Page 8 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

She swatted my arm playfully. “Fat chance that would be. Mr. Gowan is expecting company today.”

I winced at her high-pitched squeal of delight, then smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. He must be feeling better.”

“Yes, the promise of a nice visit with old friends and new acquaintances can do wonders for the soul,” she replied cryptically.

I supposed that was my cue to ask which of Mr. Gowan’s octogenarian pals warranted an extra spritz of Daisy by Marc Jacobs, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. Besides, I had no doubt Mr. G would tell me all about it. He was a fabulous gossip, and he tended to save the best tidbits for our weekly chats over coffee and fabric selections.

“O-kay. Uh, well, I brought the pillows he ordered and”—I unzipped my satchel and pulled out a semi-squished bakery bag—“fresh croissants from Joan’s on Third. Almond with extra powdered sugar, chocolate, and…plain. Start the coffee, and I’ll take these to the boss. Is he in the living room?”

Enid plucked the treats from my fingers and set them on the round table under the ginormous crystal chandelier. “Yes, but there’s been a slight change of plans. Coffee and croissants will have to wait. As I said, Mr. Gowan is expecting a visitor any minute now.”

“Why didn’t you text me? I wouldn’t have schlepped all those pillows over here if I’d known,” I huffed. “I’ll put them in the closet in the spare bedroom and give him the deets tomorrow after—”

“Don’t go anywhere yet,” she interrupted, clutching my elbow, her eyes wild with excitement. “You won’t want to miss this.”

“Miss what?”

“A star sighting,” Mr. Gowan rasped in a gravelly tone. “Good morning, Lorenzo dah-ling. You look positively resplendent, my dear.”

I spun on my heels to greet my old friend fondly. “Oh, my! Same to you, hot stuff. Is that a new cravat?”

His thin, bony fingers trembled around his cane as he lifted his free hand to adjust the paisley silk fabric tucked into his collar. “It’s an ancient favorite.”

I brushed an invisible bit of lint from the front pocket of his velvet-and-satin smoking jacket, humming in admiration. “So debonair.”

“You’re too kind,” he replied, patting my cheek like a beloved old aunt…from another mother.

Which sort of summed up our relationship.

Here’s the deal…Mr. Gowan was an old queen and a loyal patron of BGoods. He’d spent a small fortune in knickknacks and accessories over the past decade, and he made sure I was credited for every sale. I have to admit, my younger self hadn’t known what to think of him.

I’d been a twenty-five-year-old party boy with an inflated sense of my own allure who’d been perfectly willing to flirt for hefty commission checks. And trust me, I was an expert flirt. The key lay in the balance between praise and interest. Praising hair, jewelry, fashion sense, and acting as if I were interested in the why, how, when, or where of any of those topics while peddling my wares usually equated to a nice payday.

When I was younger, I’d pretend to care about things like Sally Flanagan’s daughter’s endless parade of bad boyfriends and the cat apartment Trace Unger made for his posse of feline children. My smile would fall the moment they walked out the door like brittle drywall in an abandoned house.

Okay, sometimes I was still like that.

But Mr. Gowan…he had been different from the start. He was so…extra. So fabulous, so sparkly, so shiny. Everyone was “dah-ling” and everything was “ah-mazing!” He loved wearing sequins, fringe, silk ties, and all things flashy, but his home-decor aesthetic leaned more toward a classic traditional style with a touch of flair—which just happened to be my specialty.

Mr. Gowan had been a regular customer when Brandon opened the doors of his first store on Melrose. And I soon became his regular style guide. We’d greet each other with air kisses and light flirtation, like:

“Mr. G, you’re positively glowing this morning.”

“Thank you, dah-ling, it’s probably too much face cream, but I’ll take that compliment and oh, honey, that shirt is a marvel on you.”

I’d twirl, thank him, then march over to the newest selection of handmade prints, tablecloths, artisan candles, or whatever I thought might interest him.

And every time he walked into the store, he bought something. On average, he spent three thousand dollars a month on home goods. No kidding. Mr. Gowan was a wealthy retiree who’d made his fortune in aerospace patents and the stock market. He was an avid patron of the arts and gave oodles of money to charities supporting artists, writers, and…LGBTQ homeless shelters. He was a great guy with a big personality, and as far as I knew, he’d been single for ages.

I suspected Mr. Gowan had one great love, but he never talked about him. He preferred to keep things light and simple between us. We’d dissected movies, divas, designers, theater, television, and kitchen trends ad nauseam. Nothing personal…until two years ago when my ex left me, my grandmother died, and Mr. Gowan got sick.

And if I lived to be a hundred, I’d never forget that exchange.

Mr. G had greeted me with his usual fabulous fanfare, complimented my hair, my shirt, my shoes, then narrowed his gaze and demanded to know why my eyes were red. Embarrassingly enough, I’d shed a tear or two. I couldn’t help it. I was a wreck. My belovedabuelahad just passed away, and he’d kindly given his deepest sympathy but seemed to guess I had something else on my mind. I didn’t have the energy to deny it, so I told him Tony and I were done-zo, too. He’d handed over a tissue and embraced me like a fierce mama bear.

“Oh, dah-ling. He wasn’t the one. Don’t fret. The right man will come around. You’ll see.”

“When I’m ninety,” I’d bawled, Lucille Ball-style, obviously forgetting I was talking to someone pushing a ripe old age.