Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Iris
“Okay, boss,” I say, trying to sound more excited about this than I feel. “Where do we start?”
“With Joy,” he says. “I know who she is.”
“I assume you’re going to tell me how you figured that out,” I say. “If you’re going to mentor me, you have to share all your secrets.”
“Grab your coat and come with me,” he says, pulling his own coat back on.
I look down at my pajama pants, then at him with a this is what you get look.
“Oh, we’re not leaving the building. Well, not leaving the grounds.”
I’m confused.
“You’ll see. But you’ll probably want shoes.”
I grab my shoes, pull on my coat and follow him out into the hallway and then down the stairwell.
I do a really good job of not asking a bunch of questions on the way—go me—and we reach the ground floor and step into the lobby, then walk into the courtyard.
The courtyard was one of the things I loved most about the building when I first moved in, but I only now realize I haven’t spent any real time out here.
Even though it’s too cold for sitting by the empty pool, I spot two older women on a bench near the fountain, a blanket over their laps, bundled in coats and holding two mugs of what I assume is coffee or tea—but judging by the way they’re cackling and carrying on, it could just as easily be brandy.
“What are we doing out here?” I ask, as Matteo makes a beeline toward the women. “Wait! I’m still in my pajam?—”
Before I can finish, one of the women calls out, “You’re back!”
“Oh! And you brought a lady friend,” the other one says, clearly interested.
I object to the word “lady” but don’t say so.
“This is Iris,” Matteo says, indicating me. “She’s new to the building.”
“Not that new,” the first woman cracks. “She’s been here since August.”
“Works at the elementary school,” the other woman chimes in.
“Hasn’t had a date since she’s lived here but appears to be single,” the first one says.
“Buys a lot of yarn.”
They both stare at me, like they might have to describe me to a sketch artist one day.
“Uh . . . that’s right,” I say, frowning.
“What do you make with all that yarn?” the first woman asks.
“It depends,” I say. “Lately, I’ve been crocheting these little stuffed animals, but I’ve done blankets and scarves and . . .” I lose steam, but add a quiet, “Other things.”
They turn to one another and mumble and nod, a smattering of oh, yeah, see, I told you, yes, you were right’s, like they had a bet on my yarn usage.
Matteo motions toward the first woman, who is wearing thick, black-framed glasses. “Iris, this is Roberta.” He pivots slightly and points to the other woman. “And her sister, Rhonda.”
Both are gray-haired, wearing big, puffy coats, stocking caps, mittens and have matching red lips.
“Rhonda doesn’t live here,” Roberta says.
“I’m here for the coffee.” Rhonda holds up her cup.
“And for my sparkling personality.” Roberta snorts.
“And for this one’s cannoli.” Rhonda nods at Matteo, who’s standing there with his hands stuffed in his pockets. It’s not lost on me that he looks like the top result of a google search for “hot Italian chefs,” and I’m still in my pajamas.
“We would’ve talked to you without the cannoli, you know,” Rhonda says. “But it was a nice touch.”
Matteo trades information for cannoli. Smart. Use what you got, I say. Which makes me wonder—what do I have? A partially crocheted jellyfish?
“Roberta. Rhonda. Will you tell Iris what you told me about Joy?” he asks.
“Oh, right,” Roberta says, her Boston accent coming through thick. “So one day last month, I was standing at my sink, doing dishes—my husband Harold is terrible about rinsing the pan after he cooks, so I had to put a little elbow grease into it. I mean, really, what is so hard about rinsing a pan? It would rinse right off if he did it right away, but?—”
Rhonda smacks her sister in the arm. “Get on with it!”
Roberta holds her hand up in surrender. “Geesh, I was just saying?—”
“Okay, but just say the thing he asked you to say! Nobody cares about Harold’s pans. ”
In her accent, “cares”, “Harold”, and “pans” all sort of rhyme.
Roberta doesn’t miss a beat. “So, there I am, washing away, when I see a woman wandering around the building, holding onto a little girl’s hand like they don’t know where they’re going. Of course I couldn’t get a good look from my window, so I dried my hands quick, bagged up the garbage, and started for the dumpster, mostly because I didn’t want to, you know, make it obvious I was spying.”
“No good spy makes it obvious,” Rhonda interjects, dryly.
“Right.” Roberta pats her on the arm, and Matteo, who’s presumably already heard this story, must see this as an opening to speed her along.
“Tell Iris the part about how Joy lives here now with her daughter because she’s?—”
“Divorced.” Roberta whispers this, sounding like di-vawced , like it’s something we don’t say out loud.
“Getting divorced,” Matteo finishes his thought, with a nod toward me. “She’s going through a divorce.”
“Temporarily here,” Rhonda says, clearly clued in on the gossip. “Not sure her husband is going to come through on the alimony, and she hasn’t worked since she had her daughter.”
