Declan
Here." My executive assistant, Dave, shoves a perfectly wrapped present at me, with a card and a small envelope. We’re in my office, the sun shining on this beautiful spring day, and I am finishing up work before taking a vacation.
Yes–vacation. It’s for one night, but it counts.
"What's this?"
"Your anniversary gift for Shannon."
The note card is blank.
He notices me noticing this and his face sours, the corners of his mouth dropping in scorn, pulling his beard down so he looks like an angry leprechaun.
"I draw the line at writing sweet nothings to your wife and signing your name, even if my rendition of your signature is far superior to your own,” he says dryly, reaching down to square a pile of papers on my desk.
"My signature is my signature. No one can best it, Dave."
He just snorts.
I shake the box lightly. "What's in here?"
"Leather."
"Leather?"
"Ninth-year anniversary gift. Leather is flexible and represents durability."
“I am well aware of what leather represents. What does it have to do with my marriage?”
He snorts again.
I frown and ask, "Just leather? What is it, a wallet?"
"No! Of course not. The traditional gemstone for ninth anniversaries is lapis. I had a jewelry artist set chunks of lapis in gold, then stitch them onto a leather cuff bracelet." Dave holds his phone up to me, showing a picture of the piece.
"That's incredible."
A short sigh of contentment, then a clipped, "You're welcome" is how Dave takes a compliment. He doesn’t feed off praise.
He feeds off his own hypercompetence. If efficiency were a drug, Dave would be Al Pacino on Scarface, covered in the fine white powder of his own brutal excellence.
"The lighthouse is reserved for the evening?" I inquire, reaching for my briefcase.
"Yes. Your suit's in the car already." Dave eyes me. "Where will you change?"
I'm wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a Lacoste polo shirt, all Shannon’s favorites. The dark green shirt is a nod to my eyes, which she has spent almost a decade raving about.
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