Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

  “Do what they say for stage fright. Pretend you see her in her underwear.”

  She swatted him on the arm. “That’s what you do, perv.”

  “That’s the best you can do, ‘perv?’” He pinched her nose.

  The elevator climbed higher and she started to lose her nerve, still in disbelief she’d suggested such a hair-brained scheme. He was the loose cannon, not her.

  Nick leaned over to place his sunglasses on her nose. He hadn’t stood this close to her since he’d given her the bear mug, and whenever he spoke, his white teeth and tongue made her a little lightheaded. Over the past few weeks, his marquee looks had roughened up, going from sleek business suits to snug tees and holey jeans, and the dark scruff dusting his jaw made him rakish. He secured the silky knot under her chin, and the light touch of his fingers made her heart skip several beats.

  “Try slouching your shoulders. Goddamn it, Elena, you’re too—luminous. You look like you’re an actress sneaking out of her yoga class to avoid the paparazzi.”

  Ripples of thrills went through her. He thought of her as luminous?

  “Wipe off your lipstick.”

  “I’m not wearing any.”

  “So those are just naturally kissable.” His amber-colored eyes went half-lidded as he studied her mouth.

  Again her pulse jumped. She reminded herself that he’d been an impersonal jerk for the last couple of weeks.

  Ping.

  The elevator doors slid open, and Nick strayed out into the empty corridor. “All right, soldier. Our mission is Operation Iron Noodle. We go in, recover the recipe box, and get back out.”

  She remembered their pool game banter weeks ago. “I have skills,” she muttered in her Slavic accent. “Make me nightmare for you.”

  Laughing, Nick shook his head. “You’re a one-woman show, Svetlana. I’ll watch for the security guard.” Near the elevator, they paused at the Grecian-inspired console flanked by two English ivy topiaries. He nodded toward the end of the corridor. “Remember. Run before her snakes come out and turn us into stone.”

  Rolling her eyes, she turned toward the door, moving her reluctant feet over the thick carpet runner in blues and silvers.

  At the condo door, she hitched in a breath. Get this insanity over with. She knocked a few times.

  On the other side, there was rustling.

  “Yes?” Lexi’s voice purred via the intercom.

  Elena fidgeted. Breathe, now. “I housekeeper for man here. Mister Nick.” It came out Neek.

  “He no longer lives here, and I have a cleaning service.”

  “I leave something here. Small box.”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Please. Open door. We talk.”

  The door flew open in a wide swing, and a snide Lexi glared at her. She wore black leggings and a slouchy, cowl-necked sweater patterned in a charcoal gray and white chevron. Her tan over-the-knee boots had four-inch heels. She flung locks of her long blond hair behind her shoulders. “Make it quick.”

  Thank goodness for Nick’s sunglasses. “My day off. I leave recipe box here. You see?”

  “What I see is you interrupting me.” Lexi turned away from her. “I’ll have the guard’s job for this.” She sidled over to the living room, where her cell phone lay on an end table.

  “Please. Please . . . lovely lady, no call. No get mister downstairs in trouble. He nice man, he let me up,” she lied. Minutes ago, Nick accessed the public lobby by keying in the right code, and they zipped past the distracted security guard. “I only be minute. I look, then go.” Elena ventured further into the condo.

  Lexi picked up a red tumbler with a built-in straw and waved a long-nailed hand at a box near the area rug. “The last of Nick’s shit is over there.” She meandered behind her, sipping from the giant gulp-style cup. “What’s your name and who do you work for?”

  “Svetlana.” In a panic, she couldn’t come up with anything else.

  Her cool eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And the last name?”

  “Stalinski.” Dear Lord, all she could remember was that Svetlana was the daughter of Joseph Stalin. At least she added a “ski.” She had the horrible feeling Lexi was toying with her, much the way a cat used a claw to torment a squirming mouse.

  “What company do you work for?” Lexi carried the tumbler to an ornate liquor cabinet near the windows. Both of its mahogany doors were open, revealing at least fifty bottles. Must belong to her, because it hadn’t been there when Nick occupied the condo. Lexi emptied the Chardonnay bottle into the tumbler. “What company—”

  “I work solo.” Damn. “Solo” was too Americanized. “Alone.”

