Baskets

A small drama played out each morning surrounding who would be responsible for delivering a pot of coffee to Miss Cousins. Custom dictated that The Secretary—who had started to aim an infrequent smile in my direction—owned the privilege of coffee delivery. My arrival created a new social order, however, and it was just too appealing to refrain from having the only male in the office serve coffee. I didn’t care, really, because I had already swallowed my pride and assumed duties for walking the dogs. Oh, I also took them out to piss. {Are you jealous of my glamorous job yet?}

On this particular morning there was a buzz of activity in the office. Miss Cousins had attended a cocktail party the night before at the home of a bigwig property developer and his socially aware wife (aware, that is, that she was not considered socially desirable) but had left early. Ardie Beebe had dropped by to say hello and discuss the event.

“The house looks perfect, with his fingerprints all over it,” said Miss Cousins, motioning with her cig toward the sofa where Ardie lay stretched and laughing. “I didn’t see the refrigerator, obviously,” she said as an aside to The Secretary, “but I can already see the baskets. Part of his shtick is to fill the ‘fridge with baskets; one for condiments; one for deli; one for cocktail nibbles. They love him—all these women—they’ll do anything he says!” Adelaide gave her “Ha!” of a laugh and exhaled dragon plumes of thick, pungent smoke from her nostrils while her audience (including me, balancing a coffee tray) each laughed according to rank. I was guilty of no more than a kind chuckle while Ardie roared and called Miss Cousins a bitch.

“You missed good fun, Adelaide,” said Ardie, repositioning an ashtray on the credenza behind her desk. The office and all of its tasteful décor traced their provenance to Ardie, his discerning eye, and his dangerous charm. Quiet references to “the good life” were his hallmarks. No one item overshadowed another, and his taste—quiet, elegant and expensive—referred to a pedigree of understated class. His grace notes were intelligence—nothing looked more important that Miss Cousins’ own artworks—and an uncanny ability to determine exactly how much money a client would spend before balking at, say, an occasional chair that cost $7,000.00.

“Everyone in town showed up right after you left and Esther achieved a certain minor nirvana; I told her that 5 until 7 is the thing to do. Who knows,” smiled Ardie, “Esther just might take the city by storm.”

Nobody laughed at this last remark. Ardie knew these things.

The second-hand smoke choking the air was heavy—honestly, between Miss Cousins, Ardie Beebe and The Secretary they constituted a health threat in one room—and only barely relieved when Miss Cousins leaned over to slide a window open. The telltale aroma was so obvious that ignoring it was impossible. I later spied The Secretary with a bottle of perfume in her hand, spritzing the office with a delicate mist of floral and citrus.

The essence of a certain perfume was something I would ultimately come to always associate with Miss Cousins. Years later I would search her apartment until I finally located a large bottle of scent, uncapped and left discreetly behind a cabinet. A pretty subterfuge to freshen the air, but all that would be much later. For today the sun was shining in a blue sky with a horizon as open as a heart worn on your sleeve. There was no threat of darkness or scandal, only the promise of good times ahead.

“Stay for lunch, Ardie?” asked Miss Cousins, blowing a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. The ashtray on her desk—shamelessly full—was part of a set. There was another next to Ardie, who took long drags on cigarettes that were replaced from a silver case. He was affected—sure—but he could pull it off. I watched him stir his coffee and determined then and there to emulate some of his smooth mannerisms.

There was a certain charm to this particular twosome; she was taut like a spring where Ardie was laidback and cool like jazz. He was already in his 50s, but it wasn’t hard to see where Ardie had been a looker. He still was, really, with his fine head of silver hair, his too deep tan from a summer at the lake, and his toned body that showed discipline to exercise. His voice was deep but otherwise unremarkable, although his vocabulary was impressive. Big five-dollar words that would make other people sound stuffy sounded perfectly normal coming from Ardie. He was witty—so was Miss Cousins—and they clearly enjoyed verbally sparring with one another; they teased one another, but without malice or desire to wound.

He really hasn’t missed a trick, I thought, as he tapped another cigarette on the case before putting it in his mouth. He reached for the lighter—Miss Cousins had a drawer full of cheap disposable lighters promoting an astonishing array of beer brands, casinos, Chinese restaurants, and trucks—and lit his latest torch while still speaking. With a cigarette glowing from the corner of his mouth he observed me from his perch in front of the desk. His eyes were clear and his gaze was a bit unsettling; why did everyone in this office make me so damn nervous? Ardie stared for a few moments and then turned to say to the boss that he was “only staying for lunch if he could pour the wine” and I was sent trotting up the street to buy four bottles of wine, two crisp fifty-dollar bills from Ardie’s wallet tucked in my front pocket.

Lunch was subsequently delivered (I was fetching wine, remember?) from an Italian restaurant a few blocks down from the office. Individual lunch orders were not taken as lunch was “by invitation” and Miss Cousins was our hostess; good guests ate what was put in front of them. Today I started with a crisp salad followed by a veal limone that was, well, lemony, and two glasses of a solid red wine purchased by me and requested by Ardie. We ate in the boardroom, with dishes, cutlery and glassware (how do you tell if something is real crystal?) from the adjacent kitchen.

Miss Cousins took the head of the table, indicating that Ardie should sit at the other end. I sat across from Jane, who kept Ardie in stitches talking about her recent long weekend in Montreal. Jane looked after Ardie’s books, on permanent retainer, and Ardie kept trying to get her to talk about “her boyfriends” in la belle province.

“You won’t get anything out of her, Ardie, she’s the soul of discretion” said Miss Cousins, with mock solemnity. “She’ll take her secrets to the grave, along with everyone’s dirty financial laundry.”

“Thank God or somebody for that!” said Ardie. “Because I damn well don’t want to have to tangle with Beebe!”

Howls of laughter greeted this comment while I sat in silence, not party to the in-joke.

“Oh, Ardie—sometimes you are just too much. You really are,” said Jane, “what am I going to do with you? Tell me that.”

Reported today from the Studio of Miss Adelaide Cousins.