The Very Thought of You (21 page)

Molly hadn't thought it was possible: two sleepless nights in a row. That had to speak to something deeper than lust, something that kept a woman tossing in her bed at night.
Don't let it be love.
The word lurked in her brain like a serial intruder, and she skirted around it for two days. She didn't want to fall in love with Nick. Not when the whole relocation thing with his tenants and the vulnerability of the clinic floated above her head like a dark cloud ready to dump buckets of acid rain down.

Molly tapped her pencil against her desk. Since she couldn't sleep, she'd decided she might as well come to work early. Maybe she could squeeze out all thoughts of Nick if she focused on planning her next event. Sure, like if she bought a pair of hiking boots she could conquer Mount Everest. She glanced at the yellow lined page in front of her. All she'd managed were a few doodles across the top. At least it wasn't filled with a dozen variations of his name. Her heart wanted to follow the already trod route, but her brain resisted and won. A small victory, although probably the first of many future battles.

She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and sighed. Maybe she could catch a quick nap. It might help her come up with a spectacular idea later for her next fundraiser.

A loud rap against the front door snapped her eyes open. It sounded like someone struck the metal with something hard, like a mallet. It could be a street person or, more than likely, someone with a medical problem. Dr. Ed wasn't even in yet. She went to the door and squinted through the peephole. Mrs. Zamoulian. Molly quickly worked the three locks and opened the door.

“Molly, you need to come.” Mrs. Zamoulian flapped inside, visibly agitated, if a flushed face and flyaway bun were any indication. She dragged along a rectangular sheet of cardboard mounted to a yard-long piece of wood. Writing, thick and black and probably made with a felt tip pen, ran across the cardboard in a downward slope. Two words had an X slashed through the middle. Whatever its purpose, the message was sure to attract attention.

“Mrs. Z.” Molly took the sign and led the woman into her office. “Is something wrong?”

“It's that Serk. He says my spelling is shit … Excuse me, I didn't mean to offend … and that
he
is in charge of all the words. This is what he told me to print.”

Molly took a closer look at the sign and read the uneven lettering. GREDY NOOKELHEAD BILDER. STAY OUT OF HER.

“Ah … Mrs. Z, what's going on?”

“It's a picket.” The small, frail woman pulled her shoulders back and seemed to grow at least three inches.

“Picket?”

“We use your idea.”

“Mine?”

“You know. Quiet but firm. We take your advice.”

“My advice.” Then Molly remembered the night of the association meeting. Ideas floated as to what constituted a silent protest.
Her
ideas, one of which she borrowed — no —
stole
from Nick. Of course, he hadn't been serious when he suggested they were ramping up to picket his condo project. Now it seemed the tenants had thrust the idea into action. “How many of you are involved in this … picket?”

“Everyone. I need you to fix my words.”

Molly laid the sign on her desk. No amount of fixing was going to make sense out of this jumble of letters, but she couldn't tell that to Mrs. Z. They'd have to start over with a fresh piece of cardboard. She glanced around her office. Nothing useful.

“I think you should redo this. Do you have any other materials at home?”

“He does.” Mrs. Z's eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared.

“Mr. Serk?”

“He says he will make sign. I say no way, Mr. Bully. Then I think of an idea. I tell him Molly will do it. Yes?”

Molly agreed, too tired to search her brain for an escape route out of the impending hell of confronting Duncan Serk. She grabbed her purse, the sign, and Mrs. Z's arm. She locked the door and headed for the apartment house. The tenants shambled in a line that stretched across the sidewalk in front of their building. Apparently, Mr. Serk had been busy. A glance confirmed he had a much better command of the language than Mrs. Z. Except for a couple of double negatives and misplaced commas, he managed to get his message across. Everyone carried picket signs. The demands started and ended with money — and lots of it. There were also a few brickbats aimed at Nick. When she helped Mrs. Z redo her contribution, she'd try to steer her away from “gredy” and especially “nookelhead” and onto something that might make her landlord more supportive.

