Her Silver Fox

by Koko Brown

  Armed with his personal notes, Patrick spent the rest of the afternoon pouring through the research department’s forty-five page prospectus a second time. Half way through, he gave up. He had no idea why he hadn’t noticed it before but the report was partial to the investee, and painted in a favorable light. The EPA violations were listed, the subsequent clean up and payout. Where were the community endorsements? Their plans to ensure this didn’t happen again in Shenandoah Valley?

  Crippled by his conscience and his inherent need to close a deal, Patrick decided to call it a night. He shrugged into his jacket and grabbed his keys. At this late hour, he was probably the only one left in the building. As he skirted his desk, he took note of the blazing embers of the setting sun slipping into the Hudson River. He lingered a little too long because his gaze, despite his best efforts, sought the Haufman Factory.

  “Good night and sweet dreams,” he whispered.

  Making tracks for the elevator, he passed by vacant offices. Out of one of them walked the janitor carrying a garbage can.

  “Have a good night.”

  Startled, the man stopped mid-dump. “You too, sir.”

  Struck by guilt brought on by the other man’s incredulous expression, he was probably the first person in the entire office to acknowledge his existence, Patrick lingered.

  “How long have you been cleaning this floor?”

  “We’ve had the contract about ten years.”

  Patrick frowned. And this was the first time he’d noticed him?

  Self-centered prick.

  “Is this your only contract?”

  “My brother and I do the entire building.”

  Patrick’s eyebrows shot skyward. “All sixty-five floors?”

  The man smiled. “Monday through Friday, rain or shine.”

  “How long does it take you?”

  “We work from seven to seven with an hour break.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be,” he waved his hand. “My brother and I have it down to a science, plus it helps to have a secret weapon.”

  “I bet.” Suddenly forgetting his manners, Patrick held out his hand. “I’m Patrick Kelly.”

  The other man removed his disposable gloves and dropped them in the trash. “Baresh Patel. Nice to meet you.”

  Curious, Patrick lingered a little longer. “What’s this secret weapon you and your brother use?”

  Nelson rummaged into a bag on his housekeeping cart. “It’s an all-purpose cleaning cloth. Cuts down on other cleaning products, and get this, it lasts a couple of weeks. Even better, it doesn’t hurt the environment.”

  Wheels spinning in his head, Patrick rocked back and forth on his heels. “Ever thought about patenting it?”

  “We’ve had one for two years. My wife’s a legal assistant. Her boss helped her draft the paperwork. Now we’re trying to raise the capital. Sort of hard with seven kids between us. My brother Raj says we should go on that show about the sharks. Ever heard of it?”

  “Can’t say I have.” Patrick didn’t waste what precious little free time he had on TV.

  Baresh’s face lit up. “Essentially people pitch their business ideas to a group of millionaires who decide whether or not to finance their dream.”

  “Ingenious,” Patrick admitted.

  “I know, right?” Smiling, Baresh held up his hands to enunciate his point.

  “I’m going to let you get back to work. I don’t want to disrupt your system.”

  “No worries. It was nice talking to you. Have a good night.”

  Being cognizant of others was proving infectious. Before he got out of the building, he debated the Red Sox’ chances with the on-duty security guard, ironically also a Southie, and learned of the new parking garage going up on Canal from the parking attendant. By the time he walked into his apartment, he realized something was changing.

  Changing for the better.

  Changing because of Shoshana Haufman.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Shoshana blinked up at the ceiling. She’d dreamed about Patrick Kelly of all people. They’d stumbled across each other at a Farmer’s Market in Central Park. Talk of the ripeness in this season’s blueberries led to coffee, followed by a hot session in the back of a cab. Reminded of the climax he’d given her, Shoshana felt her nipples pucker.

  She lay there a few moments longer willing the return of sandman.

  She failed.

