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Chapter 07

When I was younger, the prospect of Sunday dinner at my dad’s had so excited me or stressed me out I’d vomit. Never at my father’s house—even when I was little I knew Stella wouldn’t approve of a puking kid. I didn’t puke anymore, but I’d never managed to get rid of the knots in my stomach, either.

I popped an antacid tablet now as I sat in my not-expensive-enough-to-be-impressive car in their half-circle driveway of stamped concrete. This was the fourth new house my father’d had in the past seventeen years of life with his second family. Before that he’d lived in a stately Georgian-style half mansion with his first family. He’d never lived with my mother.

Birth-order studies claim that an age difference of six or more years between siblings complicates the normal oldest, middle and youngest personality traits by also making each child an only. That’s why, though I have five half siblings and an uncle who’s more like a brother, I’m an only child. I’ve tried identifying with being the middle kid—but what it comes down to, in the end, is I’m not.

The door opened and Jeremy and Tyler ran out. They both favor my dad, too. All of us look more like siblings than we were raised to be. I was fourteen when Jeremy was born, sixteen for Tyler. They’re more like nephews or cousins than brothers. I’m not sure what they think of me, just that they’re always glad to see me and aside from the fact they’re spoiled brats who could use a good spanking now and then, I’m usually glad to see them, too.

“Hey, Paige.” Jeremy at twelve no longer ran to clutch at my legs. He settled for a half wave with limp fingers.

Tyler, ten, was nearly as tall as me but squeezed me anyway. “Paige, c’mon, we’re going to play Pictionary. Grandma and Grandpa are here already. So’s Nanny and Poppa.”

“And Gretchen and Steve, too, I see.” I pointed to the two minivans that belonged to my dad’s kids with his first wife.

“Everyone’s here,” Jeremy said somewhat sourly, and I gave him a glance. He’d always been a pretty upbeat kid. Today he scowled, blond eyebrows pinching tight over the smaller version of our father’s nose.

I leaned back into my car to grab the gift, then locked my car. It was unlikely anything would happen to it parked in my dad’s driveway, but it was habit. “Come. Let’s go in.”

I slung an arm around Tyler’s neck and listened to him babble on about school, soccer, the new game system he’d found under the Christmas tree. He had never known Santa to disappoint him. I’d stopped trying not to be envious of that, even though I no longer believed in Santa Claus.

Inside, Jeremy slunk to a chair in the corner and sat with crossed arms, the scowl still in place. Tyler abandoned me to round up pens for the game. That left me to the socially torturous task of making nice with Stella’s parents, Nanny and Poppa.

Like their daughter, they weren’t bad people. They’d never gone out of their way to be cruel. I wasn’t Cinderella. And I understood, now, what it must have been like to try to find a place in their hearts for their new son-in-law’s children, and how awkward it must have felt. A hastily wrapped Jumbo Book of Puzzles and a prewrapped box of knit mittens would always fall short in comparison to exquisitely wrapped packages in shiny foil paper with matching bows, the contents new clothes or toys. I understood. Spending Christmas at my dad’s had been last minute, haphazardly planned and rare. At least Nanny and Poppa had made an effort.

It seemed easier for them now that I was a grown-up, though it was more difficult for me. As a kid it had never occurred to me they wouldn’t like me. Now I was convinced they didn’t.

“Hello, Paige,” George, also known as Poppa, said. “How nice of you to come.”

He meant well, but the unspoken insinuation of surprise made me bite my tongue against the shout of “Of course I came! She’s my father’s wife!”

But, like Stella herself, I could never hope to impress them. I just wanted not to prove them right. So instead of shouting, I smiled.

“How are you?” I couldn’t call him George, Mr. Smith sounded absurd, and I would never call him Poppa.

I’d been asking out of politeness, but he told me exactly how he was. For fifteen minutes. And I listened, nodding and murmuring in appropriate places, as though I cared. I didn’t know half the people he mentioned, but he acted as if he thought I should. He never asked me about myself, which was fine, because then I didn’t have to answer.

Finally, the game of Pictionary got under way. Gretchen’s husband, Peter, begged off, volunteering to take care of Hunter, their three-year-old son. Steve and his vastly pregnant wife, Kelly, played, though, as did my dad and Stella, all the grandparents and Tyler. And me. Jeremy had disappeared. We split into teams, boys against girls.