Molly spotted extra cardboard, pens, and a staple gun. Should she ask permission or just collect what she required and get busy? One look at Duncan Serk stomping along the curb, and she opted for her second choice. She grabbed the necessary items and led Mrs. Z to a corner of the building farthest from the association scourge. It was only steps from Nick's construction site. Only two members of his work crew had arrived so far, but one held a cell phone in his hand. Suspicion gnawed at her that Nick already knew about the rebel movement that had sprung up outside his property. She propped the cardboard against the scarred wood of the building's façade.

“Okay, let's think of something that gets your point across.
Gredy
, I mean greedy, is thought provoking but, perhaps, not as positive as another approach. You want to state your position clearly without creating ill will. Remember, as you once said, you don't need a gun to catch bees. Just honey.” Actually, Molly thought it was flies, but what difference did it make? Nick was going to be madder than ten hives full of stingers when he saw this rag-tag gang picketing his site.

“It was his idea.” Mrs. Z pointed to Serk. “He's the nookelhead. I try to tell him what I want to say. He does not listen.”

“I will. Tell me what message you'd like on your sign and I'll print it.”

Mrs. Z patted Molly's arm. “You're a good girl. Smart, too. You I trust.”

Molly smiled, touched by Mrs. Z's confidence in her. “Okay, let's compose something in your words, something you'd like to tell Mr. Mancini. Let it come from your heart.”

Mrs. Z thought for a moment. “I want to tell him I need a roof on my head. This is my home. Do not take away.”

A thin film of moisture blurred Molly's vision, and she blinked back the beginnings of a tear. She gave Mrs. Z a quick hug and began to work on the roof idea.

She penciled in a few words in large block letters. When the cardboard was filled, she stepped back to assess the impact of the message.

MY HOME

IS UNDER THIS ROOF

DO NOT TAKE IT AWAY

She read it aloud to Mrs. Z. “Is that closer to what you wanted to say?”

“You are such a clever girl. You told that Mr. Builder exactly how I feel. The others, they can show him the ill will.”

Molly grabbed a black felt tip pen, propped the sign against the building façade and began to trace over the penciled letters. The jagged, uneven wall made it difficult to hold the cardboard steady. Mrs. Z had wandered over to help one of the other women just when Molly needed another hand.

The pen hit a particularly rough spot, creating a squiggle. “Oh, crap.” Molly began to trace a straight line over the squiggly one.

“Do you need help?”

The hand that extended from the cuff of a pale blue shirt sleeve took up a position beside Molly's. She glanced over her shoulder and up into Nick's eyes. The vibrant amber had deepened to rusty mud.

“Hello, Nick.” The last time she'd gazed into those eyes, they'd been heavy with sexual desire. Now they looked mad, sad, and anything but glad to see her. A quick glance at her watch showed the time at 7:31. He'd lost little time hurrying to the site.

“This is your idea, I suppose.”

He spoke close to her ear.

“No. Well, sort of no, if you consider I'm not the original source. I'm helping Mrs. Z with spelling and penmanship.”

“Is that your source over there?” He thrust his chin in Duncan Serk's direction.

“Actually, it's a lot closer than him.”

“Someone ought to tell him he misspelled
doofus
. I think it has only one ‘s'.”

Nick stood close enough for Molly to see his hair was still damp. It looked furrowed, as if he'd raked his fingers through it, like he jumped out of the shower and into his clothes and raced to the site. A thick lock fell toward one eye. Her stomach flip-flopped at the mere thought of brushing it back.

He took the pen from her, capped it, and put it in his pocket. Then he moved her hand and the sign slid down the wood façade to her feet.

“The idea came from you, Nick.”

He frowned. “Try something more original.”

He held her hand, the ring finger and pinky, anyway. Did that mean, in spite of the picketing, he still wanted to touch some part of her? More likely, he was afraid she'd bolt before he finished blaming her for everything from the housing crunch to global warming.

