Page 12 of Dirty Filthy Boy
"Absolutely." Beaming a wide smile, Mr. Bartlett throws open his office door. "Feel free to use the interview room."
"Will do." Ty gestures me out. "After you."
What else can I do but follow him out the door? He saved my bacon, after all. I tag along while he grabs the food from Dotty, taking the time to wink at her before turning to me. "Lead the way."
"It's, uh, back there." With him hauling the bags of food, we make our way through the space. He might be big and and wide-shouldered, but he maneuvers his way through the narrow aisles with surprising grace.
"Which one's yours?" His chin gestures toward the cubicles.
"This one." I point to it as we walk by. My cubbyhole houses an old beaten desk, a rickety office chair, an ancient file cabinet and a state-of-the-art laptop. The newspaper might skimp on furniture, but the electronics are first rate.
When we arrive at the glass-enclosed interview room, he plops the bags on the table. I try to help him unpack, but he waves my hand away. "I got it." He lays out the chateaubriand, veggies, and bread rolls. The aroma of the French cuisine permeates the room, and my stomach growls, reminding me it hasn't been fed.
A smirk pops up on his face. "Not hungry, eh?"
I frown. If he were any kind of gentleman, he wouldn't have mentioned it.
From a tall container, he retrieves a bottle of wine that the restaurant was nice enough to decant. All he has to do is pull off the stopper. They even included two wine glasses. Granted they're plastic, but still it was a nice gesture on their part.
Can't believe he's being such a gentleman after the way I behaved, though. Which means I need to apologize. "I'm sorry for . . . the way I acted. Those questions were entirely inappropriate and unprofessional."
He flashes me that same, bright smile, while he pours the wine. "MacKenna. May I call you MacKenna?"
"Yes, of course."
"You were upset about me standing you up. So the questions, while surprising, were a way for you to let off steam. How about we start fresh? You forgive me for not showing up at the diner. I won't penalize you for the questions. What do you say?" He sticks out his palm.
My mother didn't raise a fool, so I shake his hand. "Deal."
For the next while, we dedicate ourselves to the meal. One thing your learn at a farm is to eat when food is put in front of you. Something I forgot at the restaurant. But I'm not stupid enough to pass up on this feast a second time. I chow down until half of my share is gone. When I come up for air, his plate is empty, and he has a happy smile on his face.
"Nice to see a woman enjoy her food." He salutes me with his wine glass.
"Oh, I eat plenty." Can't he tell by the extra curves? "Comes from working at a farm."
"Where are you from?"
"Iowa. My dad's a farmer. I used to milk the cows, feed the chickens. The farm hands did the heavy work, but I handled the egg and dairy business."
"Did you enjoy it?"
I sip the last of my wine before I answer. "I couldn't wait to leave. Our land was miles from the nearest town. For months, the only people I'd see were the farm hands, close neighbors, and the kids at school. Winters were the worst."
"So when it came time to go to college, you chose one in a big city."
"Yes. I graduated in May from the University of Chicago."
"But you didn't start working here until last week."
He'd paid attention when I told him it was my first week on the job. "Mr. Bartlett hired me before the school year ended, but the journalist I was to replace did not retire until the end of the summer." He couldn't afford to pay us both, and I couldn't afford rent without a salary. So I'd moved in with Marigold and waited tables until two weeks ago. By working through the summer, I saved enough for a security deposit and first month's rent.
Mr. Bartlett pokes his head out of his office and stares in our direction while chewing on his beat-up cigar.
"My boss's getting antsy. I better start the interview. You done?" I point to his empty dish and bread basket. The man loves those French baguettes.
"Yes, thank you."
After I gather the dirty dishes, I walk to the lunchroom, next door, and toss them in the trash. The leftovers I stick in the fridge.