  “You look harmless enough.” She walked closer to where Elena stood and flapped open the purse flung on the couch. She extracted a nail file. “Hurry up.”

  Elena went to the box, kneeled and began removing items, one at a time, setting them on the wood-planked floor.

  Lexi leaned a hip against the sofa and filed a forefinger. “Why would your recipe box be here?”

  “I cook for Mister Neek.”

  “You cook and clean. Was that it? You just cooked for him.”

  First I did an exotic belly dance with a rose between my teeth. Then I did gymnastic splits, a backflip and rocked his world. Elena bit back the sarcasm. “I married. Husband keel him.”

  “God, you look like you’re burning up. Take off your coat.”

  Nick had said the same thing, the first time she came here. She was sweating, but the coat provided camouflage by giving her bulk. She continued to poke around inside the lone box. So far, he’d told the truth about his “Lost and Found.” No sign of any lingerie in here. Two pairs of dress socks, a silk tie. Hair products. And this, a one-ounce gold bottle with a crown on the top.

  “That’s Clive Christian,” Lexi said. “I should keep it for his father, because God knows that stupid shit doesn’t deserve it. Hmm . . . that scarf you’re wearing.”

  There was a perceptible shift in the room.

  Halting her search, Elena twisted around and looked up.

  Lexi stared at her, thin eyebrows arched. “It’s beautiful. Where did you get it?”

  “Papa buy for me.”

  “Papa? You lying bitch.” Lexi threw aside the nail file and lunged for her. “That’s a fucking Hermes scarf. What’s a church mouse like you doing with Hermes?” She yanked hard on the pointed end.

  The silk fabric slid off Elena’s head and was held to her throat by the knot, cutting into the skin, making her gag.

  They struggled for several moments. Lexi kept viciously pulling on the scarf, and Elena choked as the knot dug deeper into her throat.

  “Give it to me.”

  “No.” Elena gasped, shocked that Lexi had attacked her.

  Lexi rushed around in front of her and pulled the scarf off her head, her eyes wide with triumph. She flung open the front door. “Get the hell out.”

  Nick had stationed himself on the other side of the door and charged through, clenching his fists. “Give it back.”

  “Get out of here, or I’m going to press charges for trespassing.” She waved her phone and dialed 9-1-1. Then her entire demeanor shifted. “Excuse me,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve just had a break-in and they’re still here. I’ve locked myself in my closet and I’m terrified.” She disconnected, extended her arm and dropped the phone to the couch cushions, her fingers spread apart. “Burn, bitches!”

  “Ms. Jasper? There a problem?” At the doorway, dressed in a brown uniform, the security guard appeared alarmed.

  Nick pivoted to face the guard. “Bill. How’d you get up here so fast?”

  “I contacted him minutes ago,” Lexi said. “The church mouse needs acting lessons.”

  Nick curved an arm around Elena’s shoulders and addressed the guard. ”I’m here to pick up the last of my stuff. And Ms. Jasper has a scarf belonging to my friend.”

  Lexi leaned forward in a taunt, cupping her mouth. “Elena, did you kn
ow you were only a friend?”

  “Shut up.” He spun to look at the uniformed man. “On my mother’s grave, the scarf belongs to her.”

  “I don’t want any trouble, Mr. Zaccardi.” He pushed his matching brown police hat back from his forehead. “You and me have always been real friendly.”

  “Bill. I wouldn’t lie about this.”

  Lexi snorted. “Who pays the bills around here now, Bill?”

  “Let’s go,” Elena said quietly, trying not to look at the colorful scarf wrapped tightly around Lexi’s hand. As if she were strangling it.

  “No,” Nick said.

  Elena looked at him. “She’s enjoying this too much. Let’s go before the police arrive.”

  They followed the guard out into the hallway.

  “You’re rocking the rugged look, Junior.” Elbows out, hands on her hips, Lexi sauntered behind them, eyes bright, spiteful. “Oh, and that ugly wooden box? I threw it out.”

  We dig near a pitted utility pole, its red-and-white sign blaring NO PARKING, VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED. Behind us are red-bricked condos, glass block windows indicating bathrooms and a narrow alley.

