The F-Word

Hell. I look at my watch again. What we need is a shoe store, but we’re running out of time. I know the owner of the restaurant we’re going to, but I want us to have a leisurely dinner. Plus, I have a bad feeling about getting her into a place where she’ll be faced with a zillion choices in shoes. Still, what else can we do?

“Okay,” I tell her. “We’ll make a stop on the way. Saks is still open.”

She blanches. Actually, I’ve never used that word before. It always struck me as, I don’t know, overdone. But there’s no other word to describe Bailey’s reaction except to say that she blanches.

“Not Saks,” she says.

“Why not Saks?”

“I—I don’t know. I mean, I’m not dressed for Saks…”

“Did we or did we not agree you look great?”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Bailey. You’ve been with me for, what, six years? By now you surely know that I speak my mind. If I say you look great, it’s because you do.”

She hesitates. “Really?”

“Really,” I say, and when I see the wariness in her eyes I do the only natural thing a man can do in this kind of situation. I lean in and kiss her. That’s all I do. My mouth on her mouth. No tongue. No pressure. It doesn’t last much more than a tenth of a second.

But stepping away from her is almost painful.

8

She ditches the jacket of the dress for a scarf. It’s not bad, but it’s not the kind I’d choose for her—but there’s no time to worry about that now.

Shoes are what we have to worry about.

The cabbie gets us to Saks in what has to be world-class time. I grab Bailey’s hand and we hurry inside. I have no idea where women’s shoes are located. I’ve been here before, but only to buy shirts and ties for myself and sometimes Christmas or birthday gifts for my mom and sister. Pocketbooks. Perfume. Jewelry. And, okay, jewelry a couple of times for women I was dating. And, yes, some lace undies. Lingerie, women call that stuff.

But shoes?

No way.

A clerk tells me we want the eighth floor. The elevator takes us up—and as we step from the car, I hear Bailey make a little sound you can only call a moan.

I can’t blame her.

We are facing a sea of elegance.

I start moving.

Bailey stands still.

I reach back, clasp her hand and all but drag her forward. A saleswoman glides towards us. She’s middle-aged, perfectly put-together, all smiles, and when she reaches us and says “Good evening,” I’m not the least surprised that the words are delivered in plummy British tones.

“Good evening,” I answer.

“How may I help you?”

Her gaze sweeps over Bailey and pauses at the shoes on Bailey’s feet. I can almost hear the lady’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline. Her next stop is at the hem of Bailey’s dress.

Uh oh.

I see half a dozen dangling threads at the hem I created half an hour ago. So does our saleswoman. The job now is to keep Bailey from seeing them as well.

“We need a pair of shoes,” I say.