Objects of My Affection (34 page)

Or nothing. The canvas is untouched. A light layer of dust may even be forming.

Siiiiiigh.

Sullenly, I pick up a box and start filling it with items for the yard sale, no longer being sneaky since Marva's obviously not hiding anything in here. It's when I'm piling some old
Life
magazines into the box that I notice it: the copy of
Grimm's Fairy Tales.
Sitting right on the desk.

Yes!
When God closes a door, he opens a window, as a wise nun-turned-singing-governess once said. Maybe now I can find out more about Marva's suicide plans. Possibly there's something more about this Filleppe guy.

I peek out into the hallway to verify that Marva is still in her bedroom before snatching up the book. Underneath it I see a letter written on monogrammed stationery:
MMR
. My blood turns to ice as soon as I read the opening line in Marva's familiar handwriting:

To Whomever May Find Me

First off, it's
who
ever—but that's not the point.

It's Marva's suicide note. Or at least a draft of it—crumpled papers are in the trash can next to the desk, so this isn't her first attempt. This is what she's been laboring at all day while she banned me from the room. She's scratched out some of what she's written, but as I pick the paper up and read, her intention is evident. She's going through with it. This letter is for the poor slob who stumbles across her body. For the first time it occurs to me that it could be
me
who finds her—definitely outside my job description and the thought of which has my hand shaking as I read on.

 

They say you can't take it with you. And so, I leave it all behind as I venture into—as Emily Dickinson once wrote of death—“a wild night and a new road.” I've had everything I wanted in this lifetime and now would only face that which I don't, and swore I never would.
To my son, I'm sorry. To Will, know that this has nothing to do with you. Will, you are the
one thing I will miss.
Will, I won't insult you with sentiment at this juncture, other than to say I admire your courage to become the man you were meant to be. As for you, F, hope you've been saving me a deck chair in Hell.

 

The note is signed with the same signature Marva uses on her paintings, the blocky MMR, as if this is a work of art she's created here and not a horror. Although I'd wanted to pore through the book, now that I realize what she's been up to, I know she'll be furious if she catches me in here. I hurriedly set the note back on her desk beneath the book, arranging everything exactly as I found it. Then I scurry from the room, feeling as dirty as if I'd stumbled across photos of Marva in flagrante delicto. And frustrated: She finally says sweet words to Will, and he won't see them until she's gone?

In the kitchen I nearly crash into Niko, who is carting a box of paints and brushes he'd told me earlier that he'd found in the bungalow. “We're done out there—come take a look,” he says.

After I have him drop off the box in the office, he takes my hand to lead me through the yard to the bungalow. That simple gesture is the comfort I need right now. I wonder if he'd find it strange if I curled up and asked him to carry me.

“Did you mean for us to remove so much? It's pretty empty,” he says as we step inside.

“It's perfect.”

“At least now there's enough room to bring in the rest of your stuff.”

I shake my head. “I'm going to be moving out once this job is done so there's no point.”

“Then what?”

“Then home,” I say, though I have no idea what that even means.

He sits on the edge of the couch. “So, when are we going to go get that drink? I haven't forgotten. You busy tomorrow night?”

“Boy, am I!” I say, and launch into a list of all the things I still need to do at Marva's before it occurs to me that I am in essence rejecting
an invitation—for an actual date. From a hot, eligible man. Niko is getting up and backing out the door, probably having barely scraped his ego up off the floor. It's now or never. “So what I'm getting at,” I say quickly, “is that I'm pretty wiped out. How about we hang out here? I'll download a movie. Or now that I have all this room, we can turn cartwheels if we want. Do jumping jacks. Practice the long jump.”

He laughs. “I'm sure we'll come up with something.”

W
hat are you going to wear? Not the polka-dotted dress—no offense, it makes you look hippy,” Heather says. She and I are grabbing a quick lunch at Red Hen Bread because she had a hankering for their cranberry chicken sandwich. Though I suspect it's more she's craving adult company. I'm coloring with Abigail as we chat. Marva must be rubbing off on me, because I'm purposely going outside the lines.

