The F-Word

But right now, that isn’t the problem.

She can call me anything she wants except an expert on teak or antiquities, because I am not either.

I tell her that. She shrugs.

“You did that entire teak wall of built-ins in the Genovese house,” she says. “Not Bob.”

“Yeah, well, that was different. It was a wall, and the teak wasn’t older than the hills behind the Schecter place.”

“Neither are these temple doors.”

This is the kind of answer you get when you deal with a logical person. I shove back my chair and rise to my feet.

“You know what I mean.”

“And you chose these doors yourself. You went all the way to Bangkok to see them and make sure they were really what you wanted.”

“Who else was gonna do it?”

“And you texted me and told me to tell Mr. and Mrs. Schecter that the doors really were genuine temple doors from the fifteenth century.”

“You think that makes me an expert? What it makes me is a guy who read a couple of books before I saw those doors.”

Bailey folds her arms over her chest. I say chest because I don’t think she has breasts under those suit jackets. Not that I spend time thinking about it. Man, what am I talking about? What I mean is, she’s flat chested. The suit jackets all hang straight from the top button to the bottom one…and, hell, what has that to do with anything except to remind me that I’m arguing with a woman who graduated Magna cum Laude and who is rarely, okay, maybe never wrong when it comes to knowing what’s best for O’Malley Design and Construction?

And what was that all about? That text message she didn’t want to deal with? That text message at all, when she never gets messages or calls, at least not here?

I sigh.

I should be concentrating on the teak doors.

She’s right.

Somebody has to sign for delivery. More than sign. Stuff like this, there’s sure to be a shitload of paperwork. Plus, somebody has to supervise the unloading and uncrating of the doors, check them over, install them, and the only somebody in sight for the physical part of all that is me.

So I sigh again and head for my closet, but Bailey beats me to it. She opens the door, reaches in, takes out a pair of jeans, a blue chambray shirt, heavy cotton socks and the roper boots I mentioned earlier. They’ve been with me, same as she has, since day one.

Added to everything else, the woman reads minds.

“I’ll phone for a car.”

“No car,” I say as I undo my tie. “We’ll take one of the trucks.”

I toss the tie on the desk. Bailey picks it up, smooths it out and marches to the closet to hang it over a hook.

“Very well, sir.”

If I’m not Mister, I’m sir. So old-fashioned. So, I don’t know, so obedient.

Under other circumstances, meaning, coming out of another woman’s mouth at a different time, different place those words—sir, mister—might get a reaction from me. Well, from a part of me. The part behind my fly, which is always ready and happy to participate in something new.

“Shall I tell José to stand by?”

“José?” I unbutton my white broadcloth shirt. I’m not into T-shirts so what I’m uncovering is my naked chest. Bailey doesn’t so much as blink. Why would she? That’s one of the benefits of having a neutral relationship. “Why do we need José?”

“To drive the truck.”

“I’ll drive it myself.”