“I’ll sit out,” I said when we’d counted up the teams to find the girls’ side had an extra player.

“Oh, no, Paige, are you sure?” Stella protested, but not too hard. She liked things even and square.

“Sure. Not a problem. I’ll go check on dinner, if you want.”

Okay, so maybe I’d cast myself in the Cinderella role. Just a little. But it was a relief to get into the kitchen and set out platters of vegetables and dip, cheese and crackers. Decorative breads and soft cheeses with pretty spreaders that matched the platter. Stella loved to have parties.

I found the cold-cut platters in the garage fridge and brought them into the kitchen to put them out on the table, which was serving as a buffet. I startled Jeremy when I came back in, and he whirled, can of soda in hand, from the open fridge.

From the living room, the sound of laughter wafted. I set the platter of meat on the table. Jeremy and I stared each other down.

“You’re not supposed to be drinking that before dinner,” I told him.

“I know.” His chin lifted. He hadn’t yet cracked the top.

“I’m not going to tell you on you, kiddo.” I turned to the table and took off the platter’s plastic lid so I could get rid of the fake greenery around the edges. I knew how to make things pretty.

“Don’t call me kiddo,” he said.

I expected him to slink away with his stolen prize, but he didn’t. When I turned to look at him, he was still playing with the can, shifting it from one hand to the other.

“Something up?” I moved past him to the big, mostly empty pantry, to pull out the fancy plastic plates and plastic-ware, the matching napkins.

“No.” Jeremy shrugged and disappeared up the back stairs.

After that, the party really started.

It was easier for me with more people there. Stella’s friends knew who I was, of course, and avoided talking to me so they didn’t have to deal with the awkwardness of how to address their friend’s husband’s illegitimate daughter. My dad’s friends knew me, too, but had fewer inhibitions for some reason. Maybe because I’d known them longer, or because they had no conflict of loyalty. Some of them didn’t like Stella much, and maybe that was part of it, too.

Of my father’s other kids, I saw very little. Gretchen, Steve and I had never been close, even though it wasn’t my mother who’d finally won our dad away from their mom. Of course, their spouses weren’t sure what to make of me, either, and it was easier for us to be superficially polite without trying to get to know each other. Their children were and would be my nieces and nephews, but I doubted they’d ever think of me as an aunt.

“Paige DeMarco, how the hell are you?” Denny’s one of my dad’s oldest friends. Fishing and drinking buddies, they’d known each other since high school. He’d known my mom, too.

“Hey, Denny. Long time no see.”

“Yeah, and you a big-city girl now, too. How’s it going?” Denny gave me a one-armed hug.

“It’s going great.” It wasn’t an entire lie. Most of my life was going great.

“Yeah?” He tossed back the dregs of his iced tea. I guessed he was hankering for a beer, but Stella wasn’t serving booze. Not that I blamed her. Alcohol always made a different kind of party. “Where you living at? Your dad said someplace along the river?”

“Riverview Manor.”

There was no denying the pride swelling inside me at Denny’s impressed whistle. “Nice digs. And your job? You’re not still working with your mom, are you?”

“I help out once in a while, if she’s got a big job.”

Denny grimaced at his empty cup, but didn’t move to pour more. “What’s she up to? She still with the same guy?”

Questions my dad never asked. I was the only part of my mother my dad needed to know about. He’d never said as much, but I knew it.

“Leo? Yes.”

“And that kid, how old’s he now?”

“Arty’s seven.” I had to laugh for a second. “Wow. Yeah. He just turned seven.”

“You tell her I said hi, okay?”

“Sure.”

We chatted for a while after that. The party got louder. Stella reigned over it like a queen, even if she was claiming to still be only twenty-nine. When it came time to open the gifts, I thought about slipping out, but forced myself to stay.

Stella sat in the big rocking chair in the living room, her presents arranged at her feet and her closest girlfriend beside her getting ready to write down the name of every gift and its giver. Stella opened gift cards, packages of bath salts, certificates for spa treatments. Sweaters. Slippers. A new silk robe someone had brought from a trip to Japan. She oohed and aahed over each gift appropriately.

By the time she got to mine, my stomach had begun to eat itself. The harsh sting of acid rose in my throat, burning. My heart thudded sickly. I had to turn away to pop another couple antacids and sip from a glass of ginger ale, even though I knew the soda would ruin the effects of the medicine.