  We’re stomping around inside a commercial dumpster stenciled with my former building’s number, knee-deep in forty or so garbage bags emitting a cesspool stink. I’m praying like hell Mama’s recipe box is in this morass, somewhere. “It’s probably in the landfill along I-55.”

  Elena’s been quiet and leans over to pick up an empty Bordeaux, the bottle a deep absinthe color. “This looks expensive.”

  “It is.”

  She shoves the bottle into a new garbage bag. “They should recycle.” She stops to nudge up the glove on her hand, one of mine, because it’s way too big.

  I’ve tried jokes, apologies, threats to Lexi’s life. Nothing works. I call my father again. Leave a fifth message. I stuff the phone back into my jeans pocket, aware I’ll need to disinfect it later. I glance at her. “Smart idea, you suggesting we buy garbage bags.” We’d bought a supply at the drug store two blocks from my former condo.

  She says nothing.

  Then again, a dumpster isn’t exactly conducive to peppy conversation.

  She slings several shriveled black banana peels into a bag. A Chinese restaurant take-out box follows, and the sour contents reek. She starts to gag, and I fling the box into my bag, nearly upchucking myself. Every undigested particle in my stomach crawls up my throat.

  Her dark hair blows in a cutting wind, and another round of guilt punches me in the gut.

  “Elena, baby, please. I’ll take care of this. Go wait in the SUV.”

  She pushes her shoulders back. “We’ll get done faster if both of us search.”

  I transfer two empty egg cartons to a new bag. We pick through dozens of Styrofoam to-go boxes.

  “Don’t people cook around here?”

  “Too many five-star chefs available.”

  “An extravagance they can afford,” she says and pulls up. She rubs her wrist over her forehead. “Funny, how I never really believed in luxury items.” Struggling with my big leather glove, she clumsily pulls a strand of hair from her lips. “It’s a world you’re used to, but me, I never believed luxury was essential to having a good life. I mean, it’s nice to live somewhere where the bathroom floors are heated. Where you don’t have to search endlessly to park, you have valet service. You eat from tables covered with linens and with fancy cutlery, not with plastic forks. Still, I’ve never believed in rubies or emeralds or wrinkle creams. Spending thousands of dollars on one purse just seems criminal to me. I could never have a purse like that. I always seem to have that one ink pen that bleeds into the lining. And then it’s ruined. Ruined.” She lowers her head.

  Which pierces right through me. “I’ll buy you a new scarf.”

  “I don’t want a new one, I want that one. It was a gift. A gift from Miss Indigo.”

  Not from a polo player. “A real character, Miss Indigo.”

  “But she’s a good person. Her sister lives in London and bought the scarf for her, but she gave it to me. I told her, no, I couldn’t possibly accept it, but she had tears in her eyes and insisted. She’d never had a special promotion for her book and was so grateful. We only sold two copies that night. Two copies. Hannah Reed Colter sells two copies in two seconds.” She rubbed a hand over her heart. “The scarf made me think of her and you massaging my feet, and then the electricity going out. Eating truffles by candlelight. All that absurdity. A crazy, wonderful memory.”

  “I’m going back up there—”

  “No. She’ll have you arrested. She’ll lie and say you’re stalking her. She’ll say I’m mentally unbalanced; she’ll say something to the police and make her lies seem credible.” Her head tipped back against her neck, her pale throat exposed, as she gazes at the clouds above us. “I know women like Lexi. I know them well.” Her voice goes flat. “My mother is like Lexi.”

  I know about your tight shoes, Elena. Your too-tight shoes. I imagine her as a little girl, her dark hair and pale skin. Limping, but not complaining. “Do you ever talk to her? Your mom?”

  “No.” Her jaw sets. “She and Lexi are black holes. Nothing ever fills them. Admiration, money. It’s never enough. Nick, Lexi’s already half-drunk and it’s not even noon. Not a happy woman.” She squints, staring at my hand. “You’ve cut yourself.”

  I look down to see the rim of my right palm bleeding.

  “You’ll get an infection.” She takes a clumsy step forward, squishing garbage bags. “Let me see.”

  I pull away. “I’m too mean a host cell for flesh-eaters.” I nod toward the bag with the green bottle poking out of the top. “We’ll pour whatever’s left of that Bordeaux Chateau to sterilize it.”

