partner and friend.
“Monte, my man, what’s cooking?” Brent asked as he walked in.
Brent took at seat in front of Monte’s desk. Motioning to the flowers, he said, “Whoa, what’s this?”
“Man, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” Monte replied.
He spent the next few minutes explaining to Brent how he’d been trapped in the elevator with one of the firm’s newest clients last Friday night and how afraid she’d been. He left out the part about the passionate kiss they’d shared and also didn’t mention how she’d been plaguing his thoughts ever since.
“And she sent you flowers to thank you for holding her hand through the ordeal? Wow, classy lady. What’s her name?”
“Torie Turner.”
“Oh, this just gets better and better. The infamous Torie Turner? I’ve heard that she’s a ten on the knockout scale,” Brent said. “All the single guys around here are practically drooling over her…and some of the married ones, for that matter, too.”
“Okay, so we’re rating our clients now? Boy, if that’s not a clear indication that we definitely don’t have enough to do around here, I don’t know what is,” Monte replied.
“Come on, Monte. Don’t tell me you’ve never checked out a client before. Even a monk like you can acknowledge a good-looking woman when you see one,” Brent retorted.
“Whatever. Look, Torie Turner is, indeed, a beautiful woman. Happy?”
“Not yet. Not until you tell me what went on while you two were trapped in that elevator all of that time?”
“Nothing. We talked. I kept reassuring her that everything would be okay. Eventually, we got out, I hailed a taxi for her and that’s it.”
“Yeah, right. And that’s why she sent you this hundred-dollar bouquet of roses? Get real, Monte.”
“I’m serious, that’s it. I don’t know what you want me to say, Brent.”
“I want you to say that you’re going to call Ms. Turner, thank her for the flowers and then ask her out to dinner or a show.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Are you serious? Monte, there are about a million reasons why you should do that, starting with the fact that you haven’t been out on what qualifies as a date in years and ending with the fact that Torie Turner is a beautiful woman who appears to be interested in you.”
“Interested in me? What? No, you’re reading this all wrong,” Monte said nervously. He paused for a minute, glancing at the flowers. “What makes you think she’s interested in me?”
“Duh! Jeez, Monte, has it been that long? Let me school you, my naive friend. Women don’t send flowers to men just because,” Brent answered.
“The flowers are a thank-you for keeping her calm in the elevator. That’s all.”
“I’m sure she said thank-you when you got out of the elevator. Those flowers are about ten percent thank-you and ninety percent I want to get to know you better,” Brent said.
Monte thought about Brent’s words, considering their undeniable merit. She had said thank-you, repeatedly. There was no real need for her to send the flowers, unless she was interested. But, on the other hand, maybe that was just the type of person she was—gracious and overly demonstrative. Either way, Monte reasoned, he had already made up his mind.
“You know what, Brent? It really doesn’t matter why she sent the flowers. I’m not interested in dating Torie Turner,” Monte said definitively.
“Why not?”
“Why not?”
“Is there an echo in here? Why not?” Brent asked again.
“Because—”
“Because you’ve taken this ridiculous vow of celibacy and solitude that makes absolutely no sense. That’s why,” Brent said.
“Brent, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Monte said. He pulled his lips in tightly, a sign that he was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.
“Monte, I love you like a stepbrother, but it’s time you got honest—if not with me, at least with yourself. Shawna would not want you living this way,” Brent said softly.
Monte was poised to get defensive and tell Brent that he really had no idea what he was talking about. He wanted to tell his friend to back off, but something stopped him. He leaned back in his seat and his eyes gravitated to the left, toward the credenza behind him. There was a picture of Shawna, the boys and him, taken about six months before she died.
“She’d give you permission to be happy if she could,” Brent added.
“What makes you think I’m not happy?” Monte asked, lifting the framed photograph from the shelf.
“I’m not saying you’re not happy. I know you love the boys, and for some crazy reason you even love this place. I’m just saying that you’re blessed, man, but all that’s missing is someone to share it with.”
“I’m blessed? Listen to you sounding like a brotha. Keep on hanging out with me and you’re going to get your white-boy card revoked,” Monte joked.
“See there, now your memory is fading. I already became an honorary brotha last Thanksgiving when your mom got me hooked on her collard greens and black-eyed peas,” Brent replied with a laugh. “On that note, I’ve got a meeting to get to. Just think about what I said and, after you do that, invite the woman to a harmless lunch.”
“Later, man,” was Monte’s noncommittal reply.
Left alone with his thoughts, Monte stared at the photo of his family. He couldn’t believe that he still loved Shawna as much as he did the day he’d married her, but there it was, sitting in the middle of his chest like a boulder. A love that once lifted him and made him believe he could fly now weighed him down and left him feeling like a drowning man. For the first few months after her death, he’d looked up to the heavens and asked over and over again why she’d left him. He never got a response so eventually he stopped asking. He’d heard that when people lost a loved one, they often felt that person’s presence, comforting them. He didn’t feel that. All that Shawna’s death had left was a hole that he’d believed could never be filled. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him that perhaps what Shawna had really left was a space and not a hole. Maybe she’d left that space purposely so that there would be room in his heart for someone new to love.
Monte spontaneously turned toward his computer. He struck a few keys on the keyboard and pulled up the firm’s client directory. Within seconds, Torie Turner’s name, address and telephone number appeared on the screen. He picked up the handset on his telephone, punched her digits into the keypad and waited. Her recorded voice came on after the second ring, urging him to leave a message.
“Hello, Torie. This is Monte…Monte Lewis. I just, uh, wanted to say thank-you for the flowers. A beautiful yet entirely unnecessary gesture, but you are more than welcome.
