Objects of My Affection (5 page)

“If I'm ready later today, I'll come find you,” she says as she disappears down the hall. I hear a door shut.

I flop down into the chair Marva vacated. So much for diving right in.

T
wo o'clock. Marva has yet to emerge. I've been checking at regular intervals, peeking down the hall for signs of life. In the meantime, I bought those stupid green Post-its (and a bunch of other colors and patterns, too, just in case) and grabbed lunch.

Then to kill time, I decide to rearrange what Will called the bungalow so I can use it as an office. It's a converted one-car garage—tiny, with thankfully no car squeezed inside. I guess if you don't go anywhere, you don't need one. The bungalow is separated from the main house by two enormous oaks and accessible by a side driveway. What was once the garage door is now a wall, and there are curtained
windows and a bathroom. It is potentially quite cozy. More important, it'll make a nice place to hide from Marva.

And based on the empty pop cans and fast-food wrappers I see stuffed in a trash can, I'm not the first to have this idea.

I sustain only minor injuries as I shove things around to make room, even managing to single-handedly drag down a couch that was standing on end.

Mmm, a couch.

I could use a break. It's been such a frustrating day so far. Couldn't hurt to lie down and relax. Rest my weary bones. Take a few moments to contemplate my next move …

T
he dream bubble pops above my head.

Eerf. I must've fallen asleep. My face is smashed into a couch pillow. I feel sticky and muddled and … ugh. What is that
smell
?

I attempt to tug my eyes open and drag myself up.

“Hey, lookit here, Sleeping Beauty is waking up.” At the sound of a male voice, my eyes fly open like a window shade with a haywire spring. I'm trying to yank myself upright, only my legs keep tangling up against the guy, who is sitting on the end of the couch, eating beef jerky from a bag.

“Move already!” I snap, pushing at him with my feet.

Another man's voice: “Gee, somebody's cranky when she wakes up.”

“What the—” I practically fly to a standing position. My hands feel around on my body to see if I can tell if I've been groped. My clothes appear to be intact. “What are you doing in here?”

The owner of the second voice is sitting with his back propped up against the wall, gnawing on a giant pita sandwich (which explains the smell). They're both youngish, midtwenties I'd guess, tatted up—one of them sporting muttonchops and the other that weird strip of chin hair as if he missed a spot shaving.

Muttonchops says, “You that chick they hired?”

I glare at him. “You have no right to be here. This happens to be my office now.”

“So I'll take that as a yes.”

A toilet flushes and a third guy walks out of the bungalow's small bathroom. I whip around to him. “You didn't wash your
hands
?”

He gives me that deer-in-the-headlights look. “Uh … yes, I did.”

“You did not! I didn't hear water running!”

“Um, okay, well, I can—”

“No,” I say, sensing my hysteria rising. “It's too late now. All of you get out. In fact, even better, where is your supervisor? He ought to hear how”—I narrow my eyes at the guy on the couch, who is chuckling—“his workers find it so
funny
to sneak up on innocent women while they're
resting
and do
God knows what.
”

“Whoa, hey, babe, chill.”

As if I'm going to take that from a guy with filthy hands. “I will not
chill.
I—”

The bungalow door opens, and
another
guy walks in, this one scribbling on a clipboard he's holding. He must be the one in charge. “Oh, hey, you're awake, cool,” he says when he glances up.

“No, it is not,” I say. “It is not the slightest bit
cool
to wake up surrounded by a bunch of … of …”

He looks at the others while I search for a word besides
hooligans.
“You were in here while she was sleeping?” They don't answer, and he says to me, “I'm sorry. Sometimes they're idiots. Unfortunately, they're also my cousins and they work for me. By the way, I'm Niko Pavlopoulos—and you must be Lucy.”

He extends a hand for me to shake, which I reluctantly accept. Niko is about the same age as the others, but at least he doesn't sport that fresh-from-prison look that they do. In fact, he has a nice face … good brows, and the kind of lashes that make the ladies grumble what a waste they are on a man.

“They scared me half to death,” I say, not entirely ready to let go of my fight.

