Of 90 minutes in total, Parrish had spent nearly 62 speaking. Very little of what he said was pleasant to the throat - they’d lost a client to cancer as if foretold by he and Cal’s musings in Norway. A client in promise of taking $172,000 worth of merchandise out of their show room and into his private collection. Given the go-ahead, Randall had already ordered and in-processed the replacement pieces he and Parrish decided on. Located. Haggled for.
Returning purchased artifacts was not in common practice - in fact, a great deal of the back-and-forth he’d asked for when he met with Cal, Randall and Lawrence that afternoon had been on this very issue: do we position ourselves as untrustworthy, unreliable or simply stupid if we go asking dealers for our money back, or do we take an incredible initial loss and hope to make it up in sales over the next year.
The retirement of a long-time employee meant Parrish preparing for immediate reduction in overall productivity; he assigned Cal to search their many archived applications for employment to find someone new - new, he stressed, not young. This position isn’t going to anybody under 30, now is not the time for a long learning curve.
Randall brought to the table their paperwork for liquor sales, which, for a moment, Parrish spooked on. “This – alright, I’m not disputing that the idea was a good one, but it might be a risky time to put it to practice.”
Randall nailed the folder to Parrish’s desk with a finger. “Not a chance you're backing out. This is solid, P. We get it going quick enough, advertise it right? We'll break even on that 170k in no time. There couldn't be a better time."
Cal came in quick beside him with an agreement. “It’s art and wine, Parrish. They go together. This one’s kind of a no-brainer.”
Parrish looked to Lawrence only to be sure he heard every side. Lawrence, hands folded neatly over one knee, gave a nod indicating his agreement and added, “It should’ve been done a long time ago. And Randall’s right about breaking even on the loss - you’re only going to do it by pulling in more money. This will pull in more money.”
Minute 90 crossed its mark and he surrendered, signed his name, pushed the stack of papers back to Randall for approval.
Minute 91, Lawrence took up about a worker he'd needed to cut loose from his small, shadowy end of the business. Parrish looked at his desk in one direction, then the other, leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie - tiny signs that his stress was mounting. Gestures he put into practice to remind himself of real, physical things more easily overcome than the abstract, than money dangers. His throat hurt from talking.
A knock at the door plucked him from the slump he didn’t realize he’d fallen into. “Come in.”
Colin snuck in from the other side, occupying just enough space to get through and closing the door behind him. In his hand, he carried a small, hunter green tray Parrish didn’t recognize, fitted with the teapot he kept at work, a gray saucer and a black mug, already steaming and stirred. Colin grinned the way people do when they’re joking, and the joke is themselves. Of course I would do this.
Randall hooted from his chair. “It’s Mini-P!”
Colin ignored the unceremonious greeting and found a place for his tray on Parrish’s desk. “You four have been up here a long time. I realized you missed your afternoon tea time, Mr. Frome.”
Parrish gathered his eyebrows tight, amused and uncertain. “I don’t have a tea time.”
Again, Randall charged ahead from a lazy, spread-legged position in his seat. “Oh, yes, you do. You have a tea time. You have an everything time.”
Lawrence and Randall laughed. Parrish laughed. Colin chuckled politely. Cal did neither.
When Parrish lifted the tray’s honey pitcher and prepared to prompt Lawrence to continue, Colin held out his hand, the universal signifier for stop. “That’s for your second cup. The first one’s already blended. I think I’ve got it pretty close to the way you do it, too. Give it a try.”
Before tasting, Parrish checked Randall for a wisecrack, who lifted his hands in demonstration of his counterfeit innocence.
It was one of a hundred ways Parrish had aged prematurely. When he talked his way to a sore throat, nothing relieved him the way tea did, however similar it was in chemistry to any other warm beverage.
He swallowed, sighed a brief instant’s relief, and only then expressed a slow-growing surprise that it tasted exactly the way it would’ve had he prepared it himself. Colin’s commitment to detail surprised him to the point of discomfort - he didn’t know how to word his gratitude for such unnecessary yet focused ambition.
“That’s – perfect. It’s perfect. Thank you, Colin.”
“You’re welcome. I won’t keep you from your work. You need anything, gentlemen?”
Lawrence and Cal declined in the same clamped tone.
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