My Fair Brady

WHEN Wednesday evening arrived, along with an email to say Brady wouldn’t be back at work for the remainder of the week, Jordan decided to take matters into his own hands. When his car arrived, Jordan told him to take a detour via Harlem.

He wasn’t really sure why he was going there. Did he really need Brady to sort out the increasing number of problems arriving on his desk? Or was it more a case that, deep down, Jordan was concerned about his PA? And what did he expect Brady to do when he got there—shrug off whatever was ailing him and sort out Jordan’s problems?

This last thought made him pause as he sent away the car, having no real idea how long he’d be there. He could always get a taxi home. Jordan sighed. When had he last taken a taxi? And what he was about to do started to sound like a really bad, selfish move on his part. The man was ill, for God’s sake.

Jordan stared at the light brown wood door with its inset glass panels. Well, I’m here now. Might as well find out what’s wrong with him. He was about to ring the bell, when the door opened and a young woman came out.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for apartment 2B. Brady Donovan.”

She nodded. “Second floor. Is he okay? I haven’t seen much of him lately.” She narrowed her gaze. “Who are you?”

“His boss. And he’s ill. I’ve just come over to check up on him.” He could understand her apprehension. After all, he was a stranger to her. Her suspicious gaze hadn’t altered, so he took out his wallet. “Did you know Brady works for Jordan Wolf Accounting?” When she nodded, he withdrew his ID and held it up for inspection.

The young woman’s eyes widened. “Oh. You really are his boss. Okay. I’ll let you in. Just be sure you don’t give him any grief. He’s sweet. Tell him hey from Phil on the third floor.” When Jordan stared at her, she rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m hardly gonna stick with Philomena, am I? Parents and their ideas….” She held open the front door for him. “Go straight up the stairs. He’s on the left.”

“Thanks—Phil,” Jordan said with a smile.

She laughed. “Just be sure to say hi for me.” She glanced at his hands, empty but for his briefcase. “Where’s the chicken noodle soup? That’s what you bring if someone’s ill, my mom always says.”

Jordan gave a guilty start. She had a point.

Let’s see what he needs first.

He thanked her again and proceeded up the wide staircase to the second floor. There were two apartments, and Brady’s door was painted a glossy black, with a spy hole set into it. Jordan rapped on the door, listening for any movement within.

Nothing.

He rapped again. This time he caught a shuffling sound, growing louder, then a bolt being drawn back, the click of a lock….

The door swung open, and Brady stood there, wrapped in a comforter, holding on to the doorframe. “What are you doing here?” he croaked. His hair was unkempt and his forehead glistened. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and he looked like he was about to fall over at any moment.

Jordan didn’t waste a second. “Looking after you, it seems.” He stepped into the apartment, a long room with beautiful hardwood floors and one wall of red brick. From the look of things, Brady had been lying on the couch, which was covered in blankets and pillows. DVD cases were scattered over the floor, but the TV was off.

Jordan put his arm around Brady’s shoulders and guided him back to the couch. “Now lie down before you fall down,” he said firmly. Brady dropped onto the cushions like a stone, and Jordan grabbed the blankets to cover him. “Have you seen a doctor?”

Brady gave a single nod. “Flu. Apparently there’s a… nasty strain going around New York.” He broke off to cough, his face reddening.

Jordan had seen the reports on the news. “Brady, people are dying from that one!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not.” Brady gave another racking cough. “I thought a few days… in bed would do the trick… but I guess not.”

Jordan perched on the edge of the seat cushion, shaking his head. “Real flu—not some bad cold—puts you on your ass for at least a couple of weeks.” He reached to push Brady’s hair back from his forehead, but Brady tried to shrink away.

“No… you shouldn’t be here…. You’ll catch it….” Another fit of coughing erupted, followed by a violent bout of sneezing, and Brady grabbed the box of tissues from their spot on the floor beside the couch.

Jordan regarded him closely. “No, I won’t. Well, I probably won’t. My doctor made me get the flu shot a couple of weeks ago, so I’m less likely to catch it.” He glanced around the room. There was a tiny kitchen area with a stove, fitted into a corner. The lack of dishes—dirty or otherwise—led to a growing suspicion. “Have you been eating properly? Is there anyone who can come over here to make sure you’re all right?”

Brady huffed. “Like I’m gonna… call on my neighbors… just so I can give them the flu.”