Chapter 3 Hari
HARI
“How many days has it been?”
I counted in my head. Three at least, or was it four? I’d lost track.
The number I’d been trying to get hold of finally allowed me to leave a message, and I left one after another. Jackson was on his way back home, and he’d spoken to me from the airport.
“Boss, I apologize, my memory is a little fuzzy.”
That may have been the fault of the wining and dining he’d done, but he had gotten some impressive leads with a couple of hotel chains. Not that we were in the business of mass production, their queries had been for a few pieces in the equivalent of their presidential suites.
“I’m pretty sure that coffee table is still with us. There was a delay because the customer’s address wasn’t in our files,” Jackson told me as an airport announcement almost drowned out his voice.
I put down the phone and went to the workshop. It was a huge space, and while I had few full-time staff, I did employ part-timers and some on a project-only basis. If the hotel deals came through, I’d be looking to add some of those people on full-time.
There were so many nooks and crannies in the warehouse. As kids, my siblings and cousins used to explore spaces that our grandfather had forgotten about. Draped in cobwebs and dust, we’d imagined sailing the seven seas with pirates or exploring cave systems.
In a corner where I’d thought we’d put wood samples for a project that didn’t eventuate, was a low rectangular shape, covered in a tarp. I flung it off and sneezed as sawdust was flung into the air. Damn, there it was. The coffee table I’d assumed had been left at the customer’s door.
Now it really was our problem because the piece had never left the premises. I’d really have to make it up to the customer when I finally got hold of them.
While trudging back to my office, the phone in my pocket buzzed. I didn’t bother to check the number, but when I answered, the voice on the other end said, “You’ve been trying to get hold of me.”
I froze because the guy didn’t sound annoyed, he wasn’t shouting, and his voice was so melodious I wanted to tape it and listen to it when I was in bed.
“And you are Mr. Radisson?”
“I’m not, though I’m a little sorry I’m not him because I’ve always wanted someone to run after me.”
That sentence floored me, and my feet refused to move. My brain was looping back to the beginning of our short conversation, wondering if I’d missed a clue or a gigantic billboard that read, He’s flirting. Flirt back.
“Oh.” I cursed my one-word answer and wished I could roll back the reel of time and try that again. “Mr. ummm, not-Raddison.”
“Remy.”
“Mr. Remy.”
“No, just Remy.” Now the guy was purring, and I wanted to reach through the phone and stroke him.
“Remy.” Perhaps we’d gotten the wrong name in the computer, as well as forgetting to add the address. “I have to apologize.”
“You’ve been doing that for the past few days. I love a man who can admit when he’s wrong.”
I plonked myself into my office chair so hard that it skidded, and I slammed into the desk. “Owww!”
“What was that? Did you hurt yourself? I’m very good at ministering to the injured.”
If he didn’t shut up, I’d slide off the chair onto the floor and wouldn’t be able to get up. “I’m fine. Nothing broken.”
“Excellent, though I can’t say I’m not disappointed that you don’t need my help.”
The man at the end of the phone was twisting me in knots.
“But I do. I need your address so we can deliver your piece.”
“And that would be a piece of what?”
He was teasing me and he’d gotten me flustered.
“Your coffee table. It’s been sitting in the workshop for days.”
“I’d be more than happy to tell you where I live so you could visit, but I didn’t buy a coffee table.”
“What?” Now I found my voice, and I rolled the chair to the computer. Damn, not only was the number incorrect, but so was everything else.
“I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time, but the coffee table doesn’t belong to me.”
“I must apologize once again for leaving all those messages.” Poor guy, he’d been inundated with me banging on about a coffee table that wasn’t even his.
“But I wish it was mine, Hari.”
It was the first time he’d used my name.
I’d mentioned it in each message, so it wasn’t a secret.
I wanted to hear him say it a hundred different ways.
He could stress the first syllable, or the second, he could make the vowel sound ever so long or clipped.
Remy could say it however he liked and I’d listen.
What did I say to prolong the conversation? Remy wasn’t the customer I’d been searching for, and I should say my goodbyes and get off the phone.
“Perhaps I’ll buy a coffee table from you one day and you can deliver it in person.” He paused and footsteps padded over a wooden floor in the background. “Though I have to admit, I’d never heard of your store until now.”
“We make furniture to order.”
“Ahhh, I’ll have to save up.”
The bell over the door tinkled, and I stuck my head out of the office. Now that was an angry man. His face was red, and he had his arms folded and was tapping his fingers on his upper arm.
“I’m sorry, Remy, but I have to go. I have a customer. Goodbye.”
It wasn’t the farewell I wanted, but I prided myself on our excellent service, apart from the foul-up with the coffee table.
“How can I help you?”
The guy slammed his fist on the credenza we’ve moved in only yesterday. “I paid top dollar to have a piece of furniture made, and I’ve been waiting all week.” He thankfully moved away from the credenza, but his face was no less angry, and that anger was directed right at me.
“Could I have your name, sir?” I didn’t need it because I suspected this was Mr. Radisson.
“Coffee table. That was what I ordered, and I was in your workshop and chose the wood and the finish.” He pointed at me. “But it wasn’t you I dealt with. It was a bald guy. Are you the hired help?”
He was referring to Jackson, and he’d placed the order when I was on vacation. I couldn’t give excuses or push the blame on an employee. That was unprofessional and unforgivable. So I apologized and said the coffee table could be delivered today.
“Did you lose it?”
“Would you like to see it?”
The frustration vanished from his expression and body, and he followed me into the workshop. I rambled on about us making all our furniture here and how my grandfather had started the business. When I reached the covered coffee table, I asked Mr. Radisson if he wanted to do the honors.
He flung off the tarp and ahhed. “Oh, it is beautiful.” He ran his hands over it as most of our customers did when they saw their furniture. But he did something clients rarely did. He sniffed the wood. “I love it.”
“You know I have two side tables that would look perfect beside a couch in a room with the coffee table.”
Mr. Radisson put up his hands. “Your hard sell won’t work on me. Just the coffee table.”
“Gratis, because of the inconvenience.”
I waved to Callum, and he brought out one of the tables. We’d made them for an upmarket boutique which went bust having only paid the deposit.
“Oh. Now that’s an offer I won’t refuse.”
“We will deliver the coffee and side tables today, if you can confirm your address.” I walked a much-less-agitated Mr. Radisson back to my office.
After getting his correct address, phone number, and email, he said he was heading home now.
“The furniture will be there within the hour.”
“You know I’m impressed. When a business makes a mistake, I judge them, not because of the mishap itself but how they handle it. And you earned yourself ten out of ten.”
I gave a slight nod because gushing my appreciation wasn’t the right response.
It might be for some business owners, but I accepted his compliment and didn’t prolong the conversation.
My actions spoke for themselves. Besides, he was done with talking and wanted to get home and enjoy his new furniture.
But as I waved a now-very-satisfied customer out the door, my mind returned to Remy.
I had his phone number, and I could call because our conversation had been cut short.
But we’d said all we had to. How I wished he was in need of custom-built furniture.
I’d deliver it personally and install it.
I’d ramble for hours on how to take care of it.
But it wasn’t to be, and I sighed and walked into my office.