“So. She needs a job,” I say, with a glance toward Matteo.
“And some hope,” Rhonda says. “You wouldn’t believe how sad she is all the time. And that little girl.” Rhonda presses a palm to her chest and shakes her head. “Bless her sweet little heart. Oh, but you probably know her, Iris. She goes to your school.”
And that’s when I put the dots together. “Wait. Is her daughter’s name Alice?”
“Bingo,” Roberta says, pointing at me. “Joy moved in here so Alice didn’t have to change schools.”
My mind spins back to the day I met them in the hallway, coming in late. Joy mentioned there was “a lot going on at home.” No wonder Alice has been so sad.
“She’s been out job hunting,” Roberta continues, “but not getting anywhere, and at night, she comes down here and plays that guitar. You might’ve heard her.”
I shake my head. “I haven’t.”
“She’s wicked good,” Roberta says.
“Can’t make money that way, though.” Rhonda shakes her head, like she’s got proof to back up this opinion.
“Right,” I say. And then, I get an idea. I give a quick nod to Matteo, then back to the sisters. “Thanks, ladies. It was so nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, Iris Ellington of Apartment 3D.”
“How do you . . .?”
Roberta grins. “I know everything .”
I take a few steps back, slow-nodding and grabbing on to Matteo’s arm. As we turn to go, I hear Rhonda say, “I’m glad he’s back on the horse, even if she’s not at all who I pictured him with.”
“The important thing here is that he’s dating again,” Roberta says. “After what he’s been through, that’s all that matters.”
“Small miracles,” Rhonda says.
I turn back, wondering if they realize we can hear them. They wave at me, smiling in unison, seemingly oblivious to how loud they are.
I glance at Matteo, who has picked up the pace and is darting out of the courtyard, clearly uncomfortable, and a thought occurs to me.
If Roberta and her sister know things about me, then they know things about him too.
“So. Confidential cannoli informants,” I say as we walk toward one of the doors that leads back inside.
“Whatever works.” He shrugs. “They’re out there every Sunday morning like clockwork. Lots of weekdays, too. More often in the summer.”
I nod like this is key information I need to know.
“She wasn’t lying. They really do know everything,” he says.
I narrow my gaze. “Except the fact that we aren’t dating.”
“Oh, no,” he says. “They know that too. My guess is they wanted to see how we’d react.”
I frown. “They’re like the Fates or the Muses or something. Magic building, crafty old women . . . is this actually Hogwarts?” I joke.
“It’d be easier if it was. More people to take care of things instead of just me.”
“Just us ,” I correct him.
He inhales. “And hopefully soon, just you.”
I get it , I think. You don’t have to keep reminding me that’s all this friendship is.
“Oh, and they’re still watching us.”
I pretend to laugh and look back, and yep, Rhonda is craned over from behind Roberta, still watching us walk back into the building. “Remarkable.”
“They’re bored and observant and invaluable when the newspaper is cryptic,” he says. “Which is often.”
“And they’re kind of fun.”
He pulls the door open and looks at me, something close to a frown on his face. “You think?”
I walk inside. “Yeah, I do. I want to have coffee with them.”
We reach the lobby and stop. I wonder if this is where we go our separate ways because the magic lesson is over or . . .?
“Do you want to figure out a way to help Joy, or do you need to get back to rotting on your couch?” His question cuts off my mental ramble.
“What about Slow Sunday?” I ask .
“Sacrifices must be made for the magic, Iris.”
I watch him for a second, then say, “For someone who doesn’t like doing this, you’re awfully good at it.”
He shrugs. “I’ve found that the quicker I figure out what it wants me to do and do it, the quicker I can go back to my life.”
“And it couldn’t be that underneath your cranky exterior, you actually like helping people?” I ask.
“Absolutely not,” he says with no trace of irony.
If I didn’t know him better, I’d believe him. “Uh-huh.” I shoot him a look and push past him toward the stairwell. “Fine. I’ll go change. Meet me in half an hour?”
“Just come to my apartment when you’re ready,” he says, “I’m going to run to the market to get a few things.”
I eye him for a long moment. “You’re going to feed me, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to save you from the Pop-Tarts, yes.”
“Can you save me with pancakes?” I ask.
He groans. “You’re getting to be really high maintenance.”
“You kind of knew that.” I stare.
He stares back.
After a beat, he says, “Fine.”
I push open the stairwell door and step inside, not concealing my smile. “You know what this means, don’t you?” I say, holding the door open, knowing he’s not going to follow.
He raises his eyebrows in a question.
“Four meals, several cups of coffee, and the sharing of magical secrets?” I pull my arm off the door and take a step back. “I think you secretly like being my friend.”
The door closes before he can respond, and I smile because now he’s the one on the other side.
Take that.