The Interior Specialist

        On a sunny Monday morning, the last of May, a twenty-four year old man carrying a long toolbox, a satchel full of paint brushes and a thin sack of unknown contents, tapped firmly but not loudly on the door of the last house on Maycott Lane, Tandra Barstadt’s brownstone. When the door opened, the man put down the thin sack and thrust his right hand into the space and said, “Good morning, I’m Bradley Dorian.”

        Tandra Barstadt—who insisted that everyone call her Aunt Tandy—was normally a thoroughly composed and discerning woman who exuded her middle age as haughtily as if it were humankind’s highest veneration. She could not recall ever having had any difficulty communicating whatever thoughts were in her head. But when Aunt Tandy first beheld the gentleman in her doorway her mind forfeited its customary self-possession.

        There was momentary nothingness.

        Mr. Dorian was a man of many talents. Those which earned him a comfortable living were interior painting, carpentry and floor covering. Physically, Mr. Dorian was not exceedingly tall. But he was exceedingly handsome. He had firm, broad shoulders and a squarely cut jaw—which provided for him an unmistakable manliness—but boyish eyes and a delicate, nearly feminine pair of lips, all which made for an unusual and strangely attractive facial combination. A loose black curl hung neatly to his collar, completing the effect.

        The professional name of his company was simply DORIAN—THE INTERIOR SPECIALIST and he was the only employee. For that, Mr. Dorian was thankful. Some of his very best work had been conducted and concluded much more wonderfully than he could ever have hoped if he had been concerned with the nuisance of an assistant.

        As a man of many talents, Mr. Dorian was known well across a county-sized area which included several towns and hamlets. His reputation was beyond dispute and the mention of his name never failed to cause men and women alike to recall to themselves or relate to others the results of his marvelous work. Whether it be stroking on a new coat of white paint over a neglected and lonely wall or erecting some splendid creation of his own—he always seemed to know precisely what was needed and exactly where it should go—or even if he was ripping apart old floor tiles to insert something new, whatever the job called for, Mr. Dorian delivered. His work was first rate.

        Like Aunt Tandy, Mr. Dorian was a private person. Little was known about him beyond his wonderful capabilities. There had been many a hazy summer day when Mr. Dorian—who worked by contract only—would arrive dry and freshly scented at 7:30 am at the home of his temporary employer. He was usually just on time to have a cup of coffee with the Mr. and Mrs. of the household. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Dorian would stand as the man of the house departed for his own day’s labour. Mr. Dorian always said at these moments: “Goodbye, sir. Have yourself a fine day.” He wore such an infectious smile on his nearly-feminine lips while delivering those words that even the most ill-humoured men in the morning would soften their dispositions immediately. The reply was mostly, or a slight variation of: “Thank you, Mr. Dorian. Why don’t you have yourself a nice day.” With a wry and unnoticeably less-infectious smile, Mr. Dorian would return: “I’ll sure make an effort, sir.”

        And then, sometimes with a light, amicable tap on the arm to Mr. Dorian and a swift kiss on the cheek to his wife, the man of the house would be out the door and into the sunlight (if the sun had decided to make its sparkling appearance that day.)

        Mr. Dorian was often genuinely touched by the common sight of man and wife exchanging a brief kiss each morning before parting company. Such a compassionate ritual, he would think, for he possessed a delicate spot in his heart for such things and the sight of a married couple showing simple affection in the simplest form never failed to broaden his smile, although he himself had never married.