  She had too many responsibilities. Giving up, Shoshana flung her legs over the side of the bed. Arms overhead, mid-yawn, she paused. She’d slept the entire night, not waking once. Something wasn’t right. Her restful night had nothing to do with wet dreams of Patrick Kelly. More and more frequently her father had taken to waking up in the middle of the night. During the wee hours of the morning, he crashed through the apartment like a bull in a china shop. Not last night.

  Alarmed, Shoshana padded around the bed then cut through the jack-n-jill bathroom separating their bedrooms. Dark and cool, the apartment’s master bedroom was deathly silent. Eyes drawn to the bed, she searched the covers. Relieved by the familiar lump, she ambled over to the window and drew back the privacy curtains.

  “Time to get up.” She needed to get them both dressed and fix breakfast before clocking in. If she didn’t, he’d end up sitting around hungry in dirty pajamas.

  Not getting a response, she walked over to the bed. As she stared down at him, she wondered at the unfairness of life. Why did this once vibrant man have his life taken away from him so soon?

  “Dad,” she repeated, reaching out and feathering the springy curls covering his head. He could go a couple more weeks before she pulled out the scissors. In all honesty, she’d hold out as long as she could. During one of his episodes, cutting his hair could be a nightmare.

  “I’m up…I’m up,” he groused, swatting her hand away. Eyelids fluttering, her father rolled onto his back.

  Shoshana’s smile widened. She looked in his hazel eyes and he gazed back at her with a clarity that was becoming too infrequent.

  “What do you want to eat?”

  He drummed his fingers on the coverlet. “I’d love a strong cup of coffee and some pancakes with boysenberry syrup.”

  Shoshanna sat up straighter. She hadn’t prepared his favorite meal for breakfast in months.

  “Two eggs over easy or turkey bacon?” she asked a lump in her throat.

  “How about both, baby girl?” Her father sat up. “I’m feeling sort of hungry this morning.”

  He should be starving. Not liking the matzo soup she’d picked up from the deli for dinner because he’d forgotten he’d ordered it, he refused to eat. And by the time the barbequed short ribs had been delivered by the Korean barbeque up the street, he’d fallen asleep.

  “Go wash up and I’ll jump on it.” Shoshana stood so he could get out of bed.

  On the way to the bathroom, he scratched his butt. “Morning papers arrive?”

  Every morning, someone from the factory walked the morning papers up and slid them under the door. Unlike the rest of his life, the paper remained a constant something he’d looked forward to.

  “I’ll put them in your chair.”

  “Let me wash up and I’ll be right out.” He closed the bathroom door behind him. Shoshana hesitated. For some reason, she wanted to just bask in the moment where she was daddy’s little girl. And he was her protector. He was the one who made her pancakes. Walked her to school. Combed her unruly hair. Wiped her tears when her junior high school crush was mean to her.

  Shoshana didn’t know how long she sat there but she eventually put one foot in front of the other. True to her word, she made a slight detour and picked up the New York Daily News and the New York Times. Resisting the urge to read beyond the headlines, she dropped them on his throne.

  In the kitchen, she moved on autopilot. She poured her miniature schnauzer, Gryff, his breakfast then made sure he had fresh water. While he scarfed down his food, she pulled out the griddle
and all the things her father liked for breakfast. She opted to fix double of everything. Normally not a breakfast person, she decided to eat more than a cup of black coffee.

  “Want to catch the game tonight?”

  Shoshana looked up from the griddle. Her father had been perusing the box scores. A Mets fan, he’d been a season ticket holder before she was born.

  “Is it an afternoon or evening game?”

  “Starts at 6:50.”

  Shoshana made a face. “That’s a hard one, Daddy. You know how things get in the factory. Plus, I’m overseeing a new commission.”

  He turned his attention back to the box scores. “I just hate to see my tickets go to waste. And since you won’t let me go by myself…”

  “You don’t have season tickets anymore, Daddy.” Bracing herself, she turned back to the bacon.

  The newspaper crumpled in his lap. “Did you forget to pay the bill?”

  “I canceled them last season. Remember. You were okay with it because you didn’t like going anymore.”

