Chapter 3 #2
While the clerical work may be tiresome, the office banter certainly kept business hours from becoming altogether dull. Charles moved to greet Bailey, and a fluffy tail popped up from beneath the man’s desk, wagging just beneath his employer’s chin.
Charles grinned at the black-and-white English springer spaniel, a fixture in the office that never strayed far from Bailey’s lap. “Morning, Maya. How’s the missus today, Bailey?”
At the mention of his wife and childhood sweetheart, the typically no-nonsense Mr. Neal Bailey never failed to beam with nonsensical sentimentality.
Even after fifty-five years, the man was still completely smitten.
Bailey glanced at the gilded frame on his desk, which enshrined a portrait of his beloved.
“Elaine’s good as gold. Why the Lord ever saw fit to let her become this fool’s gold, I’ll never know. ”
A distinctive chuckle resonated from the firm’s most senior partner, Mr. Robert Oscar Westland III, who was often called the Duke by the other Magi due to his grandiose name, and being a third and all. “No doubt that’s a question Elaine asks herself often.”
Charles spun just in time to catch the twinkle shooting across Westland’s blue eyes.
It glinted with a mischievous flash and then was gone, having disappeared into the vast expanse of the octogenarian’s whimsy.
The regular occurrence happened so quickly most people failed to notice and therefore misunderstood the man’s impish humor.
Westland plucked a grape from the cluster nestled in the crystal bowl on his desk.
“How the poor woman must regret turning down my suit and settling for you.”
Charles shook his head. The only thing Westland enjoyed more than teasing was shocking people with outrageous quips.
A snort of retort came from Bailey. “Balderdash, Duke! As though you and my fair Elaine would’ve suited. Besides, Elaine only became acquainted with you through her friendship with Geraldine—whom you’d been married to for ten years, at the time.”
“Ah, there you’re wrong, man. ’Twas ten years, seven months, three weeks, and a day.
Isn’t that right, Gerry dear?” Westland rotated in his spinning chair to address the urn given pride of place on his desk, alongside a porcelain vase of lilies.
After all these years, the widower still purchased a fresh bouquet of Geraldine’s favorite flowers every Monday.
The ritual testified much to Westland’s character, especially given the fact that he’d maintained the practice throughout her lifetime.
With a wrinkled finger, Westland caressed the marble urn.
A pang squeezed the air from Charles’ lungs. How close he’d come to making funeral arrangements for his father. Too close.
“Don’t look so dour, Charlie,” Westland remonstrated as he opened the top left-hand drawer of his desk, designated for storing pastries.
From said drawer, he produced the expected white paper bag.
“Have a blackberry turnover before you get lost in the ledgers, son, and a strong cuppa to wash it down.”
Withdrawing a handkerchief from a pocket, Charles exhaled and accepted the flaky turnover. “Much obliged, Duke. A bracing cup of Assam wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Pot’s already tempered and brewed. Now off with you before you tip over, lad. Get yourself properly caffeinated before the day’s first clients arrive.”
After a trip to the back room, Charles returned with a plated turnover in one hand and a steaming cup in the other.
He lowered into his chair, placing his repast to the right of the neat stack of documents he’d organized before clocking out yesterday.
Putting on his reading spectacles, he set to tackling the day’s tasks.
Supplies, inventoried and ordered. Paperwork, sorted and filed.
Both were clerical basics he’d mastered as a boy at the family law office, thanks to Father, who’d extolled the importance of learning a trade in addition to music.
Accounts, checked and balanced. Schedule, examined and updated.
These were logistical skills he’d honed as a youth during his travels, thanks to Mother, who’d insisted he plan his own tour dates and manage his finances.
Little had he known how invaluable his parents’ foresight would prove.
Without the educational foundation they’d laid, Charles wouldn’t have absorbed the Magi’s training and taken to secretarial work with such ease.
Next on the agenda, correspondence. Securing a stack of envelopes, Charles began sorting the day’s post, only to pause at the sight of his own name where the firm’s should be penned.
Not again. A glance at the return address confirmed the missive was from another firm, this time Clod and Croft.
Dispatching the seal with a letter opener, he found a cordial invitation to join them for a night at the symphony, enclosed with a ticket.
At least Clod and Croft had bothered to conduct a bit of research before attempting to poach his secretarial services.
The other firm’s gifts of cigars and brandy had been far easier to return.
With a sigh, he penned a brief refusal, tucked it in the envelope with the invitation and the ticket, then sealed it with fresh wax before placing it in the pile of mail to be posted.
One of these days the other barristers would realize that nothing would sway his loyalty to the Magi.
Not even tickets to the symphony.
Charles resumed the task of correspondence.
In his periphery, clients came and went, mostly conducting business with Bailey, who handled the firm’s interactions with the living.
Of the three partners, he was by far the most agreeable to the general public, and the frequent appearances of Maya’s wagging tail helped set the grieving at ease as they navigated the difficult decisions to be made before and after a loss.
On the rare occasion when a growl emanated from Maya’s desk-cave, Charles smirked, knowing either a troublesome client was about to be given directions to another firm or a stray cat had dared to saunter past the lone office window.
The workday progressed as it was wont to do.
Uneventfully. Tediously. Lunch was consumed without ceremony and only a modicum of well-meant bickering.
Then Charles resumed his labor, proofreading his way through a stack of will and testaments he’d alphabetized before lunch.
Wise his Magi might be, but horrendous spellers all.
Finishing yet another proofread, he moved the last wishes of one Mr. P.
Mortem from the stack on his left to the stack on his right, which he’d need to type on official Bailey, Barton, and Westland letterhead.
Tomorrow, most likely. For the afternoon light was now lethargically waning through the office window.
Elbows on his desk, Charles indulged a yawn.
“Working too hard again, I see.”
Charles gave a start but then chuckled at the sight of his favorite client. “Why, Mr. Harrison! I didn’t even hear you approach.” He must be more tired than he’d granted. “Shall I fetch you a cup of tea, sir?”
“Only if you’ll fetch one for yourself as well. You look as though you could use a bracing cuppa, my boy.”
Indeed, he could, at that.
By the time Charles returned with the steaming brew, Mr. Harrison had made himself comfortable in the seat across from his desk, one lanky leg crossed over the other.
As the founder of a successful mechanical empire, Mr. Harrison had quite the estate to settle, and he’d chosen the Magi’s firm for the job since they were as renowned for discretion as he was for innovation.
After placing a cup in front of Mr. Harrison, Charles fortified himself with a swig and then adjusted his spectacles. “How can I be of service today, sir? Have you another list of beneficiaries to be included in your will?”
A sheepish grin quirked Mr. Harrison’s face. “That predictable, am I?”
“I’d use the word consistent, but yes, quite.
” The elderly inventor had become a regular in the firm over the last year, popping in every other week with a new list of names he wished to anonymously gift a portion of his fortune upon his death.
Charles opened the bottom right drawer of his desk where the will amendment documents were stored. “Shall I begin drafting the paperwork?”
“Not today, son. But that sort of anticipatory efficiency is one of the many reasons I have stopped by today. The excellence of your work has made quite the impression on me, Mr. Noble. Which is why I’ve come to offer you a position at Alvan T. Harrison, Incorporated.”