It’s silly to hold on to the past, but we all do it. I was almost ten the first year I’d been invited to Stella’s birthday party. The paint had been barely dry in their new house. Gretchen and Steven were living one week with their mother and one week with my dad and Stella. I, of course, lived full-time with my mom and saw my dad on an occasional weekend or holiday, a practice he’d only started after leaving his first wife.

I’d picked out Stella’s present myself that year, using my allowance to pay for it. I’d bought her a silky red tank top with a lacy hem. It was the sort of shirt my mom would’ve loved and wore often, and she said nothing when she helped me fold it and wrap it in some pretty paper that had come free in the mail to solicit money for a charity.

I’d been so proud of that present. I’d been sure Stella, who wasn’t nearly as pretty as my mom but who tried hard, anyway, would open it and put it on right away. Then she’d smile at me, and my dad would smile at me, and we’d all be happy.

Instead, she’d opened the box and pulled out the shirt. Her gaze had gone immediately to my father’s, but men don’t know anything about fashion beyond what they like and what they don’t. She didn’t put it on. She fingered the red satiny fabric and peeked at the label, her eyes going a little wider at what she saw. Then she put the shirt back in the box with a thank-you even a nine-year-old could tell was forced. I never saw her wear it, but I did find it in the garage a few years later, in the box of rags my dad used for cleaning his cars.

I wasn’t nine years old any longer. I wasn’t even a teen in too-thick eyeliner and a too-short skirt. I’d learned how to dress and how to speak, but part of me would always be my mother’s daughter, at least in Stella’s eyes.

“Oh, Paige, what a thoughtful gift.” Stella lifted out the box of paper and opened it to pull out the pen. She wiggled it so the tiny tassel danced. “Very pretty. Thank you.”

I let out a long, silent sigh. “You’re welcome.”

“Where do you find such pretty things?” Stella continued. She turned to face her audience. “Paige always finds the prettiest things.”

That was it. Bells didn’t ring, little birdies didn’t fly around on rainbow glitter wings. She’d said thank-you, and I thought she meant it. That was all.

I still managed to slip away before the party was over. My dad caught me at the door. He insisted on hugging me.

“Thanks for coming.” I’m sure he meant it, too.

I doubt there’s anyone who does not have a complicated relationship with his or her parents, so I’m not saying I’m special or anything. Considering the circumstances of my birth, I’m lucky to have any sort of relationship with my dad. For the most part, at least, it’s an honest relationship. Except of course when honesty is too painful.

“Of course I’d come,” I told him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Of course you would,” my dad said. “Well, I’m glad you did. How’s the new place?”

“It’s great.” With his arm still around me, I wanted to squirm away. “It’s a very nice place.”

“And the new job?”

The job I’d had for almost six months didn’t feel so new anymore. “It’s great, too. I like my boss a lot.”

“Good. You’re up on Union Deposit Road, right?”

“Progress,” I told him. “Just off Progress.”

“Oh, right. Well, hey, maybe I should swing by some day and take you to lunch at the Cracker Barrel, what do you say?”

“Sure, Dad.” I smiled, not expecting him to ever follow through. “Just call me.”

He kissed my cheek and hugged me again, making a show of making me his daughter. It was nice, in that way we both knew was shallow but served its purpose.

The moment I got in my car and the door to the house shut, my every muscle relaxed. I blew out another series of long, slow breaths and lifted my arms to let my pits air out. I’d be sore tomorrow in places I hadn’t realized I’d clenched. I was already getting a headache. I’d made it through another big family event without anything going wrong.

Chapter 08

Some consider the body a temple. As such, it must be cared for appropriately so it may be used in the manner for which it was meant.

Beginning tomorrow, you will eat oatmeal for breakfast. Sweeten it however you like.

Today, you will consume three fewer cups of coffee, replacing them with water.

Today, you will extend your regular workout by fifteen minutes.

Today, you will focus a conscious effort on your cigarette smoking. You may smoke one cigarette only once every two hours. You will do nothing else while you smoke it. You will concentrate on my instructions. You will think of the word discipline each and every time you light up.

Finally, you will record your efforts in your journal and describe your thoughts and feelings in detail, particularly your thoughts on what “discipline” means to you.

