The last sound to reach his ears as he dropped off to sleep was the hum of the vacuum cleaner competing with the twang of Merle Haggard on the disc player. If any dreams disturbed his much-needed slumber, he had no recollection of them when Fred tapped on his door telling him to rise and shine. Dean staggered to the shower, letting the ice-cold water start his day anew. It was ten past six, according to his bedside clock. He assumed Cynthia Byrne was a few minutes late, but when he descended the stairs, there she sat, opposite Fred O'Connor, who was decked out in an elegant blue pinstripe suit complete with pocket handkerchief and bow tie. Both Fred and Cynthia were smiling, lemonade in hand, like lifelong friends. Dean, his hair still soaking wet, wearing an open-neck polo shirt while carrying his shoes, felt like the village idiot.
Mrs. Byrne was dressed in a black jersey dress with a single strand of pearls around her neck. In spite of little or no makeup, she looked knockout gorgeous. Dean stopped dead in his tracks.
"I'm sorry," he managed to blurt out. "I didn't know you were here." He ran his hand through his hair self-consciously.
"That's all right. I'm in good company. Mr. O'Connor has been the perfect host. We've had a lovely chat." She smiled at Fred, who bowed. Errol Garner was playing in the background. The conniving old son-of-a-bitch had probably told her the soft jazz was his choice and the barnyard music Dean's.
But you had to give him credit. It was inspirational to see Fred O'Connor at work with a lady. He had changed before Dean's eyes to a perfect balance of charm and elegance, guaranteed to have any female eating out of his hand. It was uncanny-must be something in the hormones. The very presence of the opposite sex turned him to a totally different person, a regular lady-killer.
"Mrs. Byrne's son drove her over but the lad had an engagement so I suggested she join us for dinner and allow us to drive her home. I know you want to discuss your trip to Norfolk and I hated to see the poor young man delayed. I made the reservations at Café Richard."
Dean couldn't believe his ears. The old bastard had set the whole thing up! He wasn't dressed like opening night at the opera by accident! It was a damn wonder he hadn't ordered roses! And Café Richard! Common folk never ate there. It would cost the price of a car payment for the early evening special, if the posh place had such a thing!