The F-Word

“You’ll hold back on what you spend if I’m not there,” I tell her bluntly. “And we cannot let that happen.”

“We cannot?”

“That’s right. We. As in, I’m in this with you. Because I volunteered. I wasn’t shanghaied or coerced.”

“What you mean is, you’re my boss. And you think that gives you the right to make the rules.”

I don’t hesitate. All you feminists out there, take a breath because you’re not going to like my answer.

“Yes,” I say. “It does.”

11

My sister is right where she said she’d be, standing outside the main entrance to Nordstrom’s. She looks a little surprised to see me, but she doesn’t say that. Instead, she says ‘Hi’ to Bailey, gives her a quick hug and then does the same for me.

“Thank you for doing this,” Bailey says, in pretty much the same way you’d thank your dentist for skipping the Novocain and going straight in with the drill. “I told Mr. O’Malley he shouldn’t have bothered you, but—”

“It’s no bother at all.” Casey smiles. “In fact, I’m delighted to spend a few hours doing girl stuff.” She looks at me. “No reason to wait here, Matt. I can run Bailey back to the office when we’re done.”

“No problem,” I say. “I’m going to tag along with you.”

Casey stares at me. “You are?”

I shrug my shoulders as if to assure her that I do this kind of thing all the time.

“It’s a quiet day at the office. I figured I’d join the party.”

From the look my sister gives me, my answer sounds as lame to her as it sounds to me. In fact, I can almost see her filing it away so she can pull it out later and try to make sense of it.

“Mr. O’Malley doesn’t trust me to spend his money wisely,” Bailey says.

“Your money. Not mine. Your bonus money. And would you do us both a favor and stop that Mr. O’Malley crap?”

This time, Casey stares at both of us. Yeah. Okay. I shouldn’t have said that—but how can a woman who burned in my arms not twelve hours ago go back to calling me Mr. O’Malley? Why would she be so damn intent on building a wall between us?

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I guess I didn’t get enough caffeine this morning.”

Casey nods. Then she links arms with my PA and smiles.

“Okay,” she says, her voice even brighter than her smile, “how about we get started? We have lots to do and not much time to do it in.”

She heads into the store with Bailey marching beside her. I wait a couple of seconds before I fall in behind them.

And I remind myself that I am going to have to be exceedingly careful of what I say.

* * *

Man, the things dudes don’t know about women’s clothing.

You’re a guy, shopping is easy. Shirts? You go to the Shirt department. Tees? In the same place as shirts, except in their own little area. Pants are in—what else?—the Pants department. And right there you can locate khakis and jeans and what my Mom always calls trousers, the kind of pants you wear with a sports jacket. I could go on like this for a while—suits are in the Suit department, ties and socks are in the Accessories area—but you get my drift.

Men’s clothing is sold in logical, easy-to-figure ways.

Women’s stuff…You don’t just need a map, you need a compass, a sextant, and a translator.

My sister has drawn up a list. She’s come up with a plan. She’s figured out what Bailey will need for a three-day weekend and she’s prioritized it, meaning she’s ranked things in their order of importance. So numero uno on this list is Something to Wear to the Saturday Night Wedding.

I think this means we’re going to the dress department.