“Do you recall the morning you charged into my office? You said you were surprised your tenants weren't picketing you.”

“So … ”

She told him that at the association meeting someone,
possibly
her … mentioned a silent protest could, under the right conditions, be more effective than a bunch of people shouting. Picketing seemed like a good example. “I would never have thought of this on my own.”

He shook his head and the frown melted. “You were supposed to stay out of it.”

“I am out.”

He nudged the picket sign with the toe of his shoe. “You keep digging in deeper.”

“Is that what Saturday was all about?
Programming
me to turn my back on these people?”

“What? Hell no. Is that what you think?”

She shrugged. “It occurred to me.”

“So that's why you're here making picket signs?” His thumb rubbed her pinky. Disappointment colored his tone, his expression turned hurt as if his best friend had abandoned him.

“Only one sign.”

“When this is resolved, you and I are going to sit down and thrash this whole thing through.”

“By then, one of us might not be talking to the other.”

“Then let's go somewhere right now.” He moved a few inches closer.

“Don't step over this line.” She pointed to the thin ribbon of chipped concrete that outlined the sidewalk squares.

He frowned. “Why not?”

“It's a boundary line, like at a demilitarized zone.”

“What have you people geared up for here, World War Three?”

She shook her head. “Mrs. Z said the tenants agreed to stay on their side of the line and not cross onto your property.” Molly glanced over his shoulder to where a trio of workmen loitered near the construction site.

“Even Serk?”

“Well, I understand he was resistant. But only at first.”

“That's city turf they're on.”

“They have a right.”

“Uh-oh.” Nick dropped her hand. The muscles in his face tightened. He'd gone from abandoned to pissed off in less than a minute.

She glanced behind her. Duncan Serk, whose sign read DIRTY STINKIN, GREEDY, DOOFUSS, TALK AIN'T NO GOOD NO MORE stalked their way, one hand balled into a fist.

“Go back to work, Molly.” Nick lifted her a few inches off the sidewalk and put her down on his side of the line. “Now.”

The construction workers fingered their tool belts and moved closer to Nick. He waved them off and walked toward Serk. Molly stood her ground.

“Do you have a permit?” Nick asked Serk in a calm tone.

“Huh?”

“You're congregating on city property. You need a permit for that.”

Serk frowned. His features compressed into tight lines around his ferret-like eyes. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“If you check with the police department, you'll find that no more than three people can be out here at one time.” He fingered the cell phone clipped to his belt. “If you'd like, I can call the local police station and get clarification.”

Molly had never heard of such a rule except for parades and demonstrations that involved large numbers of unruly people. Or gatherings in countries run by brutal dictators.

“While I do that, I'll have the cops investigate those studs you've stapled your signs to. If those are materials stolen from my worksite, you'll have to explain that, as well.”

“Huh?”

Apparently, Duncan Serk was a man of single words when confronted by someone who stood up to him.

“It's illegal for this many people to gather. Unless you want the women arrested along with you, they should clear off the street. The men can continue picketing in front of the building. Just don't cross that line over there.” Nick pointed to what Molly had referred to as the demilitarized zone.

Four or five additional construction workers arrived and stood clustered near Molly.

One of the other male tenants headed over to Nick. “We don't want any trouble. Right, Serk?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. We don't want no trouble, but we're stickin' to our demands.”

Serk turned away without waiting for a reply from Nick. The women had already cleared off the sidewalk, except for Mrs. Z who seemed reluctant until Molly caught her eye and motioned for her to follow the others inside.

Only four men remained in front of the building. Nick walked back to Molly.

“Hey, boss. Nice goin'.” One of the construction workers pumped his fist. Another slapped Nick on the back.

“Okay, it's over. If anyone comes onto this property when I'm not at the site, call me. Don't get into any hassles with them.”

“Those guys ain't gonna cause trouble. You took care of that, boss.”

“All right, it's over. Let's get busy.”

The workers drifted onto the construction site.