“Matthew,” Bailey says, “I don’t need—”
“And that scarf. The blue and silver one.”
“Matthew!”
I turn to her, smile and say, “Now, sweetheart, you know how much I love to give you pretty things.”
Bailey damn near bares her teeth. The saleswoman beams and hands the purse and scarf to me. I pull off Bailey’s old scarf and drape the new one around her shoulders. Then I grab her pocketbook and empty it onto the counter. Stuff pours out. A comb. A lipstick. A wallet. Two things that are either hairclips or medieval torture devices. A small hairbrush. A phone. A tin of breath mints. A box of cough drops. A notepad. Two pens. A nail file. A folded up section of The New York Times. A ring of keys surely sufficient to open every door in Manhattan.
I dangle the keys in front of Bailey. I recognize our office key and I snap it off the ring and drop it into the little purse.
“Which one’s for your apartment?”
“The silver one. But—”
I drop it into the purse too, along with the phone, the comb, the wallet and one—just one— tissue. Everything else, including the old scarf, goes back into the old handbag. I hand over my credit card, give the saleswoman instructions to pack up the old pocketbook and have it delivered to Bailey’s apartment tomorrow.
Then we’re in the taxi again.
“You just spent three thousand four hundred and ninety eight dollars,” Bailey hisses as we head into traffic.
“Three thousand four hundred and ninety eight dollars and forty-three cents,” I say. “Or have you forgotten I’m hell with numbers?”
“I’ll pay back every cent.”
“Forget it.”
“Forget it? FORGET IT? Do you honestly think I’d let you spend that much money and not repay it?”
“Consider it a bonus.”
“O’Malley Design and Construction doesn’t give bonuses.”
“It does now.”
“Mr. O’Malley—”
“We’re not going to debate this. I’m the boss. I’m in charge. I get to decide if we offer bonuses or not. Understand?”
She shakes her head. “What I understand is that you’re crazy!”
Maybe I am—but I’m having fun.
And maybe I’m lying to myself, but despite Bailey’s words, there’s a glint in her eyes that says maybe she is, too.
9
We arrive at the restaurant and we are, of course, late. Very late.
But as I said before, James, the owner and chef, is a guy I’ve known for a long time. When I give the maître d’ my name, James comes out to greet us. He tells the maître d’ to seat us at a table near the big gas fireplace that dominates the room. It’s a coveted spot, not just because of the fireplace but because of its privacy, and I thank him.
“My pleasure,” he says.
We exchange some polite words and then he waves away the maître d’ and tells us about the evening’s special dishes. I listen with half an ear. Mostly, I watch Bailey. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are bright. There’s a lovely little curve to her lips.
She’s enjoying this place.
I hoped she would. That’s why I chose it. It’s the kind of restaurant she can name-drop to Cousin Violet—The Manhattan Corner is very well known—but mostly I figured she would like the atmosphere, that she’d feel comfortable here. And from the look on her face, I made a good choice.