Chapter 7 Mona
MONA
I wake up excited on Monday morning.
No particular reason for it. At least no reason I’m willing to devote much time or energy exploring.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been so fired up about spending time with a guy.
It’s not as if my social life has been nonexistent lately.
I regularly go out on dates. Decent guys with their lives mostly together and enough intelligence and stability to be a match for me.
They aren’t exactly thick on the ground, but they do exist. When one asks me out, I’m happy to give it a try.
But it’s been several years since I’ve woken up, my mind spinning with the possibilities of what might happen with a man that day.
I’m not clueless or deluded enough to not recognize the feeling, but after some mental effort, I’m able to put it into appropriate context.
Douglas Saxon-Barrington is so far from a romantic possibility for me it’s not even worth parsing out the pros and cons. But he’s agreed to hang out with me for the month, and there’s no reason we can’t have a good time.
Whatever that good time looks like.
As long as I don’t start thinking toward a future, there’s no reason not to enjoy it.
So I dress in a cute outfit—fitted chocolate-brown trousers and a ribbed red top that shows off my boobs.
(That fact is purely incidental, of course.
Not at all intentional.) And I pull my hair into a ponytail and add a little makeup to highlight my eyes and cheekbones.
Then I go down to the kitchen early to bake a small batch of cranberry muffins to bring one to Douglas with his smoothie.
At exactly seven, I’m tapping on his library door.
“Come.”
Come.
I feel like shaking my head at him as I enter, but I don’t.
He was reading in his normal chair by the fireplace, but he’s watching me enter. “Have I already managed to annoy you?”
I pause. It’s easy to forget how sharp this man is. My expression was entirely neutral. How he read my feelings from minuscule facial shifts I really don’t know. “Of course not.”
He lowers his eyebrows. “Now I have the evidence of both your expression and your tone. What could I have possibly done in thirty seconds to earn your disapproval?” He doesn’t sound annoyed. More like he’s hiding amusement.
I can’t help but laugh as I bring over his tray. “You didn’t. First, I was thinking you could come up with a friendlier greeting to a knock on the door. And then I was slightly rattled by your reading my mood so easily when I put on a good face.”
He sets his book down completely without marking his spot. He’s probably one of those people who remembers his place in a book without a bookmark. “You’re extremely proficient at composing your face for the world, but I’m a quick study. And I’ve already identified your tells.”
“I have tells?”
I situate his tray beside him, pleased when he immediately reaches for the still-warm muffin.
“Of course you have tells. Everyone has tells. But most people don’t look at others close enough to learn them.” After taking a bite, he adds, “This is good.”
“Are you surprised?”
“Not at all surprised. Of course you’re proficient at baking. You’re proficient at everything. I’m surprised I even want a muffin at this time in the morning. I’ve spent years having only smoothies for breakfast.”
“I know. But you’re doing something different this December, so you might as well shake up your whole routine.”
“Shaking up sounds rather violent.” He’s almost smiling, his eyes resting unwaveringly on my face.
“Not violent. Just a gentle shake-up.”
“Uh-huh. That would be more convincing were you not looking like the cat who caught the mouse.”
I giggle, spilling over with warm feeling.
He’s got a better sense of humor than was evident on our first meeting. He’s not only book smart. He’s clever and quick. But my laughter isn’t simply amusement. It’s a weird wave of intimate appreciation.
Like he sees me. Like he knows me. Like his regard carries a weight I’m entirely unfamiliar with.
We stare at each other for a minute until the silence makes me nervous. “Aren’t you interested in what we’re doing today?”
“Yes. I am, in fact, interested, but I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”
I look him over, pleased to see his clothes are a little more casual today.
He’s got on tan trousers and a thicker button-up shirt, one that doesn’t look like it will wrinkle at the slightest pressure.
“I haven’t decided on this afternoon yet, but I thought we should make ourselves useful this morning. ”
“Ah. So you’re going to put me to work?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
* * *
An hour later, Douglas and I are standing together at the entrance of a huge closet in a back hallway.
I’m grinning, and he’s staring in bleak astonishment.
“How did it get like this?” he asks at last, tilting his head down to meet my eyes.
“Don’t blame Colleen. I asked her about it on the first day, and although she was very discreet, it was clear that this closet’s condition is the result of years of her asking what you want to do with random junk and your telling her to just stuff it somewhere.”
