The F-Word

“Please. Call me Matt.”

“My daughter works for you, right?”

“She does.”

“And now long have you and she been—involved? Because I’m surprised she never mentioned it until a few days ago.”

There it is. A direct shot across the bow.

“Three months,” I say.

“Three weeks,” says Bailey.

I laugh. Or I say ha ha and hope it sounds like a laugh. “Time’s flown, hasn’t it, sweetheart?”

“Flown,” Bailey says, and adds her own version of a laugh.

Mrs. Abrams looks from one of us to the other. There’s no way to read what she’s thinking, but just when I start figuring we have flunked the first test, she smiles, steps up and takes my free arm.

“If I had a man who looks like you, Mr. O’Malley, I’d keep you a secret as long as possible. Why ask for competition?”

“It’s Matt. And there is no competition, Mrs. Abrams. How could there be, when your daughter is in my life?”

Bailey’s mom giggles. “It’s Rose,” she says, “and I can hardly wait to introduce you to the family.”

We head into the crowd.

It’s pretty clear people are surprised to see Bailey, or to see her looking like this, or maybe to see her with an attentive date. That’s the role I’m playing and believe me, it isn’t difficult. The truth is, I’m enjoying this. It’s kind of like me being the only person who knew there was a butterfly tucked inside a plain brown paper wrapper, and now everybody else knows it too. Okay, it’s a mixed metaphor, but you get my meaning.

Besides, people are greeting my PA with genuine warmth.

It’s good to see.

Bailey is dealing with it well, but she’s still nervous. I can tell because I’m holding her hand and it’s icy cold, plus she’s shaking. Not enough so you’d notice, but I can feel the tiny tremors going through her.

“You’re doing fine,” I whisper, leaning down and putting my mouth to her ear.

Bad move.

I end up inhaling her fragrance. Yes, lemon. What did she call it? Lemon verbena. Maybe. Or maybe it’s just Bailey. Whatever it is, I like the scent. I want to bury my nose in her hair and take the smell of her deep into my lungs.

I break stride only long enough to grab a flute of champagne from a tray and down it in one gulp. She does the same and quickly exchanges the empty flute for a full one.

“Easy,” I whisper.

She looks up at me. “Chester doesn’t approve of alcohol. This stuff is probably colored club soda. I just need something to do with my hands.”

Even here, with what looks like a million people around us, I have no difficulty thinking of other things she could do with her hands.

“Come on, you two,” Mama Rose says.

We could. Come. I certainly could, and I am sure I could make my gorgeous PA come right along with me…

Another tray-bearing server is slipping through the crowd. I grab a glass—red wine, this time, unless it’s Kool Aid—and drink half of it. Bailey does the same.

“Mr. O’Malley,” Mama Rose says. She gives a girlish giggle. “I mean, Matt. Say hello to Bailey’s Aunt Martha.”

I say hello to Aunt Martha. And to Cousin Janet. Cousin Billy. Uncle Saul. Uncle Jeffrey. A pair of twins. A trio of triplets. And that’s just the beginning. Mama Rose is already tugging us towards the next batch of relatives.