When in Doubt, Add Butter by Beth Harbison Page A

took the phone out of my purse. It was him, Paul McMann, Mr. Tuesday himself.
    “Hello?”
    “Gemma.” He always sounded so stern when he said my name. It used to give me pause every time. Now I knew it was just his way. Probably the lawyer in him.
    I lowered my voice and imitated his tone. “Yes.”
    He laughed, obviously recognizing the fact that he was being mocked. “Are you at my place?”
    “Yup.”
    “What are you doing?”
    “Just rifling through the drawers and writing rude things on your underwear in Sharpie.” I don’t know what it was about him that made me so obnoxious, but we probably spoke at least every other week, and it always went like this. He was always walking through a noisy office, and half the time I couldn’t hear him.
    “Again?”
    “What can I say? I’m a one-trick pony.”
    “Just make sure you write on the outside this time. I really had to jump through hoops to show it to people last time. I was nearly arrested.”
    “Ahh, good point.”
    “So what are you making this week?”
    “Garlic meat loaf. With a side of garlic mashed potatoes. Garlic green beans. Maybe some garlic gelato for dessert.”
    “Good, you got my note.”
    “Yes, I got your note.”
    “Hey, look, I hate to ask—but maybe you could take a few minutes to make garlic muffins for breakfast?”
    “Consider it done.”
    “All right. Well, here’s the reason I’m calling. I’m expecting some really important papers to be couriered over, and they were supposed to bring them to the office, but there was a snafu and the courier is on his way to the apartment instead. I’m on my way out now and will be home before I get back here, so there’s no point in having him rerouted. Would you mind waiting and signing for them? I’ll pay you for any extra time you have to spend there, obviously.”
    Like I said, I never minded spending time there. “No problem,” I said. “Don’t worry about paying extra for my time. I’m waiting for the meat loaf to cook, anyway.”
    “You’re a doll.”
    I had to smile. “Thanks. The ransom for the papers might be pretty steep, though.”
    “Will a hundred thousand in small, unmarked bills do?”
    This time I laughed. “For now. Where do you want me to leave them?”
    “The desk in the study?”
    “You got it.”
    “Great, thanks. I really do appreciate it. Maybe you could text me when they get there.”
    “Sure thing.”
    “You are the best.” He sounded seriously relieved. “It’s been a crazy week here, I’m glad there’s at least one damn thing I don’t have to worry about.”
    I smiled to myself. This was, after all, what I found most gratifying about this business. As clichéd as it was—and as big a setback for feminist values—I really liked taking care of people and making things easier and nicer for them. I’m not even sure you could call it generosity on my part, since I got such a charge out of being needed and indispensable in some small way now and then.
    To me, this was like having one of the more gratifying parts of a romantic relationship without all the hassle.
    “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s really not a problem.”
    “Now, get back to your garlic extravaganza.”
    “The vampires are cowering in anticipation.”
    “Ah, yes, an added benefit.” He laughed. “I will repel vampires and women.”
    “You’re welcome!”
    We hung up and I went back to work but found myself smiling. He was a pain in the neck in a lot of ways—I mean, seriously, not so much garlic in the garlic chicken next time? He might as well have asked me to make it less “chickeny,” too. But then again, he was the most normal out of all the people I worked for, and there were many weeks where that fact alone saved my sanity. And even when he was being finicky, he was amusing.
    The butter was getting too brown, so I turned the burner down and went back to chopping the vegetables and putting the rest of the ingredients together. It was easy to get