Douglas stares at me for a minute. Then turns back toward the enormous walk-in closet. Every inch of it is packed with assorted items.
After a minute, his shoulders shake slightly. He lets out a soft huff. Then another.
Then he’s laughing for real.
I find myself smiling at him like a sap as he laughs, and I honestly couldn’t tell you why.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this secret source of chaos in my well-ordered home?” he asks at last.
“My guess is that Colleen didn’t want to bother you about it, and with the door closed, she didn’t have to worry about it.
But I don’t believe in leaving little corners untended simply because we don’t want to bother with them.
The corners eventually spill over and clutter up our lives. So our project today is this closet.”
“I now understand why you left the afternoon unplanned. We’ll probably still be working on this closet.”
“Probably. But if you’d rather break it up over a couple of days, that’s fine too.”
“No. If we’re going to do it, let’s do it. How should we start?”
“We’ll take it section by section, pulling everything out and sorting it into piles. My guess is that only about a quarter of this stuff you really need to keep. Everything else we can either trash or give away.”
“Seriously? I’m sure I kept all this for a reason.”
“Maybe. But usually in these cases the reason for keeping it is that we don’t want to make a decision. So now you’re going to make all the decisions you wouldn’t make about this stuff over the years.”
He glances over at me with a quirk of his mouth. “You’re quite the taskmaster, aren’t you?”
“It’s one of my gifts.”
“Yes. I believe it is.”
For some reason—for no good reason, maybe simply something about the look in his eyes—I’m hit with a shiver of excited pleasure.
But that’s the kind of random feeling that’s better ignored.
* * *
At just before five o’clock that afternoon, we’re on the very last shelf of the closet.
To my relief, the closet clearout progressed quicker than it might have.
Most of the stuff stored here is large, so we made pretty good progress through the shelves and floor space.
Douglas isn’t as reluctant to get rid of things as a lot of people I know.
He isn’t at heart a pack rat. He probably gave none of the stuff any significant thought before, and now that I’m forcing him into it, he’s pretty good at making decisions.
He keeps some stuff he’ll likely use again in the future—like his skiing equipment and some pieces of luggage—and he keeps items from his parents that have sentimental value. But we end up with a truckload to give away and a lot of trash that’s no longer usable.
Douglas is leaning against the doorframe as I neatly arrange his father’s collection of vinyl records. I’m pretty sure some of these are valuable, but that can be looked into later.
“I can’t believe we did all that,” he says when I turn toward him. “Half the closet is empty now.”
“I know. Nothing feels better than that.”
“What should we do with all the giveaway stuff? Do we need to load it into my car? We’ll have to make a couple of trips.”
“No. There’s a place in Green Valley that will come and pick up donations. I’ve used it before on other jobs. I’ll call and they’ll send a truck to get everything.”
“Okay. Excellent.” His gold-green eyes are really quite beautiful in the artificial light of the closet. They’re resting on my face like he appreciates what he sees. “So what now?”
“Aren’t you done with me for the day?”
“I will be if you’ve got nothing else for us to do, but I’m yours all day, as we agreed.”
I’m yours all day.
Shaking away another one of those jitters of pleasure, I say, “Well, we can clean up and then you can help me make dinner if you want. Maybe we can watch a movie this evening.”
“Sounds good.”
“Yes,” I say rather stupidly. “Sounds good.”
* * *
A few days later, I’m out on one of Douglas’s sailboats on a mild, sunny afternoon.
I’m having the best time.
I’ve been sailing semiregularly throughout my life, and I’ve always loved it. But mine was never a boating family. We didn’t own a sailboat, and I’ve never bought one myself, mostly because it felt like too high-maintenance an indulgence.
But I love sailing, and Douglas’s sailboats are nicer than anything else I’ve ever been out on. Today we’re on his smallest one. It’s fairly easy to handle—at least he makes it look easy—and the wind is brisk and steady.
I was thrilled when Douglas suggested it yesterday as I was thinking of what we should do today.
On Monday we sorted the closet.
On Tuesday we cataloged all the valuable art in the house, something that has never been done completely.
On Wednesday we did some maintenance and cleaning in the old stables, which haven’t been used in twenty years.