Page 39 of Our Long Days
My schedule is routine: one hour in the workshop and then sitevisits before returning home to complete admin work. I’ll occasionally call in to my rental cabins if there are any issues reported by guests, but it’s rare, and the cleaning company handles the turnover between reservations. Today, however, we have a meeting with one of my new clients to discuss the progress of their project, and we’ll stay at the workshop for the remainder of the day.
Florence slipped into my routine with ease. Every morning, we meet in the office, her with a cup of coffee—a splash of milk, no sugar—and me praying for summer dress season to be over.
She fidgets in her seat, crossing one leg over the other before switching, flashing the smooth, tanned skin of her thighs. I’ve offered her my seat three times, feeling bad she’s left with the stiff wooden one—and for reasons I don’t want to admit.
“Florence, please sit here.” I stand, gesturing to the padded rolling chair.
She sniffs, not looking up from her tablet. “I’m fine.”
“That can’t be comfortable.”
“It’s fine.”
Her tone is off. Nothing is fine, but I don’t push. I don’t ask why she’s upset or what I can do. There are boundaries not to be crossed, even if we tore through a thousand of them months ago.
An hour later, she’s still acting stubborn, only her wooden chair has moved. Shoulder to shoulder, we close the video meeting with Sarah, the founder of the non-profit we’re currently building a summer camp for.
“You’re sure it’s not too much?” Sarah asks.
We went to high school together, and she reached out last year, pitching the idea of a camp for kids of all ages currently in the foster care system. It didn’t take much convincing for me to agree.
I shake my head. “My answer hasn’t changed since the last time you checked.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s too much. This isn’t why I reached out to you.”
“Deal with it.”
Florence’s gaze ping-pongs between me and the computer screen. Sarah must catch her confusion.
“He hasn’t told you, has he?” Sarah addresses the woman beside me.
Florence pauses the tapping of her pen on the yellow legal pad. “Told me what?”
“This guy”—Sarah jabs a finger in my direction—“will not accept payment for any labor, only materials. He won’t let me tell the local paper or name a cabin after him either. Florence, tell your boss to lay off the humble pie and allow someone to acknowledge his generosity. Maybe convince him to take a break every now and again.”
Florence gives her a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve added it to tomorrow’s agenda.”
“I like you.” Sarah looks to me. “That’s it from me. I’ll see you on site later in the week?”
“I’ll be there.”
The call ends, and I’m back to having no clue what to do with this version of Florence. I want her loud, filterless, and giving me shit for my lack of computer skills. She doodles flowers, the tip of the pen almost tearing through the paper, silently stewing in her thoughts.
“You kept that quiet,” she murmurs.
“It wasn’t relevant.” I stretch my legs out and recline in the chair.
“Helping kids isalwaysrelevant.” Finally, after what feels like forever, she gives me those big green eyes. “It’s not a crime to do something good for the community and tell people about it.”
“Sarah was more than happy to pay in full, but two years ago, I started putting a portion of profits into local charities. Some of these kids might never find permanent homes, but hopefully, the camp can be a haven of sorts for them, even for a weekend. I’ve known Sarah since high school, and she does good work.” I shrug, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. “I decided the summer camp was this year's chosen charity.”
“You’re quite the guy, Dexter Moore,” she says matter-of-factly. “Sarah seems nice too.”
The slight pitch in her voice is the most emotion I’ve gotten out of her all day. It only adds to my confusion.
Moving things along, I close the laptop and swivel toward Florence, careful not to bump my knee with hers. “My memory is crap. Do you remember what time Sarah said we were meeting at the site?”
She glance at the notes. “Yep, we said…” Her brow furrows. The pages flap back and forth as she thumbs through the notes. “It’s right here.”
