Page 50 of Work: Strictly Professional

“What did you say?” It’s Ryan. He and Miller have just arrived, and let’s just say he doesn’t sound happy or remotely relaxed. “Whatdid he say? The photographer isn’twhat?”

Miller is at Ryan’s side, as always. He has a hand on his shoulder and is making soft, crooning sounds like he’s trying to tame a wild animal. It isn’t helping. “Ry’s feeling a little on edge,” Miller’s voice is unnaturally calm, and he shoots a warning glare at Wyn and me. “I brought him here to do a walk-through so he could see that everything is under control.”

“I’m sorry,” wails Wyn, unleashing a fresh wave of tears. “I’m so sorry. I’ve tried so hard. I’ve done everything I could, but he says he’s not coming. Said something about stomach flu and terrible diarrhea and…”

Ryan omits a strange, guttural squawk and tries to spin out of Miller’s grip. Barbara Anne doesn’t hesitate. She seldom does. She steps in and takes hold of Ryan’s other shoulder. Her smile is sweet, but her grip is steel.

“The pressure of planning a wedding has got to you, dahling. And it’s fine. It’s completely understandable. Happens to the best of us.” Ryan flails at her words, but she holds firm, chin dropping in determination. I’ve known Barbara Anne for a long time. I know her well. Her strengths, her weaknesses, I know them all, and let me tell you. When she gets this look on her face, there isn’t a man alive who can stop her. Whatever she says next isgoingto happen. “Tell you what, Ryan. Why don’t you go with Sage for a while? He’s not just a naturopath, you know.He’s trained in acupuncture and homeopathy, and he’s a Reiki master. He’s really quite gifted.”

“Yeah, baby,” says Miller, eyes burning bright with concern and something that looks suspiciously like amusement, “why don’t you go with Sage for a bit?”

With that, a very reluctant Ryan is led off by Sage. He pauses to look back once, giving Miller a blazing look that throws daggers all over the room. Miller’s face creases into a million pieces as he tries not to laugh. “Love you, baby! Have fun. Can’t wait to marry you.”

I can’t help but smile. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I’ve always found it deeply entertaining that Miller is like this. Incorrigible and completely unapologetic about it.

“Don’t encourage him, Derek.” Barbara Anne rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile at the back end of my name. Not a smile exactly. Her face is neutral. Perfect and unmoved. It’s there, though, the smile. It’s hidden under deep layers and the many masks she uses to disguise herself. I search her eyes to see if it’s still there, a message for me, and to see if I can still decipher it.

I can.

“We need to fix this,”her eyes say.

I nod without moving my head.“I agree.”

She raises herself up slightly and puts her shoulders back. She understands. She can still read me too.“Who do we know…?”

“…And who owes us something big?”

“Paul de L—” she says aloud.

“Hard work. Won’t take direction.” I shake my head. “Claude—”

“No. High fashion. Might make”—she tilts her head in the direction Ryan just went—“feel scrutinized.”

She’s right. Claude Vonn would definitely get in Ryan’s face, and I doubt the outcome would be good. I wrack my brain and draw a breath when it hits me.

Barbara Anne is already nodding. “Perfect, Derek. He’s perfect.”

“And he…”

“…I know, and don’t think I’ll let him forget it. I’ll make the call.”

“Go soft,” I say for a laugh. For old times’ sake. I don’t need to say it. We could perform this routine in our sleep, Barbara Anne and I. She takes the first run. She always does. Softening them up, buttering and tickling them, making them think they want to help us. I take the second. My approach is far from soft. It’s hard. Formidable even. The irony is, and always has been, that the only thing more formidable than me on the attack is a tiny blue-eyed blonde woman with a face like an angel.

“Is this a conversation?” Wyn’s head flicks back and forth between Barbara Anne and me. “What’s happening?”

“Joel, dahling, it’s Barbara Anne.” She’s already on the call, phone pressed to her ear. She’s off, explaining the situation and painting a dazzling picture of how she’d like it resolved. Soft. Sweet. Buttery. If you were watching from a distance, you’d feel sorry for Barbara Anne for being in this predicament, and you’d almost envy poor Joel for having her undivided attention. Sweet. Soft. Sweet. And then she’s not. Her voice lowers and develops the slightest of edges to it. “I know it’s short notice, dahling. I know. It’s awful…” Her eyes light up, and she flicks her hair over one shoulder as she cocks her weapon. “Shall I put Derek on the line? He’s standing right here… Oh yes, we still see a lot of each other… Let me put him on. He might be able to explain it all better than I have…” I step forward, hand out, ready to take the phone from her, but it turns out there’s no need. “No? Oh, you understand? Oh, that’s wonderful, dahling. I’msopleased to hear it. You’re an angel… Thank you. Can’t wait to see you… Love to Leslie and the boys.”

It’s hard to say who steps forward first, Barbara Anne or me. Either way, we’re facing each other, hands out, as if we mean to shake them. We both pause when we remember that this is now, not then. There’s half a foot of sea air between us, but it may as well be a mile.

It’s dumb. It’s a silly ritual that started when Mills was ten or eleven. He came home from an away camp, pumped, and taught us a ridiculous, overly complicated handshake he’d learned. He made us both practice it until we got it right.

I’m not sure when or how we started using it to mark our victories, but we did.

I’m suddenly aware of a deep pang in my side. A missing. A homesickness that takes my breath away. Home. No, not home. Family. Barbara Anne was my family for decades, and before that, she was my friend. I’m looking into her eyes, and she’s looking into mine. I see a mask drop, then another, and another. She looks the way she does in the morning when she’s well-rested and there’s nothing she wants.

“Oh, to hell with it,” she says, swinging back and slapping her hand against mine. The sound of the crack triggers muscle memory, and I explode into action. A fist bump, a quick shake, backhand, forehand, a clenched fist on each of our hearts. Step back, step forward, spin around, and hip bump. Our timing is perfect. Our delivery impeccable. We both hit our marks with precision and end with a loud victory cry of a made-up word Miller insisted we use.

“Koorrwhyeee!”

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