We have arguments about my closet. Why Paul should care about something he can't even see when the door's closed, I fail to understand. In his closet, the hangers are three inches apart, precisely, like one of those New York
boutiques, where they have one salesclerk for every garment.
I continued to rummage, shoving clothing back and forth, separating empty hangers that clung stubbornly together; they would resume their romantic entanglements down in my laundry room. In the process, I found a jacket I'd forgotten-a perfect match for the slacks I'd recently purchased at Chico's. I located the slacks and draped the jacket over the same hanger, then went prospecting for a lavender blouse I vaguely remembered that might complete the outfit.
Wait a minute! I paused, three hangers and two belts in hand, a pair of shoes tucked under one arm. If I didn't watch it, the situation could escalate into a full-fledged spring cleaning. Focus! Cluttered closets and messy drawers had always been my nemesis, but right then, I reminded myself, Jablonsky was my business, my only business.
I dropped the items I was holding onto a nearby chair, stared into the depths of my closet and got serious. In my previous visit to Jablonsky's office, I had come off as a bit of a dingbat. What would a dingbat wear?
Way in the back, barely illuminated by the overhead bulb, was a small section of closet I laughingly reserved for resort wear. I hauled out a halter-top Hawaiian print sundress I hadn't laid eyes on since 1986 and a hot pink cotton cardigan. I considered them critically. Might do. I had a Wonder Bra somewhere-Jablonsky seemed like the type who'd appreciate the effort-but alas, it wouldn't work with the sundress: my straps would show, and I was well past the age where exposed bra straps could be viewed as a fashion statement.
I had laid my outfit on the bed and was looking around for an appropriate pair of shoes when the telephone on the bedside table rang. It was Daddy, reporting that he'd arrived home safely from Arizona.
"Want to come over for dinner?" I asked. "Paul's still in Newport. I could use the company."
"Are you sure?" he teased. "I'll bring pictures."
"Promise?" I was possibly the only person in the world who actually enjoyed looking at other people's vacation slides. Daddy loved photographing sunsets, but some of his snapshots, I knew, would feature Cornelia Gibbs, the widow who was Daddy's off-and-on traveling companion.
"You and Neelie have a good time?"
"I'll never tell," he crooned, using his Cary Grant voice. That got my attention. Up until now, Neelie had always insisted on separate rooms, or cabins, as the case might be. I found myself wondering if the situation had changed.
I would pull a couple of steaks out of the freezer before I left for Glen Burnie, I decided. Bribe him with a thick, juicy steak and Daddy was putty in my hands. Add square-cut french fries and he'd tell me anything. "I think I'm out of club soda," I added. A recovering alcoholic, my father didn't drink. "Could you stop by Graul's and pick some up?"
"No problem."
"It'll be good to see you," I said. "I have a lot to tell you."
"Me, too," he said cryptically.
I opened my mouth to beg for a hint, but the charming rascal had already hung up.
Still holding the receiver, I plopped down on the bed and considered calling my father back. Then I smiled. Let him keep his secret for a few hours. I had more than enough to worry about that afternoon. I cradled the phone and padded off to take a long, hot shower. I had the feeling I'd need it.
Still smelling like lavender soap, I arrived at MBFSG a few minutes early and rode the elevator to the fourth floor, where Gail greeted me like a long-lost friend. Jablonsky probably paid her extra for that. "He just called," the young woman said, emerging from behind the reception desk. "He's been delayed in traffic, but hopes you won't mind waiting. Coffee?"
"A Coke, if you have one."
“Sure." I followed Gail into a kitchenette, where a coffee machine, microwave oven, and a small refrigerator vied for limited space on a butcher block counter.
She opened the fridge. "Diet?"
I shook my head. "Regular, please."
Gail handed me a Coke and selected a ginger ale for herself. "Let's sit," she said, gesturing with her can toward a small round table.
I sat opposite her in one of two chairs. "Have you worked here long?" I popped the tab on my Coke.
“Two years." She took a sip of her drink, held it in her mouth a moment, then swallowed. "I started out with Gil at Allstate. When he left Allstate to start up MBFSG, he brought me along."
"You like it here?"
She shrugged. "It's okay. What I really love is Annapolis."
"Where do you live, Gail?"
"I lucked out on a house over in Eastport. The couple who owns it? They're sailing around the world. So I'm house-sitting."
"Wow," I said, genuinely impressed. "Rent free?"
She snorted softly. "Practically. I'm getting it dirt cheap because I'm looking after Nitro. That's their cat."
Gail stood, walked to the door and peeked into the reception area, presumably checking to see if her boss had returned. "The money I'm saving, I'm putting in a boat fund," she continued, resting her back against the jamb. "Maybe in a few years-" She shrugged again.
"Have you ever been to the sailboat show?" I asked, referring to the event each October that brought hundreds of sailboats and thousands of sailing enthusiasts to Annapolis Harbor.
Her face lit up. “Tons of times. My boyfriend…" She blushed. "… I guess I should say my ex-boyfriend, used to refer to the show as 'Gail's boat porn.'"
I laughed, as she probably intended me to. But the hurt was still fresh in Gail's eyes. Sad, I thought, when one half of a relationship had a passion for something that the other half didn't share. "I've been," I told her. "All those boats. All that nifty equipment. It blew me away."
We'd been to the boat show more than a dozen times, Paul and I, drooling over sailboats we couldn't afford even if we set up housekeeping in a cave, gave up eating, and saved every penny for a million years. "Maybe if I sell my policy-” I let my voice trail off and I stared into space dreamily.
"Ooops, gotta go." Gail shot out the door. "Gil's coming.”
Thanks to Gail's infallible Gil-dar, she was back behind the reception desk and I was sitting in the waiting room calmly paging through a New Yorker when Gilbert Jablonsky breezed into the office. "Hannah! So sorry I'm late! Thank you for waiting."
"That's okay," I said, pointing at my soft drink can. "Gail took good care of me."
Jablonsky shot an exaggerated wink in his receptionist's direction. "That's my girl!"
When he turned his attention back to me, Gail crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, and I had to bite down hard on my lower lip to keep from laughing. I was beginning to like the woman.
"Thanks for seeing me, Gil." I eased myself out of the chair and gave him my hand.
He clasped mine in both of his and pumped it up and down. "My pleasure. Let's go back to my office, shall we?"
Jablonsky preceded me down the hall, shucking his sport coat as he went. "Hold my calls, please, Gail," he called over his shoulder. When we reached his office, he nodded to the chair I'd previously occupied. "Have a seat."
"So," he continued, once we'd gotten settled. "Have you thought about my offer?"
I nodded. "Yes, but I'm afraid my husband is dead set against it. It's really kind of sweet," I said, leaning forward and resting an elbow on his desk. "When I asked Paul about it, he went all gooey on me, saying I was absolutely not going to die, and we weren't going to sell that policy no matter what. End. Of. Story."