“We're watching a movie at my place. Sweats will be fine.”

“They are not! This is a date!”

“Kidding—I'll probably wear jeans and that sequined T-shirt you gave me.”

Heather sneaks off a piece of Abigail's PB&J. “You're going to wear nice underwear, right? A date at home means s-e-x.”

Abigail pops up her head. She's learning her letters, but luckily for our conversation here, she hasn't yet figured out how to string them together into words. It proved to be a veritable spelling bee telling Heather how Ash hung up on me again (a-s-s-h-o-l-e) when I refused to transfer money to his ATM account and instead said I needed an address to overnight a money order. Then we talked a bit more about how Daniel and I k-i-s-s-e-d but now aren't speaking.

“If things go as I anticipate they will,” I tell Heather, “nobody's going to be in their u-n-d-e-r-w-e-a-r all that long.” I pull out a blue crayon and begin to color a princess's face with it, just to see if I can get a rise out of Abigail, which it appears I will. Her brows shoot down in disapproval.

“Good for you,” Heather says, “after all you've been through, you deserve this piece of happiness.”

“Or a piece of something.”

“I still can't believe Daniel, though, being so rude like that. It goes to prove, there's no going back.”

“Forward motion only,” I say. “From now on, I don't care where I'm headed, as long as it's not anywhere I've been.”

Abigail can't take it any longer and yanks the crayon from my hand. “Princesses are not
blue
,” she scolds.

Heather absently retrieves the crayon from Abigail. “I understand how you feel, Lucy. Although the time may come when you'll need to pick a more specific destination.”

Y
ou look nice,” Niko says, handing me a six-pack as he steps into the bungalow. “Hope beer is okay.”

“It's great. Thanks for bringing it.”

For as much as we've been around each other these past weeks, suddenly I'm feeling shy. Niko is wearing his usual jeans and a T-shirt, but he smells soapy, indicating a shower. I may have snuck in showering myself—plus shaving, loofahing, hair blow-drying, reapplying makeup, changing my outfit five times, and winding up in what I started out with.

“What's the agenda?” Niko says, twisting open the beer I hand him and then handing it back to me. “A movie, or should we get straight to the cartwheels?”

“Definitely cartwheels. But you first.”

He surprises me by saying, “All right.” Shoving my couch back with his foot to make more room, he turns out a pretty reasonable cartwheel, his shirt sliding up around his chest while he's upside down to reveal taut abs leading into a muscled V of hip bone. Hoo-ya. This whole date thing?
Excellent
idea. When Niko is again upright, he says, “Now your turn.”

“Gosh, I'm worn-out from all the cartwheels I was doing before you got here,” I say, plunking down on the couch.

Niko grabs a beer and sits next to me. “I'll let it slide this time. What movie did you pick? Hope there's killing in it.”

“Nope, total chick flick,” I tease. “Nothing but endless talking and kissing.”

“That's cool.” He lightly brushes back a strand of my hair. “I like talking and kissing.” I'm all for getting directly to the latter, but he says, “Man, you should've seen how bad the damage was in that closet today.” We then launch into what would be a monumentally dull conversation to anyone else, but I'm riveted to hear how many floorboards Niko's crew has to replace due to the rot caused by the sheer weight of Marva's belongings.

I'm having a perfectly enjoyable time when out of nowhere, Niko asks, “Hey, who was that collect call you got the other day?”

“That? Oh, it was my son,” I say, hoping I'm not asked to go into any details.

“Yeah? An uncle of mine once took a collect call, and, man, it was expensive. Like fifteen bucks for a one-minute call. And that was just from across town. You're not gonna be happy when you get the bill. I hope it was important.”

“It was. He—” I'm not going to stoop to lying, but I also recall how the last time I told someone that Ash walked away from rehab without bothering to call me, it didn't go well. Somehow, I doubt Niko would ever tell me that my son was being shitty, as Daniel did, but why get into all that if I don't have to? “He didn't have his cell phone.”

