Chapter Seven

"Yep," she replied.  "Gone home to Mrs. Tater and the Tots."

"I doubt that.  So where is he?"

"I'm serious," Dena said with a mock affirming gesture.  "He said he'd be home attending to personal business, if anyone needed him.  Do you suppose he's having a fling?"

I closed my eyes and shook my head, but I couldn't keep a cynical grin from my lips.  Picturing Tater in the throes of passion was like imagining your tax man attending to his own deductions.  Not a pretty sight.

"Not likely," I answered Dena.  "Is my appointment here yet?"

"Nope, but I'll buzz you when he shows up."

I settled back for the ordeal ahead.  Wednesday afternoons were a well-established tradition at Potts Labs.  Some past and forgotten buyer and designated that as the day that we accepted appointments from vendors.   More likely, it had been a way of fending off salesmen for the other work days hoping to discourage them, or ensuring a potential lunch invitation at least once a week

I was usually the representative from our section who drew this duty, although due to the deadline prone deadline, I had to deal with visits from suppliers nearly every day.  My afternoon calendar was full.  Dena often plugged in persistent callers for their few minutes on Wednesday afternoons without asking me by simply entering their name and information into my electronic calendar.

I glanced down the list, some names were unfamiliar, but others were old-timers.  Soon, Dena buzzed to let me know my first appointment had arrived. Dutifully I trotted down the hall myself (good exercise) to the glassed-in cage that was the front lobby. It always reminded me of a pet shop full of puppies with eager little noses pressed to the glass as they begged for attention.

Just inside the lobby was a large reception room filled with small tables and chairs where we met with those making initial or follow up calls, and in whom we had little or no interest.  The regular suppliers who performed on-going services met with us in our offices in the back hall areas where we worked.   Some salesmen had called on us for years and had never ventured any further than this reception area.

My first caller was the caterer for the June 21 event.   Mr. Tufts hadn't come highly recommended, but the really top-notch outfits had already been booked up by the time our anniversary project had gotten the go-ahead.   His business was so new that he had few references, but if I've learned one thing on this just, it's that you need to trust your gut feelings.   I gave him the signed contract and arranged a follow up meeting with his new assistant for the following week.  The guy had a good firm handshake, and that was reassuring.  The salesmen with the most whimpy handshakes were always the most trouble.

I returned to my office.  I'd let Dena bring the next one back to me.  Pierson Tolliver was a very talented and creative artist who produced our artwork and had done so for years.  I liked to deal with him on my own turf, and besides, he was so sensitive that he'd be crushed if I treated him like anyone else and met him out front. 

Piers had labored long and hard to convert "Evey" our symbol into the modern updated image.  Countless redo's, caused by changes by brand management offended his sense of the esthetic.  However, his dedication to his pocket book assured that he kept making them.  Suddenly Piers appeared in the doorway.

"Sonja brought me by," he explained.   "I was delivering some artwork to her, and this saved me a trip back to the lobby."

Piers was deathly afraid of traversing the hallways without an escort, because of a security rule that required all company visitors to have one.  So well-known a figure in our offices that some people thought he actually worked for the Company, he still feared some lurking security guard would catch him alone on the way to or from.

Certainly, Piers was not fearful due to any physical frailty. He was not the archetypal artist.  He had the stature of a pro football player.  I always marveled that his enormous fist handled a pencil or paintbrush so delicately.  His hobby was painting birds and flowers for the local college technical field handbooks.   He'd already illustrated several, for which he'd been paid little to nothing.  He took special pride in turning out totally lifelike paintings that were almost startling in their attention to detail.

Everyone he did work for vied for one of his original drawings to hang in their office.  It was quote the snobby thing to have. Tater, of course, had several adorning his walls.  One was of a myrtle plant in full bloom, and the other was of a white-breasted nuthatch on the wing.  I lusted for one for my own wall to compete, but so far, my hints to Piers had gone un-noticed.

Today, Piers was noticeably pouting.  The layout that had been approved by lower level management had been changed as it was inspected by each ascending level.  Piers was delivering the seventh set of drawings, which looked strangely akin to the original ones. 

"I can't understand it, Jayne," he told me.   "What a waste of time and money.  So many worthless changes."

"That's the brand's prerogative," I informed him.  "And, more important, it's their budget."

He shook his head.  "I'll never understand people," he moaned.  "Now you take birds, they are so much more elemental. They do things by instinct and keep everything simple."

