Page 24 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

“I might!” I hooted. “I call him Mr. Gowan, for fuck’s sake! Wasn’t that a clue?”

“Maybe?” he conceded. “But you never know what the dynamic is in any relationship. I know a woman who calls her husband ‘Daddy’ all the time. And now that I think about it, the old couple who lived next door to my mom called each other Mr. and Mrs. Snyder. It was…cute.”

I rolled my eyes. “My respectful intonation and the fact that I’ve repeatedly referred to him as a friend and client should have told the story. You’ve got yourself a dirty-ass mind. Do you think I’m some kind of gold-digging ho?”

“No, of course I don’t think that. But some people have…arrangements, you know?”

I gaped incredulously. “Like a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ sex pass? Just when I think you might not be a total jackass, you open your mouth and prove me wrong. You, my friend, are a turd.”

Pierce held his hands up. “Hey, I don’t know you, I don’t know him. I was simply—”

“Making assumptions,” I supplied angrily. “You think I’m here for his money.”

“I didn’t say that,” he huffed.

“You inferred it.” I took another sip of water and leaned against the counter. “I have no designs to be in Mr. Gowan’s will. I’m not family, and I’m not a particularly old friend either. I’m just someone who gets him, respects him, and cares that he’s treated with dignity. I hope someone does the same for me when I’m his age or older.”

“Older? How long are you going to live?”

I understood the silly question was an olive branch of sorts, and gamely decided to take it. I didn’t feel like sparring with him. We were both riding adrenaline highs. I couldn’t be sure if my angst had more to do with frustration that I couldn’t do anything more to help Mr. Gowan.

“I have big plans to live till I’m ninety and still leave a fabulous corpse.”

“Goals,” he snarked playfully. “Hey, I didn’t mean to insult you. For what it’s worth, I think he’s lucky to have you.”

“I’m the lucky one.”

“How so?”

I stared at Pierce for a beat, wondering what was happening. It felt very odd to be bonding with this man over a traumatic event. Neither of us belonged here. But I thought we needed a minute to process the fragility of life. At least, that was how it felt to me.

“He reminds me of my grandmother,” I replied, setting my water bottle down. “He’s funny like she was. And he’s kind and wise…like she was. I love listening to his stories. He’s lived a full life, and he’s been around many blocks. He’s won and lost, and experienced more than he can remember at any one time. The elderly get forgotten and pushed aside. It’s not right. I learn something new every time I talk to Mr. G. Like a glimpse into another time. Can you imagine what it was like to come to Hollywood in the early sixties with fifty dollars and a duffel bag if you looked and spoke like Mr. G? He said he never wanted to be an actor, but he’s been acting his whole life—pretending to like sports and women and…and…shades of navy blue.”

“What’s wrong with navy blue?”

“It’s ho-hum. A classic navy has its place for sure, but Mr. G prefers brighter hues. He adores pinks, light greens, intricate patterns, and anything sparkly.”

“Like you?” he teased.

“I’m not sparkly.”

“Yeah, you are.”

I rolled my eyes. “I think we’re done here.”

Pierce washed his hands and flicked water at me before drying them on a dish towel. “So…what now? Are you staying at the house?”

“No, I need to go to the store and check in.”

“Okay, well…let me know what happens with the old guy.”

“I will. And thanks again for—”

“I didn’t do anything,” he interrupted, pulling his cell from his pocket. “Gimme your number. I’ll call you so you have mine.”

“You wantmynumber? No, you should call Enid for updates. Not me.”

Pierce huffed irritably. “No, thanks. Enid likes me. You don’t. And somehow that makes a big difference in my world.”