I wish I could be the kind of douchebag boss who made his assistant come in on weekends. But I just can’t. She works hard, and she needs to recharge. I’ve seen people burn out, like my cousin Kerri, and I don’t want to have Evie burn out and hobble around with a hand over her stomach. Or worse, quit.
After a shower, I go to the walk-in closet and look at the two outfits. Evie picked them out yesterday evening, saying I could wear one on Saturday and the other on Sunday. It’s seriously cute that she worries I might actually wear the puke-colored flower-print shirt and pink shark pants that are hanging in my closet. They were a gag gift from Court, and I have no desire to put them on, although I think Evie believes she’s the only barrier between me and them.
Regardless, she has good, utilitarian taste. A simple T-shirt and shorts because she knows I’m visiting my brother today for lunch. There’s no point in wearing anything nice, because my young nephew has no respect for high fashion or the price of silk.
I go to the kitchen and open the fridge. As usual, Evie has left two kale shakes in the special vacuum containers. I told her I didn’t know how to operate a blender, so she makes them every Friday evening before going home. Says she wants to ensure I get proper nutrition over the weekend.
She’d murder me if she saw me dumping them down the drain. Like now. Five days a week is plenty. I need a break, too.
I reach for my secret stash, buried deep in the wine cooler, behind the Beaujolais. Ah. Smoked ham, smoked salmon, cream cheese and bacon.
Yes!
I fry up the bacon, reveling in the life-affirming smell of grease and salted, smoked pork belly, smear an extra-generous serving of cream cheese on my toasted egg bagel, then pile ham and salmon high on the pure, unadulterated carb platter. Then, with a roar of triumph, I bite into my creation, a victorious T-Rex savoring his meal.
So. Good.
I wash it down with coffee. And not just any coffee, but coffee spiked with a good shot of vodka. As satisfying as the breakfast is, it still doesn’t make up for Evie’s absence. But it helps keep my spirits from flagging. Doing my best to undo the insufferable violation the kale shakes have inflicted on my system over the workweek is a good starting point.
I still haven’t been able to change her mind about the auction. Yesterday I offered her the use of a company car—any model—because there’s always a point where people break. I thought she was wavering, but she shook her head ruefully at the end. And I have no freakin’ idea why.
Should I have offered to replace everything in her closet with something newer and better? Maybe made the pay raise more concrete and enticing? Ten percent would’ve been a good place to start. Or maybe I should’ve told her she could make use of the family’s various vacation properties. We have them on the Riviera, in Bora Bora, the Maldives…you name it. If she doesn’t like any of them, I could book her a suite at whatever resort strikes her fancy.
But maybe I should just hire a mercenary to solve my problem, provided I can figure out where to look. I’m not going to have Georgette murdered. That’s not how I roll. I simply want her removed…to some as-yet-undiscovered deserted island, sans laptop, tablet or cell phone. She can keep her mink bikini, though. I’m not a complete bastard.
I check my personal emails, which is something I do only on weekends. Everyone who has my email address knows I only answer on Saturdays and Sundays, and they text or call if something’s urgent. I have a couple of unread emails—one from Mom and the other from Barron.
I decide to read Barron’s first, because Mom’s will be chatty and cheery and I can end on a high note. You never know with my great-uncle.
Nate,
I’m sending you a bronze statue Catherine purchased. It’s quite unique and artistic, but I think it bothers Stella, mainly because the grandchildren are so young. But you’re an adult, so you’ll appreciate it. It should arrive Saturday morning. Make sure it’s in pristine condition, then keep it that way.
B
Unique and artistic, huh? I wish I knew if those were Catherine’s words or his. Or maybe Stella’s. As Barron’s art curator, Catherine’s been busy padding his collection. She’s good at her job, so whatever statue she bought must really be something for Barron’s girlfriend to object.
On cue, the intercom buzzes. How convenient. It’s like Barron knew exactly when the crew he hired would be arriving.
The crate isn’t too big, considering. It can stay in the living room. Maybe by the indoor waterfall.
The crew brings the wooden box in, moving with exaggerated care as though there’s a live nuke inside it rather than a hunk of metal. They’re moving so gingerly that it takes forever until they’re done. But I guess they have to do that because the statue undoubtedly cost a fortune. Barron does not buy cheap art.
I sign for it, eyeing the thing, and the crew show themselves out.
Unique and artistic? Looks to me like it’s just a rough metal frame around two people fucking. It isn’t even that imaginative. Just plain ol’ missionary. Not that there’s anything wrong with missionary, but I thought it’d have be more inventive to be considered “art.” Still, I can see why Stella would object if there are young kids visiting.
I fold my arms and slowly circle around to take the statue in from different directions, wondering why in the world Catherine bought something this crass and mundane. She has far better taste—
Then I see it. Depending on which angle you view it from, the position of the couple changes. The missionary position morphs into doggy style…and then some sixty-nine action. Yup, definitely unique and artistic. No wonder Catherine bought it. And of course Stella objects to keeping it in the house. This is X-rated art, and her grandkids are way too young.
I email Barron.
The statue made it safely. I can see why you’re giving it to me.
Then I can’t resist adding a little teasing: But what am I going to do when I want to have a baby of my own?
Barron’s respo