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“Henri,” I corrected, knowing it would do no good. He enjoyed playing name games too much. “And thank you. You’re a very okay sort as well.”
Being polite to my guest was the least I could do. Mama would peel me for being rude to someone taking refuge under my roof were she still here.
“That sounds so fancy coming from your pretty mouth,” he said, his dark eyes growing a little hot for a second before his brows flew up to his hairline. He was saved from having to explain the pretty mouth comment by Barnaby arriving with a small dish of sugar cubes and a sour expression. “Oh hey, thanks for the sugar, Niles.”
Barnaby appeared to have gotten a prickly pear lodged in a very delicate place. “I have no idea of who this Niles is but—”
“Oh seriously?” Philip asked while dumping all the cubes into his tiny cup. “You never seen The Nanny?” Barnaby and I both exchanged blank looks while Philip stirred his tea into a small whirlpool that splashed over the sides of his cup onto the white tablecloth. Barnaby’s one brow arched. “From your silence, I’ll guess that’s a no. Well, it’s a sitcom from the 90s starring Fran Drescher. Who I happen to love. I mean, she’s a national treasure who was, I’m proud to say, born in Queens!”
“Oh, that’s nice,” I replied and got a look from Philip.
“You don’t got no clue who she is, do you?”
“Sorry, no, but she sounds lovely.” I glanced at Barnaby, who was too fixated on the tea staining the tablecloth to reply. I was bracing myself for Barnaby to whisk the covering out from under the tea accoutrements like a magician and then sprint off to the laundry room.
“Oh, Henry, we need to broaden your horizons. You ain’t lived until you’ve seen Fran and Niles giving C.C. the verbal poke.” He drank down his tea in one pull, burped into his hand, and then peeked around from under thick lashes. “Sorry about that. Ma always says that a hearty belch means the food was good. I did like them cakes a lot.” He rose, and I stared up at him with my teacup in my hand, stunned that he was bolting already. I mean, yes, him leaving was good because he was a blister on my toe but—“I’d like to stay longer but I told Jorge and his crew that I’d help them out with the yardwork so’s him and his son can make their softball game on time. I’ll see you at dinner. Seven sharp. Uhm…” he rubbed the back of his sweaty neck as he looked at me, “we don’t got to get all duded up, do we?”
“Duded up?” I had no clue what language this man spoke at times.
“Yeah, you know, duded up. Gussied up. Like put on a penguin suit?” He motioned to his clothes. Barnaby was creeping closer to the table I could see in my peripheral. My side vision was quite good. It was my central vision that was being affected. “Do I got to dress up in a tuxedo? I don’t have mine here. I think it’s at Ma’s place yet.”
“Oh, no, no tuxedo. Just corporate casual,” I replied, watching his unique face shift as we spoke.
“Right. Corporate casual.” Philip nodded, scrubbed at his neck a bit more, and then grabbed one final madeleine before moving in reverse toward the door. “Thanks again. Good eats. See you at seven.”
He hurried out of the door the same way he had blown in. The man was a dervish of energy and dialog that, I had to admit, tired me out while confusing me wholly.
I looked at Barnaby, who was now within a foot of the table. “Take it,” I said as I lifted my cup and saucer from the table. He had the cloth off and under his arm in a blink. “It’s fine. We don’t need a clean one. I’ll use the napkin.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Off he went with his soiled package. The man truly hated stains on the linens. I sat there with a napkin as a tablecloth, staring at an empty plate where my tea treats had been, wondering exactly what kind of chaos I had allowed into my home.
Chapter Five
Phil
“Corporate casual,” I mumbled while assessing the pile of wrinkled—and somewhat smelly—clothes I’d brought from home. Maybe I should have packed more neatly, but I’d not had time and packing was a skill that I didn’t possess. What exactly was corporate casual? Like a suit with no tie? A tie with no suit. Oh man, that would get old Barney fired up if I showed up for dinner in a tie but no drawers. Just a blue checkered necktie round my neck and my balls swinging free. I’d pay money to see his face.
I pulled out a green Hawaiian shirt and sniffed it. Okay, not too bad. Smelled like dryer sheets, so that was a go. Rooting through the mound, I located a pair of khakis and a clean pair of boxers. Okay, good. We were set. Granted, I’d not seen too many people in offices in Hawaiian shirts, but then again, I didn’t spend a lot of time in office buildings. Maybe they wore them all the time on Casual Friday. I carried both articles of clothing into the bathroom, which was so cavernous I could hear my voice echoing off the Italian marble on the floor and walk-in shower. The shower was one of them rainfall things, and when I stepped in, water flew at me from about a dozen different angles, some of them pulsing. Now this I could get used to. The shower in my place was a box in the corner. No tub, just the stall, and sometimes when you looked down you were sharing the shower with silverfish and the occasional earwig. I fucking hated earwigs. I bet there wasn’t a bug within forty acres of this house. They wouldn’t dare to cross the threshold lest Barnaby find them and eradicate them with his icy vision ray.
Stepping out of the shower a half hour later, I discovered that all the steam I’d let loose in the room had done nothing to loosen the wrinkles in my clothes. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I pattered out into my posh, burgundy-toned room and hit the brakes when a young Black woman of about twenty yelped in fright, dropping the armful of towels she’d been carrying. She wasn’t wearing a black maid outfit with the white apron that you see on TV shows. Her uniform was black shorts and sneakers paired with a white top that matched her white socks. Her hair was cut short, curled tight to her head, and she wore little sparkling earrings in her lobes.
“Oh shit!” I gasped, hitching up my towel as she spun to face the closed door. “Sorry, didn’t hear you out here. Are you Bridgette? Do you speak English?”
She giggled a bit. “Totally speak English. I am so sorry.”
“Oh, cool. I assumed maybe you were French or maybe British.” I began inching back into the steam pouring out of the bathroom.
“I think the British speak English,” she replied, still staring at the wall. “Barnaby just did the final load of whites and I was told to refresh your towels before I went home.”
“Sure, yeah, go ahead and do that. Oh, hey, do you got an iron?”
“Not on me,” she said, and I decided right then I liked her. She was sassy. I liked sass. “I can find you one. Do you need something pressed out?”
“My clothes for dinner,” I said, easing back a bit more and slipping back into the bath.
“Okay, let me run for the iron. I’ll put the towels on the bed. You can drop the wet ones on the floor in the bathroom.”
