7 - Margaret
The office was, indeed, a disaster zone.
Dog’s gruff dismissal, his limp, and the sheer volume of paper had left her reeling.
But as the echo of his footsteps faded down the hall, Margaret took a deep breath, pushing down the prickle of fear that still lingered from the “background check” comment.
Mabel’s words came back to her: He needs someone to organize the chaos.
And Charles’s cruel sneer: You wouldn’t understand, darling, it’s far too complex.
Well, Charles could go to hell. This chaos was a problem she could solve.
She stepped inside, surveying the scene.
Stacks of vendor catalogs teetered like Jenga towers.
Receipts for what appeared to be industrial-sized bags of nails lay intermingled with invoices for surgical-grade sterilization equipment.
Blueprints for the hydrotherapy pool curled precariously on top of what looked like a personal bank statement.
And underneath it all, partially visible, was a small, crudely drawn caricature of a snarling dog wearing a tiny medical cross on its ear. She almost smiled.
“Right,” she murmured to the empty room, rolling up the sleeves of her cashmere sweater. “Baseline. Inventory. Categorization.”
She started with a stack of loose papers on the edge of the desk, only to discover it wasn’t a stack at all, but a single sheet, folded a hundred times over, tucked around a half-eaten protein bar.
The next “stack” turned out to be a heavy chemistry textbook, its pages dog-eared, with a small, tarnished SEAL challenge coin resting on its cover.
This wasn’t an office; it was an archaeological dig.
Margaret spent the next hour in a meticulous, albeit slow, dance of triage.
She found empty coffee cups filled with forgotten nuts and bolts, a single, mismatched tactical glove, and a surprisingly detailed spreadsheet for organic vegetable farming mixed in with medical supply lists.
It was frustrating, bewildering, and, if she was honest, far more engaging than any gala she’d ever planned.
Every item told a story, hinting at the complex, disparate worlds Dog inhabited.
But the apartment. That was a bigger project. She needed to see the space. She needed dimensions, an understanding of the flow, and most importantly, she needed Dog’s input on how he envisioned his “living quarters.”
Taking another deep breath, Margaret ventured out, following the distant rumble of voices. She found Dog by the back entrance, a group of burly men around him, all clad in work boots and various stages of construction dust. They looked like a particularly intimidating rugby team.
“Dr. Berkshire,” she called, channeling her best I-need-to-interrupt-this-very-important-conversation tone, the one she used to employ on Charles’s overzealous bodyguards.
Dog turned, his expression still gruff, a smear of dirt on his cheek. The men around him glanced at her, then back at him, their expressions a mix of curiosity and something akin to awe.
“Yes, Miss Fletcher?” he grunted.
“I’ve commenced the initial assessment of your office,” she began, standing with the quiet confidence she’d developed over the years.
Her posture was straight and assured, her sleeves brushing lightly against Barkley’s chest as he looked down by just a few inches over her five-foot-eight frame.
Despite the difference, his broad form barely seemed to overshadow her tall, aristocratic bearing, an elegance honed by both upbringing and years of steady resolve.
“It presents, shall we say, unique challenges, but I believe we can establish a functioning system. However, to address the second component of my assignment, your apartment. I require immediate access to the space and your specific furnishing parameters.”
Barkley stared at her. His gaze flickered from her composed face to the raw construction surrounding them and then back again. He let out a sigh that seemed to come from the deepest parts of his exhausted soul.
“Fine,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair. “Follow me.”
He led her through a labyrinth of hallways and up a wide, unfinished staircase.
The door to his apartment was at the very end.
He pushed it open, and Margaret stepped into a vast, echoing cavern.
It ran the entire length and width of the clinic below, divided into three large rooms, a fully plumbed kitchen space with new cabinets but no appliances, and a separate utility closet clearly wired for a washer and dryer.
All the structural work was done, the walls painted a stark, neutral white.
But it was utterly bare. The only “furniture” was a deflated air mattress in the middle of the largest room, surrounded by a scattering of cardboard boxes.
Margaret tried not to gasp. It was worse than she’d imagined, and yet, paradoxically, full of potential. The kind of empty space that swallowed hope, or, if she played her cards right, could blossom into a home.
