The F-Word

“Your cat.”

“Her name is Priscilla. Thank you for thinking of her.”

What she means is, how are we going to pull this off if you can’t even remember my cat’s name?

“Mrs. Powell, across the hall from me, will stop in and take care of her.”

“Great. Anything else?”

The tiniest pause. Then she says no, there’s nothing else.

A little while later, she sends me a second message, informing me that she’s checked the driving time from Manhattan to Schenectady. It’s two hours and forty-nine minutes.

Not 2 hrs and 50 minutes? I text back.

Bailey ignores my feeble attempt at humor.

Two hours and forty-nine minutes. And we’ll be traveling on a Friday, so it might take longer.

Is there a specific time… I

stop typing, shake my head, get to my feet, go out of my office and walk the five feet to her desk. “Is there a specific time we have to be there?” I ask.

She looks up at me. “There’s a rehearsal dinner at six.”

“Fine. I’ll pick you up at two. That’ll give us time to allow for traffic.”

“Yessir.”

I narrow my eyes. “You need to get used to calling me Matthew.”

“Yes. I will.” She wants to get rid of me. I can feel it. “Was there anything else?”

“No. Yes. What else is on the weekend’s agenda? The rehearsal dinner. And the wedding…Is that Saturday day or evening?”

“It’s Saturday evening.”

“Black tie? White?”

“Oh. Sorry. I should have told you. It’s black tie.”

“No problem. Just as long as it isn’t Bermudas, socks, oxfords, and no shirt. Anything else?”

All of a sudden, a little furrow appears between her eyebrows.

“Problem?” I ask.

“Just a couple of details.”

“Details?”

“Yes. I’ll work them out.”

“Because if there’s anything I can do to help…”

“You can give me some space,” she snaps. She looks horror-stricken. “Oh my God, Mr. O’Malley! I didn’t mean to—”

I hold up my hands and step back. “I’m here if you need me,” I tell her, and I try not to smile until I’m safely in my office.