As if pondering the subject, he cocked his head to the side and gazed down at the floor. Following a short pause, he looked up. “Let’s do it.”
“It’s going to be a lot of work,” I warned.
“For the right woman,” he said. “It’ll be worth it.”
Reliving the moment for Marge’s enjoyment was as satisfying the real thing.
Still looking right at Braxton, I raised my brows in false wonder. “Am I the right woman?”
“If that kiss is any indication,” he replied. “You sure are.”
“Alright,” I said with a smile. “Let’s do it.”
Marge clapped her hands. “I think this is cause for a celebration,” she said. “I have a cobbler in the oven and ice cream in the freezer.”
Braxton flashed me a grin and then looked at Marge. “I need to finish my plate of food first.”
“Well. Get to it,” Marge said, standing from her seat. Attempting to hide her ear to ear grin, she gestured toward the kitchen. “Anna, would you like to come help me with the cobbler?”
“Sure.”
I stood at her side as she prepared bowls of peach cobbler with vanilla ice cream. When she was finished, she wiped the countertop free of crumbs.
“It seems men are always slow to realize what’s in front of them,” she whispered. “Sometimes they need a little nudge. I’m just pleased my plan worked out.”
“Plan?” I asked.
She glanced over her shoulder. Braxton was cleaning his plate. She patted her hand against the stock pot of noodles.
“The chicken and noodles, Honey.” She picked up two bowls and nodded toward the third. “Like I said, they’re a cure-all.”
I had no intention of ever admitting anything to the contrary. I picked up the bowl of cobbler and smiled. “They sure are.”
Braxton
When arguing or negotiating, I had a policy. I did so in person. It was never over the phone, by text, or email. The pandemic forced me to reconsider my methods.
I was sitting at the kitchen island in front of my laptop, negotiating and arguing over the phone with Pratt.
“It’s not hard to understand if you stop talking for a minute,” I explained. “Are you willing to shut the fuck up and pay attention?”
Pratt sighed into the speaker of his phone. “I heard you, asshole. Doesn’t mean I agree with what you said.”
“In hindsight,” I said. “It’s the right thing to do. Just shift the money to the business account.”
“I understand the fifty grand for the sewing machines. I’m not arguing that,” he said. “But I’m not following you on the ventilators. Where’s that money come from?”
I’d advised Pratt that we needed to take the $100,000 in revenue from the sewing machines and purchase N95 masks from a source I’d found in Hawaii. I was then going to donate the masks to the local hospitals.
In addition, mainly because I felt like an inconsiderate prick for profiting on the pandemic, I wanted to donate 6 ventilators to the hospitals. They were going to cost another $100,000 which was coming out of our pockets.
“It comes out of your wallet,” I said. “Look at it as a donation. Doing shit like this is supposed to make people feel good.”
“That’s where I was afraid you were headed,” he muttered. “You’re giving the same $50,000?”
“Actually, I’m giving $57,420, to be exact,” I said. “In addition to my half of the sewing machine money.”
“I’ll give $49,000,” he said, “because you owe me a grand. A bet’s a bet.”
“That’ll work.”
“Good karma brings good karma,” he said. “Maybe I’ll win the lottery.”
“Maybe so,” I said in agreement. “Transfer the money. Ninety-nine k, total.”
“Take me with you when you donate this shit,” he pleaded. “Maybe some smoking hot nurse will give me some pussy in appreciation.”
“If I were you, the last person I’d be fucking right now would be a nurse,” I said. “They’re exposed to this infection all day, every day.”
“They’re not touching it with their twats,” he argued.
“They’re touching it with their hands, and then their wiping their twats after they piss, aren’t they?”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” he grumbled. “I can’t win.”
“Send the money. I need to pay for this stuff before someone else buys it.”
“Will do,” he said.
“Appreciate it, Pratt.”
“Tell Annie I said hi.”
“Anna.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“I’ll let you know when this deal’s secure,” I said.
“Talk to you later.”
I hung up the phone and pushed it onto the island. “I hate talking on the phone with him. He’s impossible to argue with in person.”
Anna peered over the top of her laptop. “How many masks does $100,000 buy?”
“In the middle of this mess? They’re $5.00 each. So, it ought to buy 20,000. On this deal, I talked him into accepting a pre-pandemic price. 80 cents each. Shipping is what’s killing me.”
“Are you friends with any of the people you work with?” she asked.
I wasn’t really friends with anyone, other than Pratt.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Any of the Hollywood types? Are you on a first name basis with any of them?”
“Oh. Sure.”
“A lot of them?”
I shrugged. “On a professional level, I’d say there are quite a few. Why?”
“Do you have an Instagram account?”
I gave her a look of sheer disbelief. “Do I look like I fuck with social media?”
“Well.” She lifted her phone. “I do. And I’ve got several thousand followers on my dealership page. Get one of your Hollywood friends to donate their time or give you a signed movie poster or something or the other, and then use it to sweeten the pot with your supplier. See if he’ll throw in shipping. You can tag the person who makes the donation on my Instagram account when you give the hospital the stuff. We’ll do a fancy picture of you bumping elbows or something within the limits of the social distancing measures.”
It sounded like a hell of an idea. “I like it,” I said. “Let me see who will do what.” I nodded toward her laptop. “How’s the email campaign coming?”
“I’m just getting started.”
Everyone I contacted was supportive of the stay at home order and wanted to do whatever they could to encourage others to follow the state’s guidelines. Their support of first responders, medical workers, and caregivers was profound. After thirty minutes of text messages, I had more donations than I knew what to do with.
I chose two of the more appealing offers and included them as an incentive in my return email to the supplier. A few seconds after clicking the send button, my phone rang. It was my contact with the supplier.
Wearing a smirk, I answered the phone. “Rourke.”