“So,” Dog said, gesturing around with a sweep of his hand, his voice flat. “This is it. Master bedroom, other master, then what will be a small office. Make it functional. That’s all that matters.”
Margaret swallowed, trying to sound professional. “Functional. Of course. For the master bedroom, what are your preferences? A king-sized bed, surely? Perhaps a comfortable reading nook? A well-appointed dresser, nightstands…”
Dog cut her off with a wave of his hand. “A bed. Just a bed. Anything that isn’t the sands of the desert. Big enough to fit me without folding in half. Doesn’t have to be fancy. No air mattress. No reading nooks. Don’t read in bed. And a place to put clothes. A closet will do.”
Margaret blinked. “But, it is a master bedroom. One would expect it to have some presence. Perhaps a custom headboard? A chaise lounge for quiet reflection?”
Dog frowned and glanced down at the deflated air mattress folded in the corner of the room. He rubbed the back of his neck before looking back up, meeting her eyes with a dry, tired expression.
“Miss Fletcher, I need a place to collapse. I don’t reflect. I sleep. And the guest master needs the same.” He gestured toward the mattress with a slight nod. “A bed. Maybe a nightstand. For my visitors.” His voice was flat, but his gaze lingered just a moment longer on the doorway.
Margaret’s mind reeled. Visitors? Plural?
She steadied herself and pressed on, trying to regain control of the conversation.
“And the kitchen?” She gestured toward the empty, yet inviting space.
“Culinary needs? Do you entertain frequently? Specific appliances? A fully stocked pantry with gourmet staples, perhaps?”
Dog shrugged, then nodded at a half-empty bag of pretzels perched on one of the boxes. “Food. Edible. Coffee. Lots of coffee. Don’t care about gourmet. Just sustenance.” He then pointed toward the utility closet. “And I need a washer and dryer in there.”
Margaret continued her mental checklist, then thought of the stark white floors.
“And the flooring, Doctor? We have a clean slate. Hardwood, perhaps, for a classic, sophisticated feel? Or plush carpeting for warmth and sound dampening?” She pictured herself sweeping across glossy dark wood, then tripping over a loose rug. No, no loose rugs. Too clumsy.
Dog looked at the pristine concrete floor, then at Margaret, his brow furrowed in utter bewilderment. “Flooring? It’s just that, a floor. Whatever’s easiest to clean. I walk on it.”
Margaret stared from the cavernous, empty apartment to the man whose idea of “well-appointed” was a bed, a washer and dryer, and a bag of pretzels.
She saw the deep lines etched around his eyes, the slight slump of his shoulders despite his imposing frame.
He wasn’t being difficult; he was just genuinely oblivious to anything beyond raw utility.
“Right,” she said, pulling a small notebook and a pen from her designer purse.
“Functional. Edible. Sustenance. Laundry. Clean floors. I understand completely.” She scribbled furiously, her internal notes far more elaborate than the sparse words she’d just heard.
This man needs a home. He just doesn’t know how to ask for it.
She looked up at him, a flicker of a genuine smile touching her lips. “Consider it handled, Dr. Berkshire. I will have a proposal for your approval within the week. And I assure you, it will be far more comfortable than an air mattress.”
Dog grunted, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a sleek Platinum VISA. He held it up with a flat expression. “Don’t bother with the details. Just use this.”
Margaret stared at the card, then back at him, blinking in disbelief.
Her fingers hovered just inches from it before she hesitated and stepped back.
The unexpectedness of the gesture left her momentarily off balance.
Why this sudden generosity? Is it trust, or something else?
Her pulse quickened, a mix of uncertainty and reluctant gratitude settling in.
At her hesitation, Dog pushed the card into her hand. “Just take the damn card. There’s no limit.”
The card felt unusually substantial in her palm, as if it carried a tangible symbol of something larger, perhaps responsibility. She wanted to protest, to assert some control, but the firmness in his voice brooked no argument.
He shook his head and turned to head back downstairs.
As he limped away, Margaret stood in the silent apartment, surrounded by echoes.
The task before her was monumental. Furnishing a high-end home for Charles had been about status and appearances.
Furnishing this space for this gruff, exhausted man and his broken friends felt different.
It felt like building a refuge. A home. And for the first time since she’d left Richmond, Margaret felt a thrilling, terrifying sense of purpose that was entirely her own.