P.S.- Part One

By Roger Arsht

January 19, 2021

Annie Peterson sat nervously at a table for two at the elegant Quincy Grille in Annapolis. She tried to remain calm, but the way her fingers creased and wrinkled the edge of the white tablecloth betrayed her feelings. While her mouth was dry, she had yet to take a sip of her water for fear that the condensation dripping from the stem might leave spots on her silk dress. Internally, she was kicking herself for dressing so suggestively when a business suit would have sufficed, nothing however was normal about this evening. The confident professional side of her brain deeply regretted the process that had brought her to the restaurant. There were times when Annie wanted to strangle her friend Brooke for suggesting she write that letter. But even more so, she was irritated at herself for mailing it. Her mind raced as she scanned the guests walking through the door wondering who was going to be the man she’d be dining with this night.

                At first, she dismissed the man who stopped to talk to the host. While he looked striking, the way he tightened the knot of his tie and pushed his hair from his forehead with the palm of his hand made her believe that he had just finished a tough day of work rather than wanting to make a strong first impression. She was surprised when he followed the host’s finger that pointed at her and, upon arriving at the table, draped his coat over the back of the chair opposite her.

                “Hi, I’m Bertie,” the man said with his hand extended.

                “Bertie?” Annie said with a questioning voice while taking his hand.

                “Yes. Bertie. It’s the name my parents gave me. Are you surprised?”

                “No…yes…it’s not a name parents…give their children…anymore…I’m sorry,” she said, kicking herself for her blundering comment.

                “Don’t be. It’s not a normal name.” Bertie could see that Annie was embarrassed. “Let’s start over.” Bertie said while motioning for the server. “You must be Annie.”

                “Yes. I should have introduced myself.”

                “You didn’t need to. I read your letter. Wonderful penmanship. Can you say that anymore?”

                “I don’t understand.” Annie wished she could relax.

                “Penmanship. Shouldn’t it be penwomanship or something like that? I’m learning to use the right pronouns.”

                “You’re serious? You’re questioning whether you should have used penwomanship instead of penmanship. Who does that?”

                Bertie’s wide grin told Annie he was having fun with her. His smile also melted some of the trepidations she was feeling.

                “You’ve used that line before. It’s too practiced,” Annie said while laughing.

                “Actually, I haven’t. Tell me about yourself.”

                “You told me you read my letter.”

                “I did. You’re fascinating. You wrote that you like when you’re listened to. That it doesn’t happen enough. So, I'd like to hear more about you.”

                “I did say that. But I don’t know you. It takes time for me to open…to be comfortable with someone…I don’t know you.”

                “Okay. What would you like to know?”

                Annie hesitated even though she knew what she wanted to ask. “The name of your…service…is P.S. What does that mean? P.S. at the end of the letter means that you had an afterthought that you didn’t include in the body of a letter.”

                “Yes, and this P.S. has nothing to do with a postscript. It’s shorthand for something else. Can I tell you later?”

                “Okay,” Annie said slowly. “Can we have a drink?”

                “Absolutely. I’ve been dying for a dirty martini all afternoon.” Bertie motioned to the server who took their order.

                “What do you do when you’re not…you know…entertaining women?”

                “I’m an editor. I work for a large publishing firm. I’m also a ghostwriter.”

                “Have you written anything under your name?”

                “Nothing that’s been published. I can show the portions of some bestsellers that I’ve written.”

                “Isn’t it frustrating helping other people be successful and not having your work in bookstores?”

                “I haven’t had an idea that would make for a bestselling novel. I think I’m getting closer.”

                “But you do write.”

                “Yes. I’m working on something now.”

                “What is it? Is this P.S. business part of a writing project?”

                “Maybe," he answered and then changed the focus back to Annie. "Tell me about yourself. You wrote that you’re a consultant.”

                “Financial consultant. I have a select group of clients who I advise on investments, tax issues, and estate planning.”

                “Sounds interesting. Tell me more.” 

                The server brought her a glass of Chardonnay and Bertie his dirty martini. Something about this man intrigued her, and yet, he was a stranger. Maybe it was his magnetic smile. Maybe it was the anonymity she enjoyed in Annapolis. Whatever the reason, she kept sharing more. 

                “Most of the time, my clients are men who are successful and wealthy. My boss sets up the meetings. I come to their offices and share my investment strategies. They rarely agree to what I propose. After a week or two, my boss and the client will ask me to execute what I told them. They don’t like to give a woman credit for making them a lot of money. They dismiss me and then go to their private golf clubs.”

                “That’s not what your work is supposed to be about. It should be about respect, acknowledgment, and achievement.”

                “Wouldn’t that be nice. You know you can’t repeat what I tell you. I have a fiduciary responsibility.”

                “As do I. The ‘P’ of the ‘P.S.’ stands for priest. Whatever you say to me stays with me. Always.”

                “I don’t know if I should be insulted.”

                “Why?”

                “Because I feel like you’re listening to my confession like a priest. And later…well, you know?”

                “I’m not a gigolo. I’m a priest, figuratively. You also misunderstand what P.S. does. There are no fees. It’s completely free. We can split the check.”

                “My friend, Brooke, told me the two of you…”

                “I won’t even acknowledge that I know anyone by that name.”

                “But if, as you say, you’re a priest, then how did you or Brooke or anyone else…you know?”

                “That’s the other part of the P.S. It stands for saint.”

                “Priest-Saint?”

                Bertie laughed. “P.S. is shorthand for I’m a priest not a saint.”

                “Did you write that?”

                “No. It’s from The Count of Monte Cristo. Abbe Faria tells Edmond Dantes that he lied about the whereabouts of the treasure of Spada. Edmond is shocked that a priest would lie. Faria tells him that he’s a priest not a saint.”

                “Is that from the book?

                “No, the movie.”

                “You write books.”

                “A good line is a good line.”

                “Shouldn’t I be wary that since you’re not a saint you might not keep my secrets?

                “What fun is life if there isn’t some risk?” Bertie could see the doubt in Annie’s eyes. “Truly. I’ve never betrayed someone’s trust.”

More Coming Soon…