  “Why’d they have to go and build that new stadium,” he grumbled. “In the old one, I could find my seat with my eyes closed.” He returned to his box scores, but not before she’d noticed his stricken expression. The very same look he had when she’d collected him from the stadium’s police station. He’d gotten lost and took his frustration out on a hot dog vendor.

  Shoshana rearranged her calendar in her head. She could move around a few people, delay an appointment with a new fabric vendor.

  “I’ll have Tyson wrangle up a couple of tickets.”

  “Only if you really want to go, baby girl.”

  Even if she had to rework her entire schedule, she’d do it. Enjoying a day with her father, not the hollow shell he was slowly becoming, would be a win-win for both of them.

  After breakfast, Shoshana showered and dressed for work. On the way out of the door, Mets jersey’s in tow, she pecked her father on the cheek and nuzzled Gryff’s ear. Once downstairs, she headed to the tea room. The room served as both a consultation area and her office. And every morning, she met Tyson to go over the day’s schedule.

  “So, tell me all about yesterday,” he said the minute she sat down.

  “Yesterday was a complete clusterfuck. Those wonder twins of evil better not show their faces at the Winter Threads Expo. Still can’t believe they bamboozled me.”

  Tyson waved his hands wildly. “You know I’m not talking about those clowns. I’m talking about the Silver Fox.”

  “Silver fox?”

  “Patrick Kelly. You know, the hottie with the silver hair.”

  Shoshana stared dreamily into space. “Mr. Kelly is perfect.”

  Tyson squealed, fanning himself with his notepad. “My ovaries exploded when he walked into the showroom. I knew he’d be perfect for you. So, tell me everything.”

  Shoshana chuckled. Her ovaries might have exploded more than once yesterday.

  “Besides being sexy he has this…this…”

  “Je ne c’est quoi?” Tyson propped his chin on his fist. The blue eyes behind his Prada spectacles bored into her.

  “You love being fancy.”

  “You know it,” he agreed. “So, did he flirt with you? And did you reciprocate?”

  “We had an exchange,” Shoshana hedged. She and Tyson had a relationship she didn’t enjoy with her other employees. Of course, she didn’t tell him everything. After all, she was still his boss.

  “I was so hoping there would be a spark between you two. That’s why I made up that cockamamie story about the Cambridge sample.”

  Shoshana’s eyes widened. “All that was a ruse?”

  “Come on. When have we ever lost a sample book?”

  “I wondered about that.”

  “I’m not fired, am I?”

  “I considered it but he loved the royal blue.”

  Eyes twinkling, Tyson turned his shoulder toward her. “Go ahead, pat my back,” he drawled.

  She shoved him instead. “Did you pass his measurements to Flo?”

  “Yesterday. Said she’ll work on drafting the pattern today. I didn’t see any shirts on the order.” Tyson looked at her slyly. “Was it intentional?”

  “No,” she groaned. “Dad walked in and I completely forgot about it.”

  “Ouch. I remember that. I tried to keep him out.”

  “And I appreciate it but he can be more than a handful.”

  “I know this isn’t my place but have you thought about getting him an assistant? You know, one of those granny nannies.”

  Shoshana stiffened. She hated anyone calling into question her ability to handle what she firmly had in control. “He’s not that far gone yet,” she asserted. “But when the time comes, and he becomes too much to handle, I’ll consider it.”

  Tyson sipped at his tea. “I just worry about you. With him and juggling this business, I’m surprised you haven’t had a meltdown.”

  “I’m penciling one in around the holidays,” she joked. It was the busiest time of the year. Commissions leveled off, but production of their custom dress shirts and accessories flew out the door.

  “Speaking of penciling in,” Tyson pulled up her calendar on his cell. “I can wedge Mr. Kelly in between your one and three o’clock appointments.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. He can look over the shirts when he comes in for his first fitting.” She pushed the fan jerseys toward him. “There’s no way I can fit him in anyway. Dad and I are going to catch the game.”