"I'll take these to the brand manager and call you later," I interrupted his usual bird v/s man speech and stood up, hoping he'd take the hint.  "Dena," I called.  "Could you show Piers out?"

After Piers left, the parade of vendors continued until it finally wound down.  I was earnestly studying the Spritzie batch record files, when I heard Tater's voice.

His body was hunched inside my door like a middle-aged mutant gnome.  I inwardly shuddered.

"Ah, Jayne, glad I could catch you."

That didn't make two of us.  Either Dena's information was off-base, or Tater had returned unexpectedly.

"I went home to pack," he enlightened me.   "I'm going out of town for a few days.  Little situation in the Atlanta warehouse. I'm sure I can count on you to cover for me at meetings for the rest of the week, can't I?"

I nodded and found my voice.  "Of course."

"Excellent," he replied.  "Dena will have a list of them for you along with my itinerary.  I may be back Friday, or I may just make it a long weekend."

I was overjoyed, but tried not to show it.  Soon after Tater left, I left for the second day in a row, on time.

That evening found me in front of the only form of entertainment in which I can afford the energy to indulge: T.V.  Sonja had been urging me to join her for tennis, but she and the twenty-something set with which she ran had more pep than I'd ever possessed.  I kept insisting that my pleasures were primarily of the mind, but most of the time, evenings found me brain-dead.  I knew that I'd have to re-institute a new exercise program once this anniversary thing was over, but until then, I'd do one-finger exercising on the remote.

Halfway through the latest PBS nature program, my doorbell rang.  I glanced down at what I was wearing.  A Garfield the Cat print sleep-jogging nightgown was probably not proper attire to entertain unexpected guests.   I went to the door and peeped through the spy hole.  To my surprise, I saw Derek on my doorstep clutching a large corrugated box  I opened the door against the chain.

"What on earth are you doing here?" I asked.

"I have to see you, Jayne.  My hands are full.   Can I come in?"

I opened the door and let him inside. 

"Wait here, while I go and get more decent,"   I said and scurried off to my bedroom.  I swept up the chenille robe that my mother had given me for last Christmas.  She bought one each for herself, me, and Lo at a roadside stand on the drive up North from Florida.  A real blast from the past that covered all the necessities, even if it was plug-ugly.  I slipped it on and went back out to Derek.

He looked windblown, his shock of blonde hair askew, and his clothes were more rumpled than usual.  Derek was usually so engrossed in his work, that he seldom took time to even match his socks. He came inside and carefully scanned the room.

"You look like a nervous burglar," I told him. "Here, put the box down and have a seat.  Would you like a soft drink?"

He sat down, still holding the box tightly.   "No, thanks."

We sat for a few seconds in an obvious silence until he finally spoke. "Uh, Jayne, I've brought the plant - the one for your cat."

"Thanks," I replied.  "She just raided the herb shelf earlier in the week."

He removed the lid from the box and scooped a pot from inside.  "Here, this should do it."

I took a sniff as I grasped the pot.  It looked and smelled like regular catnip to me, but maybe Genevra would think differently.

He finally put the box on the floor, and I could see more pots inside.

"I hate to impose on you," he said, "but I may be out of town for a while, and I wondered if you would mind taking care of these for me."

"I'm really sorry to hear what happened..." I began, but he waved my sympathy away.

"It's nothing that I can't handle.  Actually, I'm glad for a little time off to take care of some things.  But I won't be home much, and I'd hate to see these suffer."

"No problem," I replied.  "I'll just add yours to mine.  I just hope Genevra leaves them alone."

"She'll be busy with her own plant," Derek promised.

"You're sure you don't want something to drink?" I asked, but he was already heading for the door.  Reaching it, he suddenly turned around.

"There's a notebook in the bottom of the box with special care instructions for the plants.  And, uh, I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone at work that you saw me, or about the plants."

I knew that Derek was a pretty private person.   "Hey, I know how to keep my lip zipped."  Then I remembered the bottle that I'd tucked in my desk drawer.  "Oh, Derek, I forgot to tell you..."  But he was already out the door, and gone.

Locking up, I watched the big orange butterball amble over to sniff the plants.  But as Derek had predicted, she directed her attention only to the plant he'd brought for her.  I moved it a short distance away from the rest, and she began purring and batting the leaves.

"This is yours, Miss," I told her.   "Leave the rest alone." 

She did not reply, as usual, and I went to bed.

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