hand was warm and steady in hers. They shook and she excused herself.
    When she was halfway to the door, he said, “Slip your résumé into my mailbox this afternoon, will you, Miss Mason?”
    She started in surprise. Miss. Becca paused just a beat before turning. “I’ll do that,” she said and left his office, without correcting him.

Three
    Dan took a break around one and ate his sandwich in the studio. He was terribly pleased, in an offhand sort of way, with his diligence. He was rarely so motivated when a whole day like this one—which would soon be a whole raft of days, months—stretched out in front of him, and he took advantage. Who knew how he would feel in a week?
    He decided to try some group sketches for the afternoon. See how the characters looked together. The first storyline, introducing all the characters, ended with the Headhunter meeting the Reporter—Maggie (he supposed he would have to discuss her name with Max, but already it had wormed its way into his head and it was not just a name, but her by then)—on the roof of an abandoned building in the heart of the city. It offered beautiful, poignant possibilities. He itched to start it.
    There was also Hanus and Malicia in their office.
    There was Headhunter in his Supersuit disguise, wandering in a subway crowd, Hanus and Malicia somewhere distantly in the background, searching for him. And of course, The Hideaway. He planned a nerdy, adolescent boy’s dream cave, deep in the catacombs of the city. He smiled. That would be cool.
    On the walls all around his drawing board, he taped up individual sketches of the characters. Then he opened his sketchbook to a fresh page, and began the rooftop scene, the first meeting, between the Headhunter and the Reporter for the underground newspaper.
    He fell immediately, deeply, into the page. It was not just a sketch, but became, slowly, as he worked, a scene. He put the pencil aside after a while and worked with the charcoal. Darkest night with light pouring from a full moon; the Reporter, books primly covering her bosom, as seen over the shoulder of the tall, thin Headhunter. Fear on her face, as she looks up at him, sensuous lips parted.
    He hardly noticed his erection, or the fact that the door had swung closed slowly during the course of the sketch, the sound of his breathing, small gasps and murmurs, occasional grunts, as he moved pencil, charcoal,