“Bet you'd like to kill him, eh?”

I'm momentarily taken aback at how similar Niko's words are to what Daniel had said—although he was referring to Ash's not calling, versus his calling collect. Not that I want to be thinking about Daniel right now. A swift change of subject is definitely in order, so I say, “I can't believe we're almost done with this job!”

“You think you're going to make your deadline? Seems like a lot still to do in a week.”

I glance at the calendar taped to the wall, nearly filled with Xs. “Don't remind me. To be perfectly honest, with that stupid yard sale day after tomorrow, the last thing we should be doing is hanging out on this couch. We should be in there packing boxes. Only …” I lean against the couch and smile at him so he knows I'm not really cracking the whip. “I've been working so hard the past few days, I'm so sore I can barely lift a pencil right now, much less a box.”

“Well, that's not right. C'mere.” Just like that, he tugs me closer to him on the couch, my back facing him. “Bet you could use a shoulder rub.”

Oh, yes, indeed, I could. Is there anything more universally beloved than the shoulder rub? And this isn't some cheesy, halfhearted effort—he's giving me a real massage. I feel so much tension ease out that I'm a puddle within seconds. His hands move firmly up my neck, digging between my shoulder blades, down my back. I'm so blissfully relaxed that—when he lifts my arms and tugs my shirt up and off—I don't think twice about it, other than to give an
mmm
of happiness before I shift to face him and pull his mouth to mine.

We're soon rolling around on the couch. I quickly divest Niko of his shirt—fair is fair. He's kissing down my neck, and my hands are roaming over his firm, smooth chest, when he lifts away and gazes around the room. “I just noticed, you don't have a bed.”

“Nope.”

“You sleep on the couch every night?”

“I have an inflatable.”

“Cool.” Then he takes a great interest in my bra straps and, specifically, sliding them downward. That is, as best he can on this cramped couch. I hadn't thought about that for a while, how pathetic it is I don't have a bed. A hot guy has his lips sliding toward the curve of my breast, a hand fumbling with the button on my jeans, and I can't even show him the courtesy of a bed? Niko probably thinks I'm one
of those free-spirit types who is
choosing
this lifestyle rather than what I really am, which is broke. No, not true—I am merely in transition. I will have my life together again, and soon. Then I won't have to be embarrassed about my pitiful living circumstances, or about how I've screwed up my life in other ways. Just as soon as I get the bonus. If I get the bonus. Correction: I
will
get that bonus.

Shifting so he can get better leverage—that button is a stubborn one—it strikes me as kind of funny that Niko was so easily distracted when I switched the topic from Ash's call earlier. Unlike
some
people, Niko is obviously willing to go with the flow. It's what I find most attractive about him, really, that he's so laid-back and sunny. Every minute with him is so easy and—

“You're
so
hot,” he murmurs, disrupting my thoughts. He's temporarily given up on the button and moved on to unhooking my bra, which he does with remarkable skill. He eagerly goes about enjoying the goodies he's released, and I must say, it feels incredible. What am I doing, letting my mind wander? Here I am with a gorgeous man's mouth on my breast and his hand gripping my ass and I'm barely paying attention? I don't need to wait for some bonus to start my life—it's starting now. Right here. Although quick mental note—not to distract me from that thing Niko is doing with his tongue, which is, in a word,
yum
—but I need to spend the day tomorrow focusing on yard-sale items only. Making the deadline is so closely within reach. It seemed hopeless there for a while, but—

For crying out loud, Lucy, focus!
Just look at Niko, will you? In fact, have a good feel! Wrapping my arms around his back, I grasp the taut ripple of muscle, let myself sink into the sexiness of his soft moan as I tug his body closer to mine. It makes me feel so …

So …

What is it exactly that I'm feeling? I search myself for the right words and …

Huh …

I do believe I'm bored.

That can't be—I'm out of practice, that's all. Niko is hitting all the right notes—really, I can't say enough good things about his dogged determination to conquer that button—but, well …