“Do this in memory of me, and go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” I murmured, mocking. “Wow.”

The second note had been nestled amongst a scant handful of bills and charity requests, and it had slipped into my hand as though it had been written just for me. I hadn’t meant to open it, but something about the smooth, sleek paper and lack of glue on the flap had been too tempting to pass up. Hey, it had been delivered to me, hadn’t it? Even though the number on the front still said 114, not 414, and even though I knew better, I’d read it anyway.

I still had no clue what the hell it was, or meant. I turned it over and over in my hands, then read it again. I closed the card and stared at it, but I couldn’t decipher its meaning.

Unless it had none. Maybe it was some sort of crazy new diet or self-help plan. I’d heard of a new plan that hooked members up with mentors. Sort of like a 12-step program for food addicts, it was supposed to help to have a buddy. It was the only scenario I came up with, but it didn’t feel right.

I lifted the card again, looking closer for clues. I caressed the paper. It had the same rough edge, like someone had cut one large sheet of paper into smaller sizes. No signature, and delivered twice in a row to the wrong person. Some buddy.

I kept the card safely in my hand. My fingers curved around it and my thumb caressed the thick paper. I looked at it again, the single sentence.

Discipline?

I still didn’t get it. I tucked the card back into its envelope, restraining myself from sniffing the ink. I wasn’t the only person standing at the mailboxes, and I didn’t want to attract that sort of attention. I found the mailbox for 114 and studied it, too. The brass numbers were stylishly weathered but not worn. There wasn’t really any mistaking a one for a four or vice versa, even if the number on the card itself were smudged.

“Excuse me.” The woman next to me gave me a smile meant to look apologetic but only looked annoyed. “I need to get to my box.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I folded closed the note and tucked it quickly into the slot for 114, wondering if by some luck it belonged to her.

She used her key to open a different box, though, and pulled out a thick sheaf of mail. Then she bent and looked through the hole to the office behind it, but the mail carrier had already moved down the row to the end. She straightened as she closed and locked her box, then riffled through her mail with a disgusted sniff.

“Nothing ever comes when it’s supposed to.” She didn’t say it to me, but I nodded anyway.

“I wish my bills wouldn’t come.”

She turned and gave me an up-and-down look as her mouth twitched into a grimace masquerading as another smile. Her gaze took in my coat, the same cut and color as hers but not as nice, my legs, clad in nude hose, and finally settled on my shoes. They were the only part of me that seemed worth her approval, but she raised a brow anyway and just tossed off a fake little laugh as she stuffed her mail into her Kate Spade bag and turned on her matching pumps.

Bitch.

Oh, I knew what discipline meant to me, all right. Discipline was what kept me from popping her in the back of the head with the heel of my barely-passing-inspection shoes. It’s what kept my chin high and my mouth fixed in a pleasant smile instead of turning down at the corners so the tears would stay burning behind my eyes instead of slipping out.

Discipline, or maybe it was pride. Or stubbornness. Whatever it was, I had enough to spare.

I waited until she’d gone before I crossed the lobby and pushed through the revolving door. Outside, gray and overcast skies echoed my mood, and the breeze brought the scent of cigarettes to me. I looked automatically, wondering if I’d see someone pondering discipline.

“Ari,” I said, surprised. “Hi.”

Miriam’s grandson tossed his butt into the sand-filled can and shrugged his coat higher around his neck. “Hey, Paige.”

“I didn’t know you lived here.”

He grinned. “I don’t. Just dropped off something for my grandma, you know?”

I didn’t know, but I nodded. “Tell her I said hello.”

“Stop by the shop and tell her yourself,” he suggested with a sweetly dipping smile.

It was nice to be flirted with, albeit without much heat. “I’ll do that. Have a good day.”

“You, too.”

I looked back as I crossed the alley to the parking garage, and Ari was still looking. Maybe there was a little heat, after all. And what woman didn’t like to be appreciated? I had a much bigger smile on my face than I had before, and it lasted me all the way to work.

I wasn’t even close to being late, but I might as well have been because by the time I got to my desk, my boss had already piled a stack of files on it. It could have been worse. He could have been standing over my desk with the empty coffeepot in his hand. He did that, sometimes, though I knew he was as capable of making coffee as I am. More, maybe, since he inhaled the high-octane stuff like it was air and I limited myself to a mug once or twice a day.

