When I Fell in Love with a Client

It isn't what you think!

Todd and I are standing in front of the bathroom sink, counting hundreds of pills for a sort of inventory. We have a printed spreadsheet on which to note our findings. There are over twenty different prescriptions and at least as many over-the-counter pills. There are numbers scribbled on little, yellow sticky notes, crossed out and filled back in. The bathroom drawers are like supply shelves in a drugstore --full to the brim with all of Warner’s favorite personal care and hygiene products. 

It’s not that he is a hypochondriac. He just prefers being well-prepared; and at eighty-something years old, there are a host of ailments for which he needs to be prepared. 

Todd is Warner’s personal assistant; he handles all of the professionals who’ve been hired to ensure Warner’s life is forever gliding along with all modern conveniences and personal preferences maximized. But Todd prefers to be called the Chief of Staff, I think because he wants to feel more necessary than he is. He’s a friendly, middle aged guy--thin and bald. He dresses casually in jeans and solid t-shirts. Apart from Todd, Warner’s staff (the ones I know about and not counting typical professionals who are hired as needed) includes a live-in butler, housekeeper, two I.T. guys on retainer, a full-time administrative assistant at his downtown office, and me --his personal home organizer. 

When I originally spoke with Todd years ago about the scope of work, we talked about organizing Warner’s home office. That’s it. I was going to be a home-based office assistant for his retirement-phase. It’s true, I most often work together with Warner on his office paperwork. I corral errant papers and files from around the house and return them to the office. I take obsolete paper and files from his office down to the basement to be filed in the temperature controlled, disaster-proof, walk-in safe. Through the years we have also met in his downtown office to work on downsizing it and bringing items home as Warner transitions deeper into retirement. Now here we are doing a prescription inventory. I’m not upset or surprised by this progression. I often end up deep into the nitty gritty of people’s lives after we’ve been together for a while. 

The first time I arrived at his house I struggled with choosing the right --and not-overly-presumptuous-- place to park on the property. His driveway is over a block long and the front door is not even visible from the street! So I parked outside and rang the buzzer to open his street gate on foot, like a highschooler walking through a drive-thru window. 

Once I reached the actual house, I crossed over a small bridge (with a man-made river running below it) to the 15-foot, glass front door. Todd opened the door and led me through the formal dining room to the family dining room where Warner was seated at the table, finishing breakfast, watching the news, and reading 3 newspapers. He looked up and smiled warmly, then turned off the TV. We never shook hands and because of his health issues, he didn’t stand up when I arrived. For the first few sessions I brought his papers from the office right there to his favorite chair. 

During another of our early sessions together at that table, labeling files, I misspelled Stanford. Of course I knew how to spell it, but I make a dumb mistake and he kindly corrected me. He is always gentle and relaxed about everything. I often wonder how someone so easygoing could have been the CEO of a world-renowned corporation. 

There are so many reasons he could be condescending --my age, my lesser social status and lack of wealth, my relative ignorance regarding his legal documents and specific jargon that pops up sometimes. He never is. Warner is only kind. 

After a year or so of coming into his home, Warner and I naturally became more used to each other and were able to start joking around a little bit. I knew he liked me when one day he told a story in which he called the man he was angry with an ass. Men born in the 1930s only swear in front of people they’re fond of. 

There were a few sessions where we worked together in his walk-in closet to thin out his many custom-tailored suits. 

“We can let go of all of the size 34 pants. I can’t fit into those anymore.” He patted his growing belly and sighed, “I just don’t wear most of this anymore.” But he was still not ready to let it all go and I was torn. On one hand I was there to help him reduce his belongings which will simplify his living space. Fewer suits would achieve that goal in the closet. On the other hand, I could feel his sadness and hesitancy to gut his wardrobe --an admission of the end of his robust and vibrant social lifestyle. 

One winter Warner grew a short, well trimmed beard. As soon as I walked in I said, “Hey! I like your new look!” 

He smiled a sneaky smile and said, “You know, ever since I’ve been growing this beard a lot more ladies want to lean in and kiss me on the cheek.” 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Usually it’s just a polite hug hello. But I’ve noticed a difference lately.”

With me he isn’t touchy feely at all. We never hug. It seems weird to point that out because why would I hug my older male client? 

Because I hug most of the people I work with. 

Because sometimes when he talks about getting older and not being able to eat his favorite salty foods I think, he needs a hug!

Because kind, old guys are my favorite kind of guys. 

Because he feels like a grandpa to me and like many grandpas, Warner isn’t physically cuddly. But he is emotionally cuddly! He answers my questions and tells me stories --mostly of simple, successful business strategies and of his theories about humanity. He has a huge smile for me every time I show up to the breakfast table, genuinely glad to see me even as I hustle him into his office to get to work. His smile feels like a hug. As we are more relaxed, and as he has gotten more frail, I’ve started to put my hand on his shoulder for encouragement every now and then. 

