Page 25 of To Have and to Scold

“Are these prospective clients or existing?” I ask, leaning back in my office chair.

“Prospective. From Durham. Will the doors be unlocked or…?” Her tongue darts out of her mouth rapidly, like she shouldn’t have to wait for me to answer.

“I’ll be there on and off throughout the day, but if you want to give me a time—”

“Noon,” she says, cutting me off. She whisks her phone out of a bag hanging from her shoulder and starts typing madly. She barely meets my gaze as she thanks me and leaves.

I find myself measuring my day by how many times I see her go in and out, always on the phone. I visit a jobsite late morning and come back right as she’s entering the building again, carrying a large box. I jog to move in front of her so I can get to the door.

“Thanks,” she says, hefting the box in her arms as she darts past me.

“Can I carry it for you?” I notice the outside of the box shows a rainbow of pastel papers. “Reams of paper can get heavy.”

“I’m fine,” she says and then presses her eyes closed for a beat. “But thanks anyway.”

“At least let me get your office door.”

“I’m fine,” she repeats.

Why is she trying to be a martyr?

It’s not a big deal for me to open her door for her. Once I’ve gotten it open and she sets the box on the desk, I notice other boxes and bins full of pens and paper. “You love a good office supply store, I take it?”

She gives a small smile, still a little out of breath from carrying the box. “You could say that.” She runs a hand along a pad of blotter paper on her desk.

“Blotter paper? And the purpose of it is?”

Her gaze appraises me. “Not everyone knows what this is called. The purpose is two-fold. To protect the surface of the desk and to look pretty.” She bites down on her bottom lip. “Isn’t it pretty? All honeysuckle and lavender?”

“Looks orange and purple to me.”

She waves me away with atsk.

I think she’s having a long-term love affair with her office supplies, and it’s annoying.

And slightly cute.

The next time I see her, she’s on the phone practically running in those ridiculously high heels, heading outside again. “That’s not acceptable,” she says into the phone. A pause. And then another, “That’s not acceptable.”

I almost pity whoever’s on the receiving end.

She’s hardnosed.

And she doesn’t lighten her battleax exterior except to smile and wave at Mary.

She’s been like this since she first started working here over a week ago. And when I say she’s been in a tizzy about all things wedding planning, I mean atizzy.

She keeps asking me about my stuff. About my job. Like she’s in charge of everything around here. I find myself giving the shortest answers I can, just enough to get her off my back. I have a process—one I’ve been doing for years—and I don’t need her help with it.

It’s not all bad, though, dealing with her. From what I’ve seen, she’s very professional with clients and vendors but it’s almost as if the professionalism tamps down the bubbly, quirky side of her so that side expands and inflates until she can’t stand it anymore. And then it explodes, and she lets loose with Mary or some of the others. Hearing her laugh in the reception area makes me smile, as much as I don’t want to.

She is a force to be reckoned with, but thankfully, with all my jobs I have going on, I haven’t been the subject of her wrath too much.

Until today. Because as I pull up to Willow Wood at eleven thirty, she’s pacing in front of it, a bag three-quarters of her size on one shoulder. She looks at her watch as I walk up.

“Good. You’re here.”

The word “finally” was implied. Strongly.

---