Spying the empty Starbucks cup in the trash, I knew he’d already had his first dose of the day. I was safe a little bit longer. I could get the files ordered and put away without him breathing down my neck. I decided to put the coffee on anyway, though, just in case. There were many days I could predict my boss’s every move, from the midmorning break when the bagel man came around, to his post-lunch trip to the bathroom.

Today wasn’t one of those days.

“Paige. Listen. I need you to get those files taken care of, okay?”

I turned from the small bar sink, where I’d been filling the coffeepot with water. “Right, Paul. Of course.”

Amazing how someone with only a community-college education could still deduce simple things.

“Good.” Paul nodded and smoothed his tie between his thumb and forefinger while he watched me fiddle with the coffeemaker.

I hadn’t yet figured out if Paul hovered because he expected me to screw up, or if he hoped I would. Either way, it didn’t bother me the way it would have some of the other personal assistants on the floor. Brenda, for example, liked to brag how her boss, Rhonda, spent most of her time traveling and she barely had to deal with her. She also liked to brag that she’d worked for Kelly Printing longer than that Jenny-come-lately Rhonda anyways, and knew what she was doing, so why should she have to run everything by someone else when she could get her work done faster and better without interference?

I never told Brenda I found Paul’s constant supervision more comforting than annoying. After all, if he never allowed me the autonomy to make decisions, I couldn’t exactly be held accountable for anything that went wrong. Right? Even when Paul did his share of traveling, he never left without making me a sheaf of notes and lists…lists.

I thought of the cards I’d found. Two, now. Two misdelivered notes with explicit, mysterious (to me) instructions. I could still feel the sleek paper under my fingertips. I regretted not taking the time to smell the ink.

With the coffee set to brewing, I turned to face Paul. “Anything else?”

“Not right now, thanks.” Paul smiled and disappeared back into his inner sanctum, leaving me with the cheery burble of the coffeepot and a bunch of files to herd.

This is what I knew about Paul Johnson, my boss. He had a chubby, pretty wife named Melissa who sometimes forgot to pick up his dry cleaning on time and two teenagers too busy with wholesome activities like sports and youth group to get into trouble. I knew that because I’d seen their photos and overheard his telephone conversations. He had an older brother, the unfortunately named Peter Johnson, with whom he played golf several times a year but not often enough to be good. I knew that because he’d asked me to make a reservation for him at one of the local golf courses and to call his brother to confirm the date. The request was slightly out of the realm of my professional duties, but I’d done it anyway. I also knew Paul was forty-seven years old, had earned his MBA from Wharton, attended church on Sundays with his family and drove a black, but not brand-new, Mercedes Benz.

Those were things I knew.

This is what I thought about Paul Johnson, my boss. He wasn’t a tyrant. Just precise. He held himself to the same level of perfection he expected from an assistant, and I appreciated that. He could be funny, though not often, and usually unexpectedly. He gave every project his full attention and effort because it pained him to do anything less. I understood and appreciated that, too.

I’d worked for him for almost six months. He’d told me to call him Paul, not Mr. Johnson, but we weren’t anything like friends. That was okay with me. I didn’t want my boss to be my chum.

Though sometimes it felt as if all I did was make coffee and file, my job did actually have more responsibility. I had documents to proof and send, invoices to fill out and appointments to book. I did all this to leave Paul free to do whatever it was that he did all day long in his lush, swanky office. If hard pressed, I wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone what, exactly, that was. I didn’t hate or love my job, but it sure as hell beat working at a sub shop or being an au pair, which was what I’d done while looking for a job that would use my freshly minted degree in business administration. If I never slung another plate of hash or wiped another ass I’d be happy for a good long time.

There was another advantage to having a boss who needed everything just so. He was willing to do what it took to make sure he got what he wanted, whether it was leaving me a three-page e-mail of the week’s work, or taking five thorough minutes to describe to me exactly what he wanted me to get him for lunch. Also, if he sent me out to get him some lunch, he usually treated me.

Today it was a pastrami sandwich on rye from Mrs. Deli. Mustard, no mayo. No tomatoes, no onion. Lettuce on the side. Potato salad and an extralarge iced tea with real sugar, not what he called cancer in a packet.