  “I guess this means you want me to have these pressed?”

  “And I need you to look online for tickets. Near the baseline, please.”

  “Why do you doubt my abilities?” he sniffed, draping the jerseys over the back of his chair. “And what about Mr. Kelly?”

  Playing coy, Shoshana sipped at her tea.

  “What about him?”

  “Are you going to give the Silver Fox a chance?”

  “We’ll see.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Where’s your mind at, baby girl?”

  Shoshana blinked at the hand shaking her shoulder. Her gaze slowly focused on the wrinkles lacing the brown skin. Her eyes lifted to her father’s smiling face.

  “I–ah…I…was just…” Shoshana glanced at the baseball diamond. “I was just wondering why Carlos Santiago hasn’t earned a golden glove,” she lied, hating to admit that despite being in his company, sitting in a stadium with more than fifty thousand people watching her favorite baseball team, she couldn’t keep her mind off Patrick Kelly.

  Damn Tyson for putting it in her head! Ever since their conversation, she’d started considering the idea of having her own Silver Fox. And despite the many cons, the pros were beginning to outweigh them.

  “Baby girl?”

  Shoshana blinked up at her father. “Where are you going?” she asked, only now noticing he was standing. Patrick Kelly had her so turned around, she didn’t know up from down.

  Her father pointed at the scoreboard. “Bottom of the sixth.”

  In order to beat the rush, her father always took a bathroom break before the seventh inning stretch.

  Shoshana set her Shandy aside. “I’ll come wi—”

  “I’m a grown man.” Indignant, he waved her back in her seat. “I’ve been going to the bathroom on my own for quite some time.”

  “I know but what if you…” Not wanting to set him off, Shoshana allowed the words to fall between them.

  “Get lost?”

  She nodded. They’d danced around his waning memory for months now. Still she put a spin on it, “These aren’t your regular seat—”

  “—Bathrooms are at the top of the stairs. I scouted them out before we sat down. I’ll be back in a shake of a leg.”

  Despite her better judgement, Shoshana watched him edge his way down the aisle. She continued to watch him ascend the stars then disappear onto the promenade.

  “It’s going to be fine,” she whispered, attempting to bolste
r her waning confidence. The bathrooms were less than a hundred yards away. Her father couldn’t get lost, right? Hands shaking, she picked up her orange shandy, downing it in one gulp.

  Mind occupied, she barely noticed when the game suddenly stopped and everyone stood. Only the rousing chords of Take Me Out to the Ballgame stirred her from her seat. She flipped her wrist. Her father had been gone less than twenty minutes. Of course, Isaac “Ike” Haufman didn’t dawdle. Inborn with a slavish regard for the time and deadlines, not even his diminishing ability to recall the simplest things had divested him of this trait. Deliberating her next move, she slid to the edge of her seat. Out of self-preservation, rather than respect, she decided to give him a few more minutes.

  To ease her frayed nerves, Shoshana came to her feet and joined the crowd in singing Lazy Mary. Flying on automatic, she clapped to the beat and mouthed the Italian lyrics her father taught her. She even smiled at the two shirtless drunks dancing two rows down. But as soon as the music ended, she excused and pardoned her way to the end of the aisle then took the stadium stairs two at a time.

  At the top of the landing, she gathered her bearings. The only one standing still in a sea of orange and blue—with an occasional Toronto Blue thrown in—she scanned the concession lines. Coming up empty, her gaze swung to the men’s restroom. A line two dozen or so deep stretched from the entrance.

  Chalking up his absence to the crowd, after all, every die-hard baseball fan knew the best time to grab food or take a bathroom break was during the fourth and sixth innings, Shoshanna allowed herself to be sidetracked by a nearby roasted nut stand. The heavenly scent of sweet brown sugar and pecans had her name all over it the minute she stepped onto the landing.

  “I’ll take two, please,” she said, reaching in her jean pocket for a ten dollar bill. Her father loved the roasted pecans as much as she did, add her current stress level, she wasn’t willing to share.