The F-Word

One. Bailey is not the slightest bit drunk. She is simply enjoying her coming-out party.

Two. The game has taken on new dimensions.

Three. To hell with Bailey being my PA.

Tonight, she is my woman.

14

Bailey and I keep circulating until we’ve said hello to, I am certain, every human being in the county.

When Bailey starts to exchange her now-empty glass for a full one, I stop her.

“You don’t need it,” I say quietly. “You’re doing just fine on your own.”

She nods. “I hope so,” she whispers.

I bring her hand to my lips. Lots of eyes are on us. People are talking about us; I’m a guy so I’m not usually good at knowing these things, but even I can tell we’re the object of lots of speculation. So, yeah, we’re being watched, but that isn’t why I’m kissing Bailey’s hand.

I’m doing it because she’s Bailey, and Violet’s father got it right.

She’s magnificent.

She always has been. I always knew that, only not the way I know it now. What I mean is, I saw her as intelligent and dedicated and creative and generous. Now I see her as all those things and more. And it isn’t because my duckling has turned into a swan. I told you right away, I’m the kind of dude who’s always done just fine with women, so having a beautiful woman on my arm is nothing new.

Yes, but this beautiful woman is Bailey. At the risk of sounding corny, she’s beautiful inside as well as out.

“You’re amazing,” I tell her. “And I’m proud to be your lover.”

She blushes. I’m not her lover; we both know that. But there’s a feeling between us, a link…

A tension.

Jesus.

I want to sweep her into my arms and carry her out of this place, to our room at the inn.

“Bailey,” I say with whispered urgency, “Bailey…”

She stiffens. And says, “They’re here!”

And so they are. Cousin Violet and Elevator Boy have just come through the door.

No surprises about either of them.

Bailey’s description of Chester was dead accurate. He’s short and paunchy. Yes, he almost surely wears shoes with lifts to give him added height. Not that they do much good. No matter how you look at him, he’s small, and he walks with that sort of aggressively Napoleonic strut some small men seem to need to get through life. What Bailey left out was that he combs his hair sideways from one ear to the other, but the strands are few and far between so the style, if you want to call it that, doesn’t do much to cover his shiny scalp. He’s wearing a dark suit and shiny black shoes. Thanks to Bailey’s description, I pretty much see him wearing those shoes with Bermudas. I also see him as shirtless, and I try hard not to dwell on that.

Violet is…Let’s just say there’s not a guy out there who hasn’t seen his fill of Violets. Lots of hair in a color not produced by nature, every strand shellacked into place. Lots of makeup. A dress that’s too short, too tight, too sparkly, too everything unless the woman wearing it carries a baton and is followed by seventy six trombones—and yes, my Mom loves that old movie so as a kid, I probably saw it a million times.

Even from here, I can see the diamond glinting on her finger.

It looks less like a diamond than a headlight.

Subtlety is definitely not Vi’s middle name.

I tend to be a doodler. I guess it goes with designing things. If I were doodling Violet, she’d be a bunch of circles. Maybe some dudes are into that. The overly curved thing. Not me. The architect in me prefers the elegance of linear structures.

Like my Bailey.