Niko tips his head toward the door. “Guys … out. I picked up the
pipes for the basement. Start on that.” Surprisingly, they gather up their food and cheerfully file out.

After they're gone, I drop back down onto the couch. “Basement,” I say, groaning, “I forgot about the basement. I'll bet it's a nightmare down there.”

“You're in luck. Pipes busted—that's why Will brought us on in the first place. Water damage was so bad, we had to haul everything straight to a Dumpster. Even then, Marva was trying to stop us, tell my guys it wasn't wrecked that bad.” Niko settles onto the arm of the couch. “That's why I'm so glad you're here. Somebody needs to get this project moving.”

I don't sense sarcasm from him, even though moments ago I'd been caught drooling into a couch cushion. “I'm usually more a woman of action than you saw here today,” I say, sheepish.

“No worries. So how's it going so far?”

“With Marva?”

“Yeah. I brought all three guys with me today figuring by now you'd have stuff for us to haul out.”

I look at my watch—it's almost six o'clock. There's no point in lying. I've blown the whole day. “I didn't get anywhere. Marva sent me out to buy Post-its, and then she locked herself in her office.”

“Post-its?”

I explain to him my organizational system, and how Marva thought the colors should be different, and green should be represented, and you know these artists, how temperamental they can be, and the best thing is to humor them so they believe they're getting their way and … and …

Niko is laughing.

“What is so funny?” I ask.

“Man, she saw you coming.”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“It means she played you.”

“She did not!”

“You spent your day buying office supplies.”

“Those Post-its happen to be an integral part of my organizational system.”

“Whatever you say.”

I'd like to hit him with a snappy comeback, but I'm haunted by the image of Marva walking away this morning as I was too cowed to say a thing, and I slump in defeat. “You're right. I let her totally manipulate me.”

I want to cry—it's Ash all over again. It's Ash, telling me some elaborate story about how it wasn't his pipe or his stash or his pills—he was only holding them for this guy he hardly knows. And me being a sucker and believing it, time and time again, because I didn't want to think about what the truth would mean.

Niko slides down so he's on the couch, facing me. “Don't feel bad. None of us have been able to get her to do anything for weeks now. Her own son couldn't do it. That's why he had to bring you in.” He pauses. “This was only one day. You'll get the hang of it.”

“There's just so
much
.”

“We could wipe out everything in that house in less than a week if it weren't for her. It's only a big job because she's making it that way. As much as she wants it done, she doesn't want to do it.”

“Well then,” I say, putting on my brave-girl face, “I'll have to use my awesome powers of persuasion.”

His mouth pulls up in a smile. “I look forward to seeing that.”

Niko leaves to join the crew in the basement. Out of sheer stubbornness, I'm tempted to stay and wait Marva out—even if it takes all night—but I have to be at Heather's son's birthday party in half an hour. Instead of skulking out defeated, I screw up the courage to go to Marva's office, where on the door is taped a note:
Do not disturb.
The blocky forward-slant of her handwriting seems aggressive enough that I hesitate. When it dawns on me that I'm such a pushover that I'm even intimidated by this woman's
writing
, I make myself knock.

I hear Marva call for me to come in. As soon as I open the door, it's as if I'm walloped by a cyclone of color. The walls are covered with paintings of every size, and canvases are stacked up against them,
pulsing with such intensity that it's overwhelming. “Wow, are these yours?”

“What is it you need?” Marva asks. She's sitting in front of a desk, making some sort of notes in a book that's set on top of a pile of papers. “Are you finally ready to get back to work?”

Me? Finally ready?
I want to pull one of those paintings off the wall and clobber her over the head with it.

“I thought you didn't want to be disturbed.”

She doesn't glance up. “That being the case, why are you willing to disturb me now?”

A red painting with orange and yellow swirls exudes a sense of violence, plus it looks real heavy. That's the one I'll hit her with.

“I wanted to say good night.”

“Good night.”

This is where I should leave, but I find myself lingering. A portrait of a morose young girl who vaguely resembles Marva stares at me. It's done in the style I recognize as hers: realistic, yet exaggerated, as if she purposely colored outside the lines.

