Big, capable man though he was, he still struggled with his body image. He might be a bulldog walking into a boardroom filled with millionaire investors, but inside, he was a giant marshmallow.
She loved him for this paradox. It made him real. Human.
Cupping her chin, he tilted her face upward and kissed her.
“Hey, ever done it in a change room?” he stage-whispered.
A zingy reply was on the tip of her tongue, but a discreet cough interrupted her thoughts. They pulled apart to see Pietro standing in the corner of the change area looking completely uncomfortable. Morris’s face flushed a deep red, and Sheila put a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother you beautiful couple, but my shift end in five minute. You want I fix something or is everything okay?” The tailor fidgeted, tape measure in hand, ready to act quickly at the slightest indication of dissatisfaction.
Sheila glanced at Morris. He was still flushed. “The tuxedo is wonderful, Pietro. Perfect the way it is.”
The little man beamed. “Excellent. That make me veryhappy. You need handkerchief? Cuff links? You want I fit you for cummerbund?”
Morris frowned slightly, touching the French cuffs of the shirt he was wearing. “I don’t think so, my friend. I’m kind of partial to the James Bond look, no cummerbund, no vest. But I’ll come back if I change my mind.”
Pietro’s smile grew wider. “Okay. I give final price to cashier. Thank you for your business, and, please, you tell everyone who needs good suit that your friend Pietro is the best.”
Sheila thanked him. Morris was still fingering the empty holes at the end of his sleeves where his cuff links should go.
“You didn’t bring any with you?” Sheila pointed to the naked French cuffs. “You must have a dozen.”
“Yeah, but there’s only one pair I would’ve worn for the wedding.” Morris’s face was glum. “I lost one of the cuff links Randall gave me. I looked everywhere—I don’t know what the hell happened. I know I had them on last week. I would’ve worn them for the Okinawa conference call this morning, but I could only find one.”
Morris always wore his monogrammed platinum cuff links when he was working on a particularly difficult business transaction. They’d been a Christmas gift from all three of his sons, back when he was still drinking and married to their mother. The cuff links were special. Shortly after that Christmas, Lenore had filed for divorce and his oldest son, Randall, had stopped speaking to him.
That had been over five years ago.
“I’m sure it’s somewhere at your house.” Sheila squeezed his arm. “It probably rolled under the bed or behind the bureau or something. I’ll help you look tonight.”
She shooed him back into the changing room to undress.When he pulled the curtain closed, she dug into her purse and fished out her BlackBerry.
No new e-mails. Damn. Nothing from Randall.
She’d been trying to get hold of Morris’s estranged son for weeks. But he hadn’t lived in the United States for years and wasn’t an easy man to track down. Randall Gardener’s work with Amnesty International had taken him to seven different countries in the past decade, and while Amnesty kept solid records of where their people were at all times, they were stingy about giving out that information. Sheila had been forced to get creative, sneaking into Morris’s address book to contact his other two sons—Stephen, a high school football coach in Orlando, and Phillip, a grad student in San Francisco—to see if maybe they could help. Neither brother had heard from Randall in months.
Frustrated, Sheila stuck her phone back in her purse. While she was fine spending her Sunday helping Morris search for his missing cuff link, the best wedding present she could give him was Randall. The wedding was four weeks away and she was running out of time—and ideas. The thought of speaking to Lenore, Randall’s mother and
She loved him for this paradox. It made him real. Human.
Cupping her chin, he tilted her face upward and kissed her.
“Hey, ever done it in a change room?” he stage-whispered.
A zingy reply was on the tip of her tongue, but a discreet cough interrupted her thoughts. They pulled apart to see Pietro standing in the corner of the change area looking completely uncomfortable. Morris’s face flushed a deep red, and Sheila put a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.
“Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother you beautiful couple, but my shift end in five minute. You want I fix something or is everything okay?” The tailor fidgeted, tape measure in hand, ready to act quickly at the slightest indication of dissatisfaction.
Sheila glanced at Morris. He was still flushed. “The tuxedo is wonderful, Pietro. Perfect the way it is.”
The little man beamed. “Excellent. That make me veryhappy. You need handkerchief? Cuff links? You want I fit you for cummerbund?”
Morris frowned slightly, touching the French cuffs of the shirt he was wearing. “I don’t think so, my friend. I’m kind of partial to the James Bond look, no cummerbund, no vest. But I’ll come back if I change my mind.”
Pietro’s smile grew wider. “Okay. I give final price to cashier. Thank you for your business, and, please, you tell everyone who needs good suit that your friend Pietro is the best.”
Sheila thanked him. Morris was still fingering the empty holes at the end of his sleeves where his cuff links should go.
“You didn’t bring any with you?” Sheila pointed to the naked French cuffs. “You must have a dozen.”
“Yeah, but there’s only one pair I would’ve worn for the wedding.” Morris’s face was glum. “I lost one of the cuff links Randall gave me. I looked everywhere—I don’t know what the hell happened. I know I had them on last week. I would’ve worn them for the Okinawa conference call this morning, but I could only find one.”
Morris always wore his monogrammed platinum cuff links when he was working on a particularly difficult business transaction. They’d been a Christmas gift from all three of his sons, back when he was still drinking and married to their mother. The cuff links were special. Shortly after that Christmas, Lenore had filed for divorce and his oldest son, Randall, had stopped speaking to him.
That had been over five years ago.
“I’m sure it’s somewhere at your house.” Sheila squeezed his arm. “It probably rolled under the bed or behind the bureau or something. I’ll help you look tonight.”
She shooed him back into the changing room to undress.When he pulled the curtain closed, she dug into her purse and fished out her BlackBerry.
No new e-mails. Damn. Nothing from Randall.
She’d been trying to get hold of Morris’s estranged son for weeks. But he hadn’t lived in the United States for years and wasn’t an easy man to track down. Randall Gardener’s work with Amnesty International had taken him to seven different countries in the past decade, and while Amnesty kept solid records of where their people were at all times, they were stingy about giving out that information. Sheila had been forced to get creative, sneaking into Morris’s address book to contact his other two sons—Stephen, a high school football coach in Orlando, and Phillip, a grad student in San Francisco—to see if maybe they could help. Neither brother had heard from Randall in months.
Frustrated, Sheila stuck her phone back in her purse. While she was fine spending her Sunday helping Morris search for his missing cuff link, the best wedding present she could give him was Randall. The wedding was four weeks away and she was running out of time—and ideas. The thought of speaking to Lenore, Randall’s mother and
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