Opera is a huge passion of Warner’s and going to see live music has been a central part of his social life. His favorite composer is Mozart. He and his wife, Carol, are the primary underwriters for every Mozart opera performed by the Los Angeles Opera. 

In 2017 Jeff and I got tickets with another couple to see one: The Abduction from the Seraglio. I was excited to see the show and also excited to have something specific --and hopefully intelligent-- to say to Warner about it the next time I saw him. 

We bought seats for The Abduction from the Seraglio in the top balcony --as expensive a set of seats as we could justify buying. But when we picked up our tickets at the box office and walked toward the door, I saw that all four of us had been upgraded to the 6th row. There was no note or explanation available, just a couple thousand dollars’ worth of opera tickets in my hand! The view was incredible. Instead of using binoculars to see the show, we were actually looking up at the performers. 

Jeff and I thought through the connections he has with musicians in the opera. But we both knew the only person with enough pull to get these seats for us was Warner. So, the next day I emailed his secretary, to whom I usually only sent invoices, and asked what she knew about our upgraded seats. 

     “I don’t know.” She replied, “But I wouldn't put it past Warner to do such a wonderfully sneaky thing!” 

He also fancies himself a foodie and has about twenty Michelin Guides on his office shelves beside all of Jonathan Gold’s annual 100 Best Restaurants in LA lists. When I was looking forward to a trip to France years ago, he bought me the Michelin Guide --France. Now his doctors are telling him to stop eating salty food --a true travesty. About his favorite salty food he is fond of saying, “What a friend we have in cheeses.” 

When the pandemic comes, I am worried about the older people in my life, and especially Warner because he seemed more frail every time I saw him. I know if he catches the coronavirus, he won't make it. 

He doesn’t catch the virus. But in August, 2020 Todd calls to tell me Warner passed away in his sleep. I squeeze my eyes shut as I hang up the phone and tears pop out onto my shirt. In spite of my efforts to remain professional and stay on track, I guess I sorta fell in love with the old guy. I’m so sad I’ll never get to work with him again. I’ll never get to hear his stories of a great restaurant or watch his eyes light up when he shows me what jewelry he plans to buy Carol for her birthday this year. I regret not telling him what an impact he had on me. But that felt weird at the time and I probably would have cried-- not very professional! 

Instead I send Carol a letter of condolence, a miniature version of this essay, where I explain what a caring, thoughtful person he was and how glad I am to have known him. 

A few months later I am reading The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers. There are so many gorgeous passages in that novel. One of them describes how Mick, a 14 year-old in charge of her siblings, loves to listen to Mozart’s music:

"In her mind she could remember about six different tunes from the pieces of his [Mozart's] she had heard. A few of them were kind of quick and tinkling, and another was like that smell in springtime after a rain. But they all made her somehow sad and excited at the same time.

She hummed one of the tunes, and after a while in the hot, empty house by herself she felt the tears come in her eyes."

As soon as I read this passage (and a few others about Mozart in the novel) I naturally want to tell Warner about it! To ask if he’s read it; to send him the quote or talk to him about it at our next session. Since that isn’t possible, my next thought is, Oh, I can tell his wife, Carol! I can send her a little letter about how this made me think of him. 

After more thought, I decide not to send her a letter. No. I’ve seen what it’s like on the other end of that sort of gesture. When my mother-in-law died, a couple of her friends looked to Jeff and his sister to fill part of her empty place in their lives. I definitely don’t want to burden Carol with my grief. 

Once someone is gone we are left with the thoughts we want to tell them, the music we want to share, and the hugs we wish we could give them somehow. And we are left to figure out what to do with those things all on our own. 

In November of 2020 Carol reaches out to me through Warner’s secretary to see if I will come clear out his home office. She has tried and “There’s just too much stuff in there!” she says. 

Every Monday for a couple of months while the virus surges again, I drive up the empty freeways to the house, also quiet and empty. Carol talks on the phone to her granddaughter, off by herself. I don’t know if she realizes the depth of this kindness of letting me back into their home. On a surface level, my business has not made a profit (because of coronavirus restrictions) in almost nine months. On a personal level, I’m getting closure by organizing this space I’d been working on with Warner for over five years. I sort through every paper, every folder, every newspaper clipping, and every bundle of photographs, often talking to Warner in my head. I’m sure he is laughing about all of the sudoku puzzles I have to recycle. 

Our relationship, which was surfacey and meaningful at the same time; professional and emotionally mutually beneficial, is worth reflecting on and deserves this time, and this little corner of my heart --the grandpa, cheese, and opera corner. 

Finally everything is cleared out, and I make sure Carol knows where the treasures have been stored. She is cooking roast duck for friends who will come over for a holiday dinner later. She says thank you and goodbye, that she will call when they get to other areas which need cleaning out. 

I know she won’t call because the rest of the house is her domain and she has never needed my help with any of it! But I’m so grateful for the chance to say goodbye. I turn on a Mozart concerto from Spotify on my car stereo and drive down the long driveway again, knowing it’s my last time.