One #3
“You say that word a lot,” I pointed out. “Maybe stop.”
“I––”
“Isn’t the point of all this for you to show off to everyone that you’re a catch?”
“The point of this is to—”
“It’s to find someone to marry, yeah? I mean, instead of going out and dating and doing the hard work yourself, you’re going through us, through a service, and we’re gonna throw a huge party, where you’ll have a chance to show off your new digs and your money and where there will be several available women who are ready to settle down and become wives and mothers. Am I right?”
He was at a loss—that much was obvious.
“So, suck up your pride about me telling you that this place looks like crap—which it does, by the way—and let us do our jobs without the hassle of listening to you moan and groan about how the crack den here ain’t so bad.”
“I’m sorry?”
I let my voice drop low. “Oh, you should be.”
“Crack den?”
I shrugged. “It’s gross.”
“I—”
“Are we all gonna get along? Yes or no? ’Cause I don’t wanna send Wade out here if you’re gonna give him crap. He’s sensitive.”
“He’s sens—”
“And a pompous ass, but that will work to your benefit because all he’ll want is what’s best for you.”
He stood there, staring at me.
“So,” I asked him, “are you in, or are you out?”
“I … Mr. Har—”
“Jory,” I corrected him, reaching out to give him a hard pat on the arm. “It’s just Jory.”
“You—”
“In or out?” I asked again, pressing for an answer.
He stared at me for several minutes before he finally said, “In.”
“Great,” I said, gesturing behind him to Michelle, who was beaming at me.
He looked over his shoulder at her, and I went to move, but before I could, he was barring my path again, sliding in front of me.
“Something else?”
“It’s just a bachelor pad. They all look the same.”
“No,” I assured him with a patronizing chuckle, stepping around him.
He was back in front of me fast—so fast, in fact, that I had to freeze mid-step or walk into him.
“What bachelors do you know?”
“Ones with better decorators,” I responded snidely, smirking at him.
“I—”
“Yeah,” I said, glancing around, “this is a travesty.”
“Mr. Har—”
“Jory,” I corrected again, walking away from him, which cut him off.
I was surprised when he followed me again.
“Can you stop walking?”
“I’m working, Mr. Fisher,” I informed him, smiling at Michelle, who appeared pained again. “I don’t get paid to just chitchat all day.”
“What are you—”
“Huh,” I grunted as my eyes flew all over the room.
“Can you quit with that?”
“Sure,” I said distractedly, taking in all the empty walls, the space. “Jesus.”
He glared at me. “What would you do differently?”
“There’s just so much you could do.”
“Like what?”
“Like everything that Wade and his team will suggest,” I assured him. “Just be open to it.”
He was speechless as I turned away, squinting at the walls.
“Wait.”
I returned my focus to him.
“You—”
“Hold that thought,” I ordered, leaving his bedroom, wrinkling my nose like something smelled.
“What?”
I scowled at him. “We talked about that word.”
His frustrated huff of breath was loud. “Just—why do you appear so disappointed?”
“Again, all this,” I said absently, taking in for the second time now the giant spool being used as a coffee table. I’d thought maybe the first time I was just seeing things. But it was there, big as life, smack-dab in the middle of his living room. “Who knew you could still even get one of those?”
“I—”
“I need a picture,” I said, snapping the photo, framing it so Wade could see all the wasted space in the room. “Wade’s gonna pull something, laughing.”
“Mr. Har—”
“Jory,” I reminded him for what felt like the tenth time, leaving him alone so I could check one of the four unused bedrooms.
It was full of sports equipment and athletic shoes. It smelled like wet dog.
The second bedroom was the one for guests.
If you were a parolee, and missing prison, you might feel right at home.
Stark was an understatement. The third bedroom was being used as an office, and in there, horribly, there were mirrors on the closet doors that didn’t fit and were cut in sort of squiggle shapes. I could not articulate my disgust.
I took a picture for Wade so he could experience the travesty himself.
I went to the kitchen, pulled out my laptop, and started uploading all the pictures I had taken. I sent them all to Wade and got a call back in five minutes. It was a new record.
“Hello, devil,” he greeted me. “I didn’t know they had reception in hell.”
I chuckled at the cool, cultured voice giving me sarcasm. “Oh, but they do.”
“Seriously,” he said, coughing, “I thought you were screwing with me with the plant hanger, trying to get me to laugh because I’m stuck here, working on a Saturday, instead of antique shopping with my man, but now I gotta ask … am I actually looking at a beanbag chair?”
“You’re fulla shit. Antique shopping, my ass. Whaddya really shop for?”
Beats of silence went by.
“Wade.”
“So, I’m in the market for a motorcycle. So what?”
I scoffed.
“Don’t tell anyone. All I’ll hear about is a fuckin’ midlife crisis that I’m not having.”
“Okay,” I assured him, “not a word.”
He grunted. “Now, seriously … is that really a beanbag chair?”
“His friend’s kids like it,” I said cheerfully.
“Super. Let’s get something cool for them, like a trampoline with netting for the backyard. The kids will love it, and it won’t be an eyesore in the man’s house. God, it’s lime green too.”
“It’s the least of his problems.”
“Oh, amen,” he agreed wholeheartedly.
“Michelle and I should be there around one.”
“I’ll have a martini waiting.”
I was laughing when I hung up, turning off my camera.
“You don’t have to plug it in?”
I turned to look at Mr. Fisher, who I hadn’t realized was there.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your camera?”
“No, it’s Bluetooth,” I told him, “and I’ve got wireless, so the horror has been documented and sent on to frighten colleagues of mine.”
“Just—”
“You know,” I said, looking at him as I stuffed my laptop and camera back in my courier bag, giving him an indulgent smile, “it’s so much worse than I ever imagined possible, Mr. Fisher. Really, it’s like a bad porno set in here.”
“I will give you that it’s a little bare, but—”
My groan cut him off. “This place so needs a makeover. It’s a wonder you’re not more depressed than you already are.”
“I’m not depressed!”
Defensive much?
“No, of course not,” I replied indulgently.
He swore under his breath.
“And it’s lucky you don’t have kids yet ’cause all the open space would be creepy at night.”
“What are you—”
“It must be scary as hell in here in the dark. When I was little, we just had a trailer, but even then, when I woke up at night, I used to pretend I was Frankenstein, ya know? I’d walk to the bathroom moaning, making the growling sort of noise he made, doing the slow shuffle with my arms out ’cause I figured if the other monsters thought I was a monster, too, then they wouldn’t try and get me. ”
He was staring at me, open-mouthed.
“Makes sense, don’tcha think?”
“You just … you …”
I smiled wide. “Back to the house, Mr. Fisher. I promise when we’re done, with the budget you’ve given us and the free rein over design, it will be stunning, okay?”