Saying Yes to the Mess

by M. Kate Quinn

  Sam removed his glasses. He rubbed his eyes with a pinch of his thumb and index finger. “I know. But it has been three years, and, well, a premier facility is costly. Your father doesn’t have long-term-care insurance, and as you know, he wasn’t able to recoup as much from his portfolio as he hoped due to the stock market’s unpredictability. I’m very sorry, Darius. But we’re determined to help your father transition somewhere else that will both meet his needs and be within his financial capability.”

  “What’s that mean? Are there other places as good as this one?”

  “Well, you can’t compare apples and oranges, but there are adequate facilities.”

  “Adequate.” The word tasted like paint in his mouth. “Are you talking about state-run places?”

  Sam offered a short nod, kept a poker face. “Don’t be scared off by the sound of that. We’ll help you sort through the options, Darius. Toni’s gone for the day now, so let’s see if I can get into the calendar program to set up an appointment for you as soon as tomorrow, if that works for you.” He turned his attention to his computer screen and tapped with two fingers at the keyboard.

  “How about Thursday? I’m in meetings all day tomorrow.” He was scheduled to meet with Parker Paper tomorrow.

  Sam scanned the screen. “I’m afraid not. Friday works, though. How about Friday, late afternoon?”

  Darius’s mind was a jumble of thoughts. Whatever was going on with Wirth More, he had to settle this situation with his father. “Yes, Friday. I’ll be here.”

  He had no choice. Getting his father into this place had been nothing short of a miracle when the need came. There was always a waiting list, and the gruesome fact was that available beds didn’t happen because a resident decided to move on to Hawaii or Tahiti. Somebody had to up and die for another to be received. Everything about this stunk like yesterday’s garbage.

  He liked this place. Pop liked this place. For maybe the first time in his life, he and his father were on the same page about something. All those wasted years of avoiding each other because, frankly, they had gotten on each other’s nerves since way back when, and now there was a peace between them whenever Darius visited. This ugly disease and whatever medications that came with it had taken away Mitchell Wirth’s strict edge. It sucked that it had taken just about everything else as well.

  He thought of his father, up on the third floor in the bed by the window, a coveted spot, wearing his too-big pajamas, what was left of his hair puffing out around his head like cotton. This was not the old man who had locked him out of the house so many times Darius couldn’t count. This wasn’t the Mitchell Wirth who accused him of never amounting to anything and of being a disappointment when he changed majors in college, deciding on a career path in communications.

  “Communications,” his father had bellowed with incredulity, as if Darius had announced he’d chosen to be a circus clown. “How’s a job like that supposed to buy groceries and pay rent?” But this old man, in his brittle body and craggy face, had no fight in him. Worse, he was at the mercy of his only son, the son who had thrown away a good opportunity to become an accountant for some pie-in-the-sky job in communications, and that sucked even more. It came down to numbers, and Darius had dropped the ball. He hated this. Everywhere he turned was in flux.

  “Darius,” Sam interrupted his zigzagging thoughts. “You okay?”

  “I’m still trying to process this stuff.”

  Sam gave a sympathetic nod. “This, unfortunately, can happen when patients outlive their funds. I’m sorry.”

  “How much for my father to be able to stay here?”

  “Darius, truly, we’ll be able to fin—”

  “How much?” He hadn’t meant to sound angry. This guy hadn’t done anything but try to help. “Sorry, man. I know you’re trying to remedy the situation, but I do need to know what we’re dealing with here.”

  “One hundred thousand.”

  Trying not to flinch, Darius kept his eyes on the man. “Okay. And that’s for how long?”

  “Up to one year.”

  Was the guy telling him that was all the time he believed Pop had left in him? This conversation made his skin crawl. There was no way in hell Darius could cough up a hundred grand, especially now that his TV show could very well be on the chopping block. He might be out on his ass himself. How cruel to think that his college tuition had cost his parents nearly as much as his father needed now to live in this good facility. Pop’s residence could come down to one last quintessential disappointment from his son. Fate was cruel.

  Would that man up there, who spent his days staring out his window with vacant eyes, even know what was going on? Would it matter to him one way or the other where? Darius suspected that somewhere deep inside, the old guy would know, and just like the old Mitchell who showed up whenever he told the tale of how he’d won the hand of Arabella Vega, he’d realize his kid had let him down.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled. “I can’t come up with that kind of money.”

  The man nodded with a downward turn to his mouth. “Not too many people can.”

  “I guess I’ll see what options there are.”

  On the way out of the office, Darius passed a neat stack of the local newspapers on a small table. He plucked up a copy of what promised to be a good dose of distraction and tucked it under his arm. Then he headed to his favorite place, Jo-Jo’s Java House on Maple Avenue, for a hot cup of the Jamaican blend.

  Chapter Five

  When Rylee attempted to step from the vehicle, the EZridr driver warned her to watch out for the slush. She cursed Freddie. She wore her best black leather boots, and if they got ruined in a slush puddle, well, it would be his goddamn fault.

