The Fine Art of Sugar Coating

If you ever meet Martin Cavanaugh, don’t let that mild-mannered smile fool you. Beneath it lies a man who can slice a person to ribbons with words that sound like compliments embroidered on a pillow. Diplomacy, as Martin practices it, is saying the nastiest things in the nicest way, and he’s a grandmaster of the sport.

Take last Tuesday, for instance. The city council was debating whether to repaint the town’s water tower.

One group wanted to freshen it up; the other wanted to save money and pretend it looked “vintage.” Martin, who’d been dragged there by his wife, took the floor after twenty minutes of bickering and said, “Well, I think it’s wonderful that we have so many opinions from people who clearly care about the community, especially those who didn’t care enough to attend the last three maintenance meetings.”

He said it with such warmth, you’d think he was offering to bake everyone cookies. The room even applauded, half because they agreed, and half because they weren’t entirely sure he’d just insulted them. That’s Martin for you: charming as a sunset, sharp as the mosquito that bites you while you’re admiring it.

Now, Martin wasn’t born diplomatic. Oh no, he earned his polish the hard way.

As a teenager, he had what his mother called “a mouth that worked faster than his brain.” Once, he told the high school principal that his new toupee looked like “a squirrel in mourning.”

The following week, Martin found himself cleaning cafeteria trays for what the school termed “community reflection.” He came home that night to find his father reading the paper.

Without lowering it, his dad said, “Son, truth is a fine thing, but it travels better with a little padding.”

That line stuck with him longer than most of his report cards. Years later, when Martin worked in real estate, that lesson paid off handsomely.

You can’t tell a homeowner their place smells like wet socks and bad decisions. No, you say, “It has a very lived-in charm.”

If the kitchen ceiling is sagging, it’s “full of character.” If the backyard’s all weeds, it’s “low-maintenance landscaping.”

Martin didn’t lie. He just found creative ways to rearrange the unpleasant parts of reality into something everyone could live with.

One time, when a difficult client insisted her house was worth twice the going rate, Martin smiled and said, “Well, Mrs. Harkness, your confidence in this property is truly inspiring. I only hope the market learns to see it through your eyes.”

She left the meeting convinced she’d won the argument. Martin, meanwhile, listed it at a sensible price and sold it in a week.

Even at home, his tongue stayed velvet-covered. When his wife, Linda, tried a new recipe that could’ve doubled as insulation foam, he told her, “It’s so filling, I might not need breakfast tomorrow.”

When his brother-in-law started a pyramid scheme, Martin said, “You’ve always had such a creative way of interpreting capitalism.”

See, Martin figured that diplomacy wasn’t about deception. It was about delivery.

Truth, when served cold, tends to bruise egos. But wrap it in a ribbon of kindness and hand it over with a smile, and people thank you for the bruise.

He once told me, “Tom, if you can keep people laughing while they realize you’re right, you’ve already won.”

And I reckon he’s right about that. The world could use more Martins, folks who know that honesty doesn’t have to roar; sometimes, it just needs good manners and a steady grin.

After all, as Martin likes to say, “A sharp tongue can cut, but a polite one can slice clean.”