“Thanks,” the petite, silver-haired woman with the odd name answered. She pointed one lovely, manicured nail to the list of phone numbers below the edge of the countertop. “Dial nine to get an outside line, then call the Soup Bowl over on Prince Street. Number’s right there. Here’s the order.” She handed Ashley an eight-by-eleven sheet of ruled paper with a couple dozen sub-sandwiches, chips, and soup orders listed. “Include something for yourself. Tripp usually gets a twelve-inch steak and swiss, salt and pepper with oil and vinegar. No tomatoes. Extra onions. If Harvey answers, tell him he still owes me a gallon of chicken noodle soup.”
Ashley nodded as the phone rang in her ear. It took a few minutes to order, then to verify the lengthy list, but Harvey was a kick to work with. He seemed to already know the list by heart, and ended with a sassy, “Thank you, thank you! You tell that sweetheart, Mother, I’ll send her two gallons of soup. One frozen for later, one piping hot for tonight. Tell her she still owes me a dance and a kiss!”
Ashley glanced sideways at the taciturn woman at her side. She danced? “Sure, I’ll tell her. When will everything be ready for me to pick up?”
He all but squealed, “You must be new! I always deliver to my best customers. Give me forty-five minutes. I’ll hurry. Tell Mother that, would you?”
Ashley passed the message along. “Harvey says everything will be here in forty-five minutes, and he’ll hurry.”
“Tell him it’s about time. I’m tired of him being late.”
Which Harvey overheard, judging by the delighted laugh at his end. “One lightning quick order, coming right up!” he declared as he disconnected the call.
“That man,” Mother huffed. “Just like every other. All talk, no action.”
Ashley wasn’t sure what to do with that comment, so she placed the phone back into its charger and took a moment to absorb her new surroundings. The customer service desk seemed to be the central hub in this wide-open bay, dissected by three-foot walls and desktops of granite with polished steel accents. Each cubicle held one high-back leather office chair, two smaller wooden chairs, a credenza that ran the length opposite the doorway, and file cabinets. There were no walls for hanging pictures, but most desktops were cluttered with framed photos and personal items.
“He also said you owe him a kiss and a dance.”
Mother clucked. “What I owe him is a foot up his ass. But just like every other man in my life, he doesn’t use those two things flapping on the sides of his head. Don’t know why the Lord wasted time putting ears on men. They don’t use them. Name me a single guy who ever really listened to you. Humph.”
Tripp came to mind, but Ashley opted for silent observation instead of active participation. Mother was as prickly as a porcupine.
“Men don’t have any idea what we women go through for them. Take my boss, for instance. I’ve served, damn it, maybe not in the military, but I’ve worked as hard and as much as anyone on this TEAM. I’ve given my heart to these people. All of them! But what do I get in return? Nothing but more work and… and…” She turned away, but Ashley caught the covert index finger swipe under her nose. “He won’t even consider my suggestions. Dumb ass thinks he knows everything. Never mind. Not your concern.”
“This is a big office,” Ashley replied thoughtfully, not sure what else to say. “I work for the city. We don’t have anything as nice as this.”
“And that’s another thing. Alex is a good businessman, but foremost, he’s a hard charging Marine. He wants to be out in the field, working with his men and women, not holed up here in meetings all day, or over on Capitol Hill, negotiating with senators and White House staff. I could do all that for him, and I’d be glad to, only… Sheesh. Why am I telling you?”
“Because you need someone impartial to talk to,” Ashley said, as she leaned closer into this obviously upset woman. Working alongside Health and Human Services professionals, currently with Doctor Frankel, who oversaw the testing and treatment of STDs, including AIDS patients, she’d had some experience with distraught mothers and fathers.
Mother’s eyes shot bright-blue daggers at her. “I hate when he calls me Mom,” she hissed. “He thinks he’s being clever, but he’s not, and it… it…” There went that slender finger again, as her other hand delved into a nearby box of tissues and pulled several out. “Men!” she huffed.
“It hurts when we think no one understands us,” Ashley sympathized, though she still wasn’t sure why Mother found that nickname offensive. It wasn’t much different than what everyone called her now. When Jameson said it, it sounded like an endearment, not a sting. “That was Jameson, right?”
“Yes, that’s him, and I know he’s not trying to be an ass, but…” She blew out another hiss. “He is. They all are.”
Ashley found herself cocking her head the same way the agent in question had done moments earlier. Maybe that’s what was going on. He already knew what Ashley now suspected, but didn’t dare say. The word Mom was a trigger, yet he kept pulling it. Why? The only answer Ashley could come up with was that Jameson recognized the pent-up anger boiling behind Mother’s temper. Was he purposefully goading her? Did he understand how close she was to the edge? More importantly, would he know what to do with her when she fell apart?
“I have PTSD.” That was the last thing Ashley expected to confess when she’d tagged along with Tripp. Yet here she was, playing counselor to his emotionally distraught secretary. Giving it her best shot.
Mother hmphed. “Join the club. Everyone around here does. Even Alex. Damn him.”
“Even you,” Ashley dared breathe.
“Me? No, I most certainly do not, and don’t you start on me. That’s the