Marva stops writing. “Yes?” Although typically a positive word—
yes!
—the way she says it is better translated as “Why are you still here?” Or, more accurately, “Don't be here.”

I turn to go but then stop myself. “The painting behind you, is that a self-portrait?”

“Only egotists do self-portraits.”

“So, then I take that as a no?”

She graces me with what could almost be called a smile—it's achieved mostly through a lift of the eyebrows rather than a curve of the lips. “Touché. Now good night.”

This time I take the hint and leave, although not without first telling Marva that we'll start tomorrow morning at ten o'clock sharp. She'd better be ready to roll up her caftan sleeves and get work done because I'll be cracking the whip something fierce. Okay, maybe I only confirmed the time and stopped there, but I believe the rest was implied.

I
get to the bowling alley in time to help Heather's husband, Hank, carry pitchers of pop from the concession stand. It's one of those new, glossy bowling alleys with the high-tech video screens and pulsing music. Tonight is eighties night, and Cyndi Lauper is reminding us how girls just want to have fun.

“I can't believe DJ is eighteen. I'm the father of an adult,” Hank says, setting the pitchers down on a table next to a cake and a pile of gifts. “I'm barely an adult myself.”

“They grow so fast when you feed them,” I say. “So where is everybody?”

“The kids are bowling. The moms are hanging by the bar.”

“Who's here?” I keep my voice nonchalant, but Hank picks up on my tension. Or more likely, Heather has prepped him, reminding him of how I've been avoiding people for a reason. She must have told me a dozen times I didn't have to come tonight, but that's like when people invite you to Tupperware parties and say you don't have to buy anything. They never mean it.

“Don't worry, we kept it small. Let's see … DJ invited Zac, Nicholas, Samantha, and of course Crystal. So that means mom-wise we have—”

“My worst nightmare?”

“Nah, merely a few of your dearest, closest friends.” He chucks me under the chin. Hank is an ex–college football player, gone soft over the years, and the master of the gentle gesture, having one too many times not known his own strength. “You'll be fine. Nobody's going to say anything about it.”

It
being Ash.
It
being rehab.
It
being the talk of our suburb for a while, although never to my face.

Hank excuses himself to go drag little Abigail away from the teenagers before she picks up any new words. I mentally dress myself in armor and head to the bar area.

As I approach, Mary Beth Abernathy gives a wave from the booth
where they're sitting. She's in her uniform of mom jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt advertising one of her kids' sports teams—her bangs a tad too short, as if she cut them herself. “Why, look, Heather, here comes your roommate now!”

Impressive. She didn't even give me time to get a drink before she managed to embarrass me about having to bunk with Heather's family.

Heather rolls her eyes. She doesn't like Mary Beth any more than I do, but their sons have been best friends since grade school. They're practically in-laws.

Janie—who is the mom of DJ's girlfriend, Crystal—pours a margarita from a pitcher on the table and hands it to me. “I hear today was your first day on a new job. I'm guessing you need this.”

“Straight tequila might be more appropriate.”

“That bad?” Heather asks, scooting over to make room for me. Heather has been my best friend since we met in college, and I swear she hasn't aged ten minutes since then. She still has that sleek, coltish, coed look—as if she spends her days playing tennis and lunching with the gals, instead of what she really does, which is take care of everybody and everything.

“I'm joking,” I say. “It was all right.” I turn to Mary Beth, eager to change the subject to something other than me. “So has Nicholas decided on a college yet?”

And off they go—I'm free to sit back and enjoy my drink while the three of them go back and forth about SAT scores and graduation and college choices and the higher-education prep I didn't get to go through with Ash. I'd always thought I would. Ash is smart, as in “I don't have to study but I still ace the test” smart. Although he's a year older than DJ, they used to hang out in the same crowd—nice kids with great grades that managed to sidestep being tagged as nerds. Of course, once my son got into drugs, the lifelong friends went by the wayside, along with the grades. His new crowd looked as if he'd pulled them out from under a collapsed building.