  She stepped gingerly from the vehicle, and the frigid air assaulted her face and her bare arms and legs. What the hell was she doing in an outfit like this on this wicked-cold night? An arctic wind slammed against her and flooded her bones.

  Her gaze scanned the sidewalk. Somehow the cat-fur-riddled wrong coat she’d torpedoed from the SUV’s window had missed the slushiness on the sidewalk and sat in a lump under the protruding eave of the storefront next to Jo-Jo’s. It was an impressive distance. Those days of high school softball had paid off after all.

  She almost made it over the river of icy, muddy gook that ran along the curb of Maple Avenue, but when her foot came down onto the sidewalk, it landed sideways, and she tripped, almost fell over, righted herself by swinging her arms, but had turned her ankle. She winced, muttered a favorite expletive, limped over to the coat, grabbed it up from the cold cement, and shrugged back into it. She ignored the eyes of a group of college kids standing nearby and tamped down the urge to salute them with one cold digit. Then she hobbled up to Jo-Jo’s Java House.

  She ordered herself a large macchiato, a birthday splurge both in moolah and calories, and she savored her first decadent sip off the top, disturbing the delicate crosshatch design of the espresso in the frothy milk. The expertly prepared beverage was the best part of her night, worth more than every cent in her purse. Her breath locked in her chest. She knew without looking what was in that ridiculous-looking purse—her phone and a lipstick. Un-freakin’-believable!

  The remaining handle of the brown paper bag filled with toiletries tore away, and the bag fell with a thud, the contents spilling over the coffeehouse floor. She scrambled to gather her belongings, feeling the eyes of patrons from where they sat at bistro tables or from where they stood in line behind her. Would a fistful of tampons be considered legal tender? Crap with a capital C. She shoved them into her purse and stuffed the rest of her items into the deep pockets of the fleabag coat, even the plaid boxers with the big yellow smiley face emblazed across the ass that she’d worn for bed.

  She looked up into the quizzical gaze of the young guy behind the counter. “Oh boy.” She produced a smile. “I, uh, I’m embarrassed to say I don’t have my wallet.”

  The barista she knew from the day shift whenever she had
come in to get her and Rosie cups of coffee was not here tonight. This guy had that sucks-to-be-you look on his face when she told him she couldn’t pay for the coffee.

  “Uh, here’s the thing”—she leaned in to read his nameplate—“Corey. I’m good for it, honestly. I’m here all the time. I work with my grandmother, Rosie Mandanello, who owns Rosie’s Bridals on Main Street. Do you know it?” Corey just stared at her. “I usually order from Nico. Do you know Nico?”

  “Yeah. He’s not here.”

  Rylee cleared her throat. “Yes, I see that.” She took her purse’s clasp between two fingers and twisted it open. She withdrew her phone. “Okay, look. I’ll just make a quick phone call…” Casting her gaze down to the device’s screen, she saw it was black. She swiped a frantic finger across the blank face. Nothing. She swiped again, knowing it was as dead as a doornail. She looked back up at the guy. “I, uh, forgot to charge it.” No response. “How about this, uh, Corey? What if I write down my name and number and I promise to come back in the morning to pay you?”

  “That’s not really allowed. I’m pretty sure.” He shrugged. “I’m new.”

  “Uh-huh, right. Okay, well, do you have a supervisor here I could talk to?”

  “I’m the supervisor.”

  “Oh.” Were supervisor’s twelve years old these days, because that was just about how old this kid looked? And nice, she couldn’t even walk a poodle from point A to point B without screwing that up.

  “Maybe I can help.”

  Rylee turned to the voice behind her, and her gaze fell upon a dark-haired, dark-eyed man in a leather bomber jacket, and just like that, her stomach went from penthouse to lobby. Zoom. She couldn’t pull her attention away from his onyx eyes, nor could she prevent the sudden slackness of her jaw. He wasn’t tremendously tall or perfectly handsome in that movie-star kind of way or anything. Truthfully, he had a crooked kind of nose, as if he’d broken it sometime, maybe in a scuffle with someone. He looked like the type of guy who had scuffled when he was a teenager. A bad boy, she’d bet money. But she didn’t have any goddamn money. And of all times. She was mortified that this man with the black hair that shone blue under the lights of Jo-Jo’s Java House had to have heard the conversation with Corey, the Doogie Howser of baristas.

  “How much do you need?” He sounded irritated, although because of his appeal, she was prone to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was just her imagination. She tended to project. She was pissed off tonight with all that went on and couldn’t even begin to imagine what she must look like right about now. So maybe she was the only pissed-off one here at Jo-Jo’s. Well, she and Corey.

  “Look, lady, there’s a line behind you.” Corey pointed a finger, but she didn’t turn to see. What good would it do?

  The guy with the decent, no, nice and interesting face inclined his head toward the barista. As he got closer, she took in a scent of pine. She liked pine.

  “I’ve got her coffee. What do I owe you?”

  “The extra large is four twenty-eight with tax, and the extra caramel sauce is fