Meeting Max

While I waited for the network to return my phone call, I decided to go get comfortable in my upstairs office. I had two offices: the downstairs office where all the work got done and the upstairs office where I would meet with vendors, contractors and other people with whom I did business.

Touring the Offices

The downstairs office—and I use this term very loosely—was an old desk put in the corner of the den by a sliding glass door leading out to the side of the house. (This is the door I walked through on my first day loaded down with drapes.) The desk was solid wood with drawers on either side, and a computer barely newer than the desk. The (previously used) telephone and the address book fought for desk space against a mound of paper that seemed to grow larger every time I looked at it.  The den was also the playroom for the grandkids. Math has never been my strong suit, but I pretty quickly put two and two together and decided that I would spend most of my time in the upstairs office.

The upstairs office was bright, sunny and serene. It was the first room on the right after walking through the front door and it was probably originally the parlor. The desk looked more like a hall table with only a single center drawer. It was placed on the right as you walked in and when I sat at it my back was to a window that faced out of the front of the house. To the left was a small sofa pushed into a niche surrounded by bookcases. I had only been in the room once, briefly, during my interview when I was asked to find a place for a painting. That painting had been propped up on the sofa.

Max

I never made it to the upstairs office. As I was walking through the entry hall towards it the front door opens and in walks Max. I stop. We look at each other. He sticks his hand out and says, “hi, I’m Max.”

I introduce myself.

“My rental car wasn’t ready, so I took a cab from the airport,” he said.

Out of nowhere a maid appeared and took his bag upstairs. He heads for the backyard.

I stand frozen in the entry way because:

1. Max was hot. I mean hot. Like, if I had a type, it was Max in 1998.
2. I had memorized the names of all the kids, the order in which they were born and who their spouses were and there was no Max.

The family resemblance was there, so I decided that I must have forgotten about him. I made a mental note to brush up on the family tree again and I walked outside to see if he needed anything.

Three things happened at this point:

1. Max was now shirtless, sprawled out on a lounge chair sunning.
2. I dissolved from a calm, confident, smart, stylish, capable man into a blubbering, distracted, giggly, smitten thirteen year old unable to form a coherent sentence and probably blushing to the brightest shade of red humanly possible.
3. This little voice in my head said, “you’re standing here taking his drink order. You really want to be the one giving the drink order.”

He, very politely, asked for a bottle of water. As I headed for the kitchen, the phone rings.

Matthew

“Good afternoon, Hickory Hill,” I say.

“Hi! I’m calling for Matthew K.,” the voice on the phone says.

“I’m sorry, we’re not expecting Matthew,” I say. “Can I take a message?”

“Oh?” the now-confused voice says. “Well, this is [blah…blah…blah] from [blah…blah] rental car company. He left this number for us and asked us to call when his car was ready. And his car is ready.”

“Oh,” I say, now equally confused. Maybe Matthew was coming to the house and I hadn’t been told. I mean, it’s his house, he’s welcome here anytime. “Let me take your number. If he shows up I’ll let him know his car is ready.”

“Okay,” the voice says, gives me the number and hangs up.

I go grab the bottle of water from the refrigerator in the kitchen and as I’m walking towards Max it suddenly dawns on me that Matthew is Max’s first name. “Oh crap!” I think to myself. “I just won’t say anything. He’ll never know.”

And then the internal argument begins:

“You can’t not say anything. What if he actually needs the car?”

“He doesn’t need the car. He can drive his mom’s car.”

“But he’s expecting the rental car company to call. What if he calls them and yells at them for not calling?”

“He doesn’t look like a yeller. But if he does call them, they’ll definitely tell him they called and spoke with someone. And I’m the only ‘someone’ who answers the phone. Then he’ll have to hunt you down and, while doing his best not to be disgusted, he’ll have to drag the story out of you. You need to come clean.”

“How am I supposed to come clean? Walk up and say ‘I’m sorry Max, you kind of blew all my sexual circuits and I was busy ogling you laying shirtless in the sun and because of that I completely forgot your first name and told the rental car company you weren’t here.'”

“Yes Brett, something like that.”

Snapping back to reality, I focus on a perplexed Max staring at me standing frozen halfway between him and the kitchen holding his bottle of water. He had to have been thinking “where did mom get this guy??”

Coming Clean (while thinking dirty thoughts)

I close the remaining gap between me and the now-glistening-with-sweat Max and hand him his water.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling.

I stand there long enough for it to become awkward. (Truth be told, I was staring at his chest.) I take a deep breath and let loose the embarrassing truth.

“MaxI’msorrytherentalcarcompanycalledandaskedforMatthewandIdidn’trememberthatyournamewasMatthewandItoldthemyouweren’there…”

He interrupts me, “what?”

I try again. (Still stealing glances of his chest.)

“I told the rental car company you weren’t here. They asked for Matthew and I didn’t make the connection.”

“Oh.”

“Let me call and get this worked out.”

“Uh…okay. Thank you, Brett. It’s Brett, right?”

“Mmmmhmm.”  I start walking with my back facing the house so I can watch him get comfy in his chair again. He glances my direction and I turn on my heel and head into the dining room.

I decided to use my upstairs office to handle the mess that I’d made. I cross through the dining room and as I take my first few steps into the entry hall three sedans pull into the circular driveway, the one in front and the one in back were unmarked police cars with lights on. The one in the middle was a black sedan.

“Who on Earth is this?” I thought.