cane.
Tracy, the firm’s receptionist, had gone out to dinner with some of the other women in the office, and she’d left a sign on her desk saying
Back At 1830.
It was Thursday—the one night a week they kept evening hours.
As Decker approached the young woman, she was looking at her watch, checking to see what time it was, and apparently didn’t hear him coming.
So he spoke up. “May I help you?”
She turned away without answering, leaning heavily on her cane as she headed for the door.
Okay, so that was odd. “Are you looking for Tracy?” Decker tried. And again, nothing. She didn’t even look up.
In fact, she would’ve just walked out the door, if Dave Malkoff hadn’t picked that exact moment to rush in and nearly knock her over, dumping his Coffee Coolatta down the front of her shirt.
“Shit! Sorry!
Sorry
!” he said, catching her and taking the situation securely from bad to worse, as he attempted to wipe his coffee slushee from her chest. “I didn’t see you there and—”
“Dave,” Decker said sharply.
“Oh! God!” Dave realized what he was doing and went from embarrassed to mortified. “I’m so,
so
sorry…”
She had come to life. “I’m sorry,” she said over him, shaking clumps of frozen coffee from her sneaker, even as she folded one arm across her upper body in self-defense. “My fault. I’m not moving too quickly these days. Do you work here?”
Dave was on the verge of blushing himself into spontaneous combustion. He, too, had been slimed profusely, and he tried to wipe his hands even as he surveyed the damage done not just to the two of them, but also to the floor and even the walls. “I do,” he said, with the additional grimace of a man who knew he was going to be using a mop in the very near future. But then he focused his full attention back on the client. “I’m
really
sorry—”
“It’s all right,” she cut him off. “Do you know where I can find Lawrence Decker?”
And now, as Deck watched, Dave ricocheted into an even weirder dimension, because there Decker was, standing right there, behind her, in the waiting room. Which was where this young woman had come from. He looked at Deck questioningly, even as he answered her. “You haven’t met Decker…?”
He pointed, and she turned, looking at Decker, and Dave kept on talking. “Do you want to get cleaned up? We have a locker room in the back. I’ll scrounge up a T-shirt and maybe some shorts that—”
“I’m Hannah Whitfield.” She spoke right over Dave, holding out her hand to Decker, but then pulling it back as she realized she was sticky. “I’m sorry, is there maybe someplace I can get cleaned up?”
Deck looked over her shoulder at Dave, who’d stopped talking and was looking as perplexed as Deck was feeling. They were both jet-lagged from the flight home from the AmLux job, true, but this was just plain bizarre.
Hannah turned to look at Dave, too. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Were you still speaking?”
And Decker got it. Big eureka. Hannah Whitfield was deaf. She lip-read, but if someone spoke to her when her back was turned—the way he had when he’d first spotted her by the receptionist desk—she would have no clue that he was talking to her. Or that he was even there.
Decker moved to stand next to Dave, because how freaking hard did
that
have to be—standing between the two of them, unsure who was going to speak next, looking back and forth as if she were playing monkey in the middle.
“Thanks,” she said. “Most people don’t…” She was actually embarrassed. And sincerely grateful. “Thanks.”
And now Dave had it figured out, too. “Oh,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m…kind of hearing impaired.”
“We’ve got a locker room in the back,” Decker told her again, and yeah, she was definitely watching his mouth move, which was extremely odd. It gave off a hint of sex, or at least a whiff of potential sexual attraction. Which was doubly strange
Tracy, the firm’s receptionist, had gone out to dinner with some of the other women in the office, and she’d left a sign on her desk saying
Back At 1830.
It was Thursday—the one night a week they kept evening hours.
As Decker approached the young woman, she was looking at her watch, checking to see what time it was, and apparently didn’t hear him coming.
So he spoke up. “May I help you?”
She turned away without answering, leaning heavily on her cane as she headed for the door.
Okay, so that was odd. “Are you looking for Tracy?” Decker tried. And again, nothing. She didn’t even look up.
In fact, she would’ve just walked out the door, if Dave Malkoff hadn’t picked that exact moment to rush in and nearly knock her over, dumping his Coffee Coolatta down the front of her shirt.
“Shit! Sorry!
Sorry
!” he said, catching her and taking the situation securely from bad to worse, as he attempted to wipe his coffee slushee from her chest. “I didn’t see you there and—”
“Dave,” Decker said sharply.
“Oh! God!” Dave realized what he was doing and went from embarrassed to mortified. “I’m so,
so
sorry…”
She had come to life. “I’m sorry,” she said over him, shaking clumps of frozen coffee from her sneaker, even as she folded one arm across her upper body in self-defense. “My fault. I’m not moving too quickly these days. Do you work here?”
Dave was on the verge of blushing himself into spontaneous combustion. He, too, had been slimed profusely, and he tried to wipe his hands even as he surveyed the damage done not just to the two of them, but also to the floor and even the walls. “I do,” he said, with the additional grimace of a man who knew he was going to be using a mop in the very near future. But then he focused his full attention back on the client. “I’m
really
sorry—”
“It’s all right,” she cut him off. “Do you know where I can find Lawrence Decker?”
And now, as Deck watched, Dave ricocheted into an even weirder dimension, because there Decker was, standing right there, behind her, in the waiting room. Which was where this young woman had come from. He looked at Deck questioningly, even as he answered her. “You haven’t met Decker…?”
He pointed, and she turned, looking at Decker, and Dave kept on talking. “Do you want to get cleaned up? We have a locker room in the back. I’ll scrounge up a T-shirt and maybe some shorts that—”
“I’m Hannah Whitfield.” She spoke right over Dave, holding out her hand to Decker, but then pulling it back as she realized she was sticky. “I’m sorry, is there maybe someplace I can get cleaned up?”
Deck looked over her shoulder at Dave, who’d stopped talking and was looking as perplexed as Deck was feeling. They were both jet-lagged from the flight home from the AmLux job, true, but this was just plain bizarre.
Hannah turned to look at Dave, too. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Were you still speaking?”
And Decker got it. Big eureka. Hannah Whitfield was deaf. She lip-read, but if someone spoke to her when her back was turned—the way he had when he’d first spotted her by the receptionist desk—she would have no clue that he was talking to her. Or that he was even there.
Decker moved to stand next to Dave, because how freaking hard did
that
have to be—standing between the two of them, unsure who was going to speak next, looking back and forth as if she were playing monkey in the middle.
“Thanks,” she said. “Most people don’t…” She was actually embarrassed. And sincerely grateful. “Thanks.”
And now Dave had it figured out, too. “Oh,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m…kind of hearing impaired.”
“We’ve got a locker room in the back,” Decker told her again, and yeah, she was definitely watching his mouth move, which was extremely odd. It gave off a hint of sex, or at least a whiff of potential sexual attraction. Which was doubly strange
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