Page 9 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

Mr. Gowan had snickered as he pushed me away. “Then there’s hope for me yet before I die.”

“You’ve still got years left in you.” I’d sniffled.

“Au contraire! My doctor says one to two years, tops, give or take a month or so. Now…dry those tears and show me the new pillows. I’m thinking of redoing the patio in shades of azure.”

That was how he’d told me he was ill.

In the space where perspective and regard meet compassion, our casual working friendship morphed into something more substantive. It was little things that added up over time. I’d carry his packages to his car, arrange for someone to cover for me, and ask if he had time for tea.

When driving became an issue, I’d pick him up at his Beverly Hills estate and bring him to the store. Sometimes, I helped him run other errands too—trips to the bank, the market, the dry cleaner, the doctor’s office. Eventually, he needed more help than his friends or I could offer, so he’d hired Enid, a nurse who didn’t mind taking on chauffeuring duties too.

Enid was a no-nonsense motherly type who was charmed at first sight by the sweet-talking old man who insisted on powdering his cheeks and wearing his best silk pa-jajas every day. She was firm but respectful. She vigilantly monitored Mr. Gowan’s medication, strolled with him in his garden, and helped host visits with his friends.

She seemed to genuinely enjoy his company. They gossiped about has-been movie stars duringJeopardycommercial breaks while I rearranged pillows and knickknacks, intermittently adding my own two cents.

I usually came by after work once or twice a week and didn’t stay more than an hour. But today…I was here early at Enid’s insistence.

I cocked my head and cast a puzzled look between Mr. G and his caregiver. “What’s happening here? Are you two getting married or something?”

Enid and Mr. G chuckled merrily.

“Poor woman. I wouldn’t subject her to such a fate. No, no…she pulled the wool right over my eyes and invited Hollywood royalty to my humble abode,” Mr. Gowan replied shakily, inclining his chin at the weekly home store booty cluttering the entry. “Are those for me?”

“Yes, but this probably isn’t a good time. I didn’t know this was a special occasion.” I furrowed my brow. “So…who’s coming?”

Enid waved her arms above her head. “Don’t tell him. I want to see Lo’s face when you-know-who walks through the door.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, dear girl. It might not happen at all,” he warned, shuffling toward the adjoining living room. “But if he does come, make sure I’m not drooling before you introduce us…that’s all I ask.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, moving to his side.

“I’m going to get comfortable,” he said. “Don’t mind me. It’s good exercise.”

“No, no. Let me help you.” Enid escorted Mr. G to the living area and hurried back, eyeing me excitedly as she paced the perimeter of the foyer.

“Am I supposed to guess?”

She chuckled gleefully. “You can try.”

“Okay, on a scale from Cher to that drag queen at the Abbey Mr. G always talks about, how does this one rate?”

“Cher. But bigger.”

I bugged my eyes out. “Bigger than Cher? No way. Mr. G loves her.”

“I know, I know, but he might be more well-known with a contemporary crowd.”

“He.Hmm. Brad Pitt?”

“Pierce Allen.” Enid spoke the name with comical reverence.

But I understood.

“Pierce Allen,” I repeated with equal reverence. “No way.”

“Yes way.”

Pierce Allen was the biggest box office star in the world.