Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Okay, sometimes I was still like that.
But Mr. Gowan…he had been different from the start. He was so…extra. So fabulous, so sparkly, so shiny. Everyone was “dah-ling” and everything was “ah-mazing!” He loved wearing sequins, fringe, silk ties, and all things flashy, but his home-decor aesthetic leaned more toward a classic traditional style with a touch of flair—which just happened to be my specialty.
Mr. Gowan had been a regular customer when Brandon opened the doors of his first store on Melrose. And I soon became his regular style guide. We’d greet each other with air kisses and light flirtation, like:
“Mr. G, you’re positively glowing this morning.”
“Thank you, dah-ling, it’s probably too much face cream, but I’ll take that compliment and oh, honey, that shirt is a marvel on you.”
I’d twirl, thank him, then march over to the newest selection of handmade prints, tablecloths, artisan candles, or whatever I thought might interest him.
And every time he walked into the store, he bought something. On average, he spent three thousand dollars a month on home goods. No kidding. Mr. Gowan was a wealthy retiree who’d made his fortune in aerospace patents and the stock market. He was an avid patron of the arts and gave oodles of money to charities supporting artists, writers, and…LGBTQ homeless shelters. He was a great guy with a big personality, and as far as I knew, he’d been single for ages.
I suspected Mr. Gowan had one great love, but he never talked about him. He preferred to keep things light and simple between us. We’d dissected movies, divas, designers, theater, television, and kitchen trends ad nauseam. Nothing personal…until two years ago when my ex left me, my grandmother died, and Mr. Gowan got sick.
And if I lived to be a hundred, I’d never forget that exchange.
Mr. G had greeted me with his usual fabulous fanfare, complimented my hair, my shirt, my shoes, then narrowed his gaze and demanded to know why my eyes were red. Embarrassingly enough, I’d shed a tear or two. I couldn’t help it. I was a wreck. My beloved abuela had just passed away, and he’d kindly given his deepest sympathy but seemed to guess I had something else on my mind. I didn’t have the energy to deny it, so I told him Tony and I were done-zo, too. He’d handed over a tissue and embraced me like a fierce mama bear.
“Oh, dah-ling. He wasn’t the one. Don’t fret. The right man will come around. You’ll see.”
“When I’m ninety,” I’d bawled, Lucille Ball-style, obviously forgetting I was talking to someone pushing a ripe old age.
Mr. Gowan had snickered as he pushed me away. “Then there’s hope for me yet before I die.”
“You’ve still got years left in you.” I’d sniffled.
“Au contraire! My doctor says one to two years, tops, give or take a month or so. Now…dry those tears and show me the new pillows. I’m thinking of redoing the patio in shades of azure.”
That was how he’d told me he was ill.
In the space where perspective and regard meet compassion, our casual working friendship morphed into something more substantive. It was little things that added up over time. I’d carry his packages to his car, arrange for someone to cover for me, and ask if he had time for tea.
When driving became an issue, I’d pick him up at his Beverly Hills estate and bring him to the store. Sometimes, I helped him run other errands too—trips to the bank, the market, the dry cleaner, the doctor’s office. Eventually, he needed more help than his friends or I could offer, so he’d hired Enid, a nurse who didn’t mind taking on chauffeuring duties too.
Enid was a no-nonsense motherly type who was charmed at first sight by the sweet-talking old man who insisted on powdering his cheeks and wearing his best silk pa-jajas every day. She was firm but respectful. She vigilantly monitored Mr. Gowan’s medication, strolled with him in his garden, and helped host visits with his friends.
She seemed to genuinely enjoy his company. They gossiped about has-been movie stars during Jeopardy commercial breaks while I rearranged pillows and knickknacks, intermittently adding my own two cents.
I usually came by after work once or twice a week and didn’t stay more than an hour. But today…I was here early at Enid’s insistence.
I cocked my head and cast a puzzled look between Mr. G and his caregiver. “What’s happening here? Are you two getting married or something?”
Enid and Mr. G chuckled merrily.
“Poor woman. I wouldn’t subject her to such a fate. No, no…she pulled the wool right over my eyes and invited Hollywood royalty to my humble abode,” Mr. Gowan replied shakily, inclining his chin at the weekly home store booty cluttering the entry. “Are those for me?”
“Yes, but this probably isn’t a good time. I didn’t know this was a special occasion.” I furrowed my brow. “So…who’s coming?”