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He had a deep, masculine voice. That wasn’t too far off what she’d expected. And in one word, she picked up more bone-weary exhaustion than she might’ve with twenty words from someone else.
“S-Sam?” Why was her voice shaking? Much like the jittery knee she couldn’t keep still under her desk. There were many traits she lacked, but ordinarily confidence didn’t number among them.
“Yes, this is Sam.”
No question as to who she was. No greeting. Just more fatigue. Would he even remember her? In the scheme of things, how far down would she fall in the hierarchy of service people in his life? Under the mailman, above the paperboy?
“Hi. I’m Rory Fowler.”
Silence.
She twisted her necklace around her fingers, her anxiety climbing in direct proportion to the ticking seconds. Identify yourself, idiot! “I work at JD Signage. We’ve corresponded a few times.”
Probably at least fifteen, including the occasional glitch with his order and their casual banter. Not that she was counting.
Not that he had his own folder in her email program.
“Yes, I remember you.” His long pause encouraged her knee to jitter more. “I thought you were a man, Rory.”
“Why? Because I like sports?”
“No. Of course not. Well, maybe,” he admitted. “You know so much about them.”
“Yeah, I do. Women enjoy sports. News flash—some even play them.” She hoped she sounded as if she were teasing rather than irritated. She wasn’t mad. More than anything she was a little amazed. She couldn’t believe they were finally having an actual conversation.
Some women idolized rock singers or movie stars. Other than her long-held and unavoidable crush on Tom Brady, the only man she’d ever crushed on from afar was Sam Miller.
Another woman’s husband. Or he had been. He still was, she supposed. And always would be. Death didn’t erase what had come before and she had no doubt that he’d been completely, irrevocably in love.
“I know that. But the kind of shows you watch—”
“You mean the ones with potty humor?” She shrugged, though he couldn’t see her. “What can I say? I have a juvenile outlook on the world.”
“Thanks a lot.”
The amusement in his tone bolstered her self-assurance. “Maybe you didn’t think I was female because I don’t put smiley faces at the end of all my sentences?”
She most certainly was not a smiley face girl. Actually she’d be more likely to use emoticons if they indicated less politically correct gestures. The occasional well-placed graphical middle finger, for example. Not that she’d ever do that with customers, but some of her interfering relatives like her boss? A definite possibility.
“No, because of your name. Rory isn’t usually feminine.”
“Neither am I.” She pursed her lips. “Personality-wise, anyway.” Her clothes were another matter altogether.
He didn’t respond to her joke, but she supposed he was entitled to let the conversation falter. Still, wasn’t he the master of eloquence? Not that his billboard poetry would earn any Pulitzers, but he obviously felt comfortable with words. Unlike her at this moment.
“Is there a problem with this month’s billboard?”
All at once her buoyant mood disappeared. For a moment she’d forgotten who he was and how they knew each other. And why she’d placed this call in the first place.
God, in the midst of everything, he still cared about his billboard. Like clockwork, he placed his order every three months to reserve March, June, September and December. That would change now, right?
Everything had changed, at least for him.
“No, everything’s fine. In fact.” She scrambled for some way to make this call about work, rather than a pathetically ineffectual sympathy call. “JD Signage would like to offer you a small token for your loss. Of your wife,” she added, feeling stupid.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Uh, we will be picking up the cost of the billboard for the last week of September. Look for a statement credit on your credit card bill.”
