Chatard 6 #3
“Do you think so?” I said hello as he walked past us, and Victoria smiled at him.
Mr. Gowan didn’t seem to notice either of us.
“He’s married, though.” I felt that should have been enough to curb her interest so I wouldn’t also have to add “I think he’s pretty dumb” and “he doesn’t seem to have any skills besides golf and maybe skiing. ”
“Hm,” she said. “Yeah, I remember when he married Celestine Whitaker. I heard that they met at a spa at their college and she got her family to hire him.”
That was what I had already assumed about Mr. Gowan’s position here. “They had a spa at their college? How do you know all this?”
“It was a fancy school, and most people know about the Whitakers,” she told me, shrugging. “I haven’t seen Celestine around for a while, though.”
“They travel a lot,” I said. “They’re always going somewhere.”
But after we said goodbye and I thought about it, I realized that I didn’t know if “they” did anything together.
I had never seen any evidence of Mr. Gowan’s wife—not like she’d have been hanging around our office, but he didn’t have a picture of her on his desk, he didn’t mention her name when he talked about his various trips, and there hadn’t been signs of her habitation in their house, either.
In fact, there weren’t many signs of human habitation there at all, but it seemed unlikely that a woman who had gone to a college with its own spa would have lived in a place with no furniture.
But if Victoria’s story was right, he was a spa person himself who seemed to be weathering it.
I went to my desk and, with an absence of things to do, I looked up Celestine Whitaker and her husband, Beau Gowan, delving much deeper than I had before.
I saw pictures of their wedding in France, which looked incredible.
Was that a castle? No, they called it a chateau.
Mr. Gowan had fifteen groomsmen and Celestine had matching bridesmaids, and I had no idea how they’d managed to accumulate so many beautiful friends.
I imagined myself in one of the matching dresses, carrying a mini-bouquet. How cool.
And as for what she was doing now…I searched but didn’t find too much besides her name listed as “patron” for a few different charities.
One had recently held a luncheon in La Jolla, and I remembered that he’d been there, too, pursuing what he liked to call a “vagabond existence.” There were pictures of that and she looked a little older than in her wedding shots, but still so pretty.
Physically, they matched very well because Victoria was right. Mr. Gowan was good-looking, too.
“Cate? Come,” he called from his office.
Ever since he’d signed my forms for the gym equipment and new refrigerator, my heart had made a guilty little jump when he said my name. I got up and went in to join him. “Can I help you with something?”
He was back to looking through his window and I guessed where his mind was going. “I’m thinking about drapes,” he announced, so I had been correct.
“Are you still thinking that you want to bring the ones from your house? We could hire someone to take them down and reinstall them here, like a professional drape person.” I wasn’t sure if such a person existed but I wanted to be perfectly clear: I would not be the installer myself.
“No, I should leave those where they are.” Then, to my surprise, I heard the name of the woman whose face I’d just been staring at on my computer. “Celestine hired someone to do the house and that woman was good. It was one of her cousins.”
“A Whitaker?” I guessed.
“Yes, but that’s not her name. It’s something about flatulence.”
“What? You mean that her last name has to do with…gas?”
“That’s it, her name is Amy Gas. Find her, and she can do the drapes in here.” He tapped his lip with his index fingers. “She should know what to pick.”
“I’m not sure how it works, but Woodsmen Stadium may follow the same policies as an apartment building. I can’t drastically change things where I rent,” I explained. “My lease forbids it. Would the Woodsmen people care if you made a lot of holes in the walls to hang your drapes?”
“I’ve never dealt with rentals,” he said. “Would they?”
“I could ask before I talk to your wife’s cousin,” I answered.
But I wasn’t entirely happy with this. “I’m not supposed to be your assistant for personal stuff,” I told him.
“My job description didn’t include going to your house or decorating.
I’m happy to help you this time with the drapes, but is there anything else that I could be doing instead?
Any special projects—Woodsmen projects?”
Tap, tap. He seemed to be thinking deeply but I already knew he didn’t do that. “I have a sense that you may be acting frustrated due to something outside of this office,” he told me.
“I’m not frustrated by anything.”
“I feel like external issues are affecting your performance here,” he said, nodding at the back of the fence outside his window.
“Affecting my performance?” I echoed. “No, I don’t agree.”
“I’m picking up on anger,” he continued. “I’m sorry that you’re disappointed with your rental lifestyle, but that shouldn’t come into play in the office. We’re professionals.”
One of us was. I bit my tongue and only nodded, and then I went back to my desk and filled out a purchase request. The Junior Woodsmen needed snow-clearing equipment, and maybe this was a good time to buy that since it was spring.
I might have been able to catch a sale. While I was at it, I filled in one for sideline heaters and another for lockers.
Also, I would tell the drapes installer to drill holes as large as Lake Michigan. “Before you head out for your flight, I’ll have a few forms for you to sign,” I called to Mr. Gowan. Because I was a professional, I would provide the pen.