I met Brenda in the hall on my way back. She took one look at the bulging paper sack from Mrs. Deli and sniffed hungrily. She held a small, boxed salad I recognized as coming from the same guy who sold bagels in the morning. I’d had one of those salads once, when I’d forgotten my lunch and had been so desperate for food I’d been willing to use my laundry quarters.

“Gawd, Paige,” Brenda said. “Lucky. I wish my boss would send me out for lunch. Heck, I’d like to just get out of this place for an hour.”

Officially, we got an hour for lunch, but since our building was located in a business complex on the outskirts of the city, by the time you drove to anyplace decent for lunch, you’d barely have enough time to eat and come back. Rhonda might not hover over Brenda, but she was a stickler about office hours and break time. Everything has a trade-off.

“Let me just drop this off with Paul and I’ll be right down.”

Brenda looked at the box of sadness in her hand. “Yeah, okay. I’ve only got about forty minutes left, though.”

“I’ll hurry.”

Paul’s door was half-closed when I rapped on the door frame. At the muffled noise, I pushed it all the way open. He sat at his desk, staring at his computer monitor. The screen had dissolved into a rapidly changing pattern of expanding pipe-work, his screen saver, and I wondered how long he’d been sitting there.

“Paul?”

“Paige. Come in.” He gestured and swiveled in his chair.

Careful not to spill or drip anything, I pulled his lunch from the bag one item at a time. It felt like a ritual, passing lunch instead of a torch. Paul settled each item onto his blotter. Sandwich at six, potato salad at nine, plastic fork and napkin at three. His drink went to noon, and he looked up at me.

“Thank you, Paige.”

It was the first time since I’d started working for him that he hadn’t lifted the bread to make sure the sandwich had been prepared properly or sipped the tea to make sure I hadn’t mistakenly brought presweetened.

“Do you need me for anything else?”

He shook his head. “No. Go ahead and take your lunch now. I will need you back here by one-fifteen, though. I’ve got that teleconference thing.”

“Sure, no problem.” Taking my own sandwich, I headed down to the lunchroom to meet Brenda.

Since no clients saw it, the lunchroom had seen better days. The vending machines were new, but the tables and chairs looked as if they’d been salvaged from the garbage more than once. My chair creaked alarmingly when I sat, but though I poised, prepared to hit the floor if the rickety thing collapsed, it held. I unwrapped my food quickly, my stomach already rumbling.

“This weather, huh?” Brenda stabbed at her limp lettuce. “I wish winter would make up its mind.”

“In another three months everyone will be complaining about it being too hot.”

She looked at me with a blink. “Yeah. I guess so. But I wish it would get warmer. It’s nearly March, for cripe’s sakes. Though we did have that blizzard in ’93, right around Saint Patty’s Day. I hope that doesn’t happen this year.”

Under other circumstances we’d never have been friends. Not that I didn’t like her, but we didn’t have much in common. Brenda was older than my mom and had twin girls in college. She also had a husband she referred to constantly as “my sweetie,” and whose name I hadn’t even yet learned. I imagined him as a Fred, though, for whatever that was worth.

“We’ve hardly had any snow. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know how you stand it, honestly.” Brenda, finished with her salad, had started casting longing looks at the other half of my sandwich.

I was pretending not to notice. I might only have been hungry enough to finish half, but the rest of it would be dinner tonight. “The lack of snow?”

She laughed then lowered her voice with a conspiratorial look around the empty lunchroom. “Gawd, no. I meant Paul. I don’t know how you can stand working for him.”

“He’s not that bad, Brenda. Really.”

She got up to get a snack cake from the machine. “Tell me that in another month.”

“What’s going to happen in another month?” I wrapped my sandwich carefully in the thick white butcher paper. Grease had turned it translucent in a pattern of dots and made it unusable, which was too bad. Butcher paper was great for coloring pictures. Arty loved it.

“Paul hasn’t managed to keep an assistant for longer than six months, tops.”

“I’ve been here for almost six.”

“Yeah,” Brenda said with the knowing nod of someone who’s been keeping track. “And you can’t tell me you don’t notice he’s a little…particular.”

The days when a good secretary was unfailingly loyal to her boss had apparently passed. Even so, I didn’t leap to agree with her. “I said, he’s not that bad. Besides, it’s not like he screams or anything if things aren’t exactly right.”

“He’d better not!” Brenda was already indignant on my behalf. “You’re his assistant, not his slave.”