Elizabeth Bevarly - That Boss Of Mine

When Wheeler looked down again, it was to find Miss Finnegan blushing furiously and shaking a teasing finger—one encased in what appeared to be a Scooby-Doo Band-Aid—at Otis Denby. “Oh, now, Mr. Denby, that’s very sweet of you,” she said. “But I couldn’t possibly come to work for you. My first commitment right now is to Mr. Rush. It’s not the One-Day-at-a-Timers’ way to shirk our responsibilities to our employers.”

Shirk, Wheeler commanded her silently. Please. By all means. Shirk to your heart’s content.

But what he said was, “Mr. Denby, did we have an appointment this morning?”

The other man shook his head. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.” He glanced anxiously at Miss Finnegan, then back at Wheeler. “Can we, uh...can we speak privately, Rush?”

Here it comes, Wheeler thought with another sigh. The big kiss-off. Otis Denby, his last, best client, was about to take a powder. “Is that really necessary, sir?” he asked halfheartedly.

Denby nodded fatalistically. “I’m afraid it is,” he said. “We’re long overdue for this... uh...discussion.”

Wheeler sighed heavily again before nodding, and was about to open his mouth to accept defeat, when Miss Finnegan stepped in to interrupt him.

“Mr. Denby,” she said, “do you by any chance know anything about monopodial orchids?”

As questions went, it wasn’t one Wheeler might have expected from his secretary. Or anyone else on the planet, for that matter. But Denby perked right up at the query.

“Why, yes, I do, Miss Finnegan. As a matter of fact, growing orchids is an absolute passion of mine. That’s amazing that you’d share an interest like that, too.”

She nodded. “Actually, it’s more my mother’s hobby than my own, but I think it’s more common than you realize,” she assured him. Then she hurried on, “Before you talk to Mr. Rush, do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Mom is having such a hard time trying to figure out what she’s doing wrong with her Phalaenopsis.”

Denby nodded sagely. “Oh, those are tricky little bastards, aren’t they?”

“Boy, you said it.”

He launched into what promised to be a very technical discussion about the plant in question, then, almost as an afterthought, turned to Wheeler. “You don’t mind, do you, Rush?” he asked in a voice that pretty much answered his own question in the negative. “This won’t take but a minute.”

Wheeler nodded wearily. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Denby. Just come into my office whenever you and Miss Finnegan are finished. My morning’s pretty much clear.”

Hoo-boy, was that an understatement.

But Denby wasn’t listening to Wheeler, because he had lost himself completely in his conversation with Miss Finnegan. She was pouring him a cup of her infamous coffee—as if Wheeler hadn’t already done enough to terminate his business relationship with Otis Denby—and nodding at something the other man was saying, when Wheeler closed the door behind himself and made his way to the bar stool and drafting table that constituted what was left of his work station.

For some reason, he had the “Death March” stuck in his head, and he just couldn’t shake it. Go figure. That didn’t, however, prevent him from sitting down, making himself comfortable and pretending he had a really good idea as he stared at a blank piece of paper.

Oddly, though, he suddenly did have a really good idea. A remarkably good idea. A startlingly good idea. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more the idea grew. It was revolutionary, truly. The kind of idea he hadn’t had for a very long time. And it would be just perfect for what Otis Denby was looking for in a commercial design. Quickly, before the idea could escape, Wheeler gathered his pens and began to sketch.

What Denby had promised wouldn’t take a minute, in fact, did not take a minute. It took about thirty minutes. But Wheeler scarcely noticed, because he spent the entire length of time sketching madly and enjoying a brainstorm that made Godzilla look like a cute little newt. And when that length of time finally had passed, it wasn’t Denby who entered Wheeler’s office—it was Miss Finnegan. She was humming under her breath an off-key rendition of what sounded like The Flintstones theme song, and carrying two cups of coffee, which, naturally, led Wheeler to believe that one of them was for him.

Damn.

Surprisingly, she only stumbled once as she entered, and even at that, she spilled just a few drops of coffee—merely enough to slightly enlarge two of the half-dozen or so coffee stains that had appeared on his rug over the past week. But he was still preoccupied by the last few drizzlings of his idea, so he barely registered the new stains. When she extended a cup toward him, he noticed that she had an ace bandage wound about her wrist. He was about to ask her what had happened when she spoke up, scattering his thoughts.

“Mr. Denby is a very nice man,” she said.

Wheeler nodded dispassionately, curling his fingers around the coffee cup, which just went to show how suicidal he began to feel at the mention of his former client. “Yep. Denby’s account was the best one I had. I’m hoping maybe this sketch I’m working on now will win him back.”

“Had?” Miss Finnegan echoed. “Win him back? What are you talking about? He’s still your client.”

Wheeler glanced up, surprised. “He is?”

His secretary shrugged. “Sure.”

“Then...why was he here this morning? Other than acting as your orchid mentor, I mean?”

She shrugged, clearly unconcerned by his worry. “He just needed to get a few things straightened out about the new design you’re doing for him, that’s all. Why did you think Mr. Denby wouldn’t be your client anymore?”

He hesitated before answering. Naturally, it hadn’t escaped his notice that Audrey Finnegan wasn’t the most observant human being in the world. But surely even she could see how badly Rush Commercial Designs, Inc. was foundering. He had, after all, pretty much spelled it out for her that first day. And then there was that small matter of him having virtually no furniture, nor any clients. That seemed to him as if it would be kind of a dead giveaway. But then, that was Wheeler. Always assuming the obvious.

“Well,” he began slowly, speaking his thoughts aloud, “there is that small matter of my having lost nearly every other client I have. I shouldn’t think Mr. Denby would be too different in that respect.”

“Oh, that,” Miss Finnegan said as she sipped her coffee. Amazing. She didn’t grimace once. “Mr. Denby is different, actually. And you didn’t need those other clients, anyway.”

Wheeler rather begged to differ, and didn’t hesitate to tell her so. “Oh, I think, Miss Finnegan, that I did need those other clients. Desperately, in fact. I do have bills to pay.” And lots of them, he recalled.

She wrinkled her nose as she shook her head, and Wheeler couldn’t help but think, for some reason, that the gesture was really...very...well, cute came to mind.

“No, you didn’t need them,” she insisted lightly before enjoying—enjoying—another sip of her coffee.

“I didn’t?”

She shook her head again. “Nah. They were alarmists.”

“They were?”

This time she nodded. “Those kinds of people are ready to bail at the slightest sign of adversity. They have no staying power whatsoever. You would have lost them anyway, eventually.”

“I would?”

She offered him an expression that assured him he was dreaming if he thought otherwise. “Oh, yeah. I’ve been going over your files as I’ve been rearranging them, and—”

Wheeler sat up straight at that, eyeing her in a panic. “You...you’ve been rearranging my files?”