  Then it comes out of left field, hits me hard like a fastball at 98 MPH.

  “What was your mom like?”

  “I don’t remember,” I lie.

  Elena tilts her head to let her dark hair blow free of her lips. “What did she look like?”

  I shrug. Go mute. I shove aside ten bags we’ve stacked and reach for a broken gold chaise, its springs poking through the lining.

  “You don’t have any pictures of her?”

  God, I see it, flames crackling, dozens of photos bending, corners curling inward. Dissolving into black smoke, rising into nothingness. “No.”

  “Did . . . she carry a compact?”

  The pent-up breaths inside me blow outward, and I strangle the sound. A wind kicks up, and bits of litter whirl around. I hear my voice, distant, strained, talking about something I haven’t in a long time.

  “Mama had rosacea, and her cheeks would get this bright pink, so she’d powder her face from this compact she kept in her apron pocket. It was one of those cheap ones that hang on a drugstore peg, she told me, not one of those fancy ones from a department store. She always kept it inside her pocket. After she passed . . . I found it, and I hid it. I carried it around with me for good luck. One day, I was walking home from school and thought the compact had been stolen because I couldn’t find it. So I’m feeling around for it and my father’s there to pick me up after school. He’s laying on the car horn. I’d missed the bus and the limo driver was somewhere. Called in sick, whatever. The old man’s yelling out the passenger window at me. Then there are these three rich kids. Assholes. Older than me, in their school uniforms.” My eyes sting and I clear my throat. Fight for control. Can’t risk talking, a wimpy ass squeak might come out.

  “Nick,” she whispers. “If it’s too much—”

  I get on top of it and swallow hard. “These three kids stop because my dad’s driving the cool car. They’re admiring his pricey set of wheels. The old man’s pissed, he’s double-parked. He gets out and he’s red-faced from screaming. Precisely at that time, Mama’s compact comes loose from the pouch in my backpack and hits the sidewalk. Well, the old man starts laughing and picks it up. Says, ‘Look, Nick powders his nose. You powder your pecker with it, too?’ And the three assholes a
re laughing. And then I grab it. And I break it. I pick it up several times and throw it back down. I break Mama’s compact to show them that it doesn’t mean anything. I smash it apart. Smash it to pieces.”

  I’m aware Elena’s staring, that garbage bags squish under my feet. The plastic’s pulled taut, tearing apart like my insides.

  “I still see her looking into that mirror, dipping into the peachy powder and dusting it over her cheeks, then smiling at me. ‘Did I get all the red spots, Nicky? Did I get all the red spots?’ I remember the smell of that powder.” My voice fades. “‘You got ’em, Mama. No more red spots. No more spots.’”

  “Nick.”

  I blink.

  Her eyes are watering, and her smile wobbles at the corners. “I found it.”

  Never had soap and warm water felt more heavenly. A froth of suds trickled over her skin and pooled around the drain. She moved her wet feet in a slow rotation, shifting her shoulders under the showerhead to rid herself of that rotted metallic stink.

  Meanwhile, Nick was on the second floor, checking on messages and deliveries.

  Towel secured around her, she hurried down the hall to her bedroom. He’d confided in her, and that meant he trusted her. Trust always triumphed over the whims of lust. Hope expanded in her like cotton candy, bright and sweet. Maybe he’d open up even more.

  She wrung her hands as she searched her closet. Slow down. Slow it way down. This wasn’t a girl-meets-boy musical; this was Nick we were talking about. She had to contain this giddy feeling before it spun out of control. Recall, please, that the drive home had been quiet, that he’d stared straight ahead and wouldn’t look at her.

  After locating fresh clothes, she dropped the towel and changed into skinny jeans and a flattering white top with ruffled bell sleeves, the lace hem brushing her hands. In the small mirror above the rickety dresser, she inspected herself and ran fingers through her wavy dark hair. Then put on some light makeup. Finished by dashing on perfume and punching her feet into black leather ballet flats.

  Heavier footsteps shuffled down the hall, and she froze, heart pounding.

  She stuck out her head to glance down the narrow hall. The bathroom door was shut, and she heard him turn on the shower. He’d borrowed their bathroom many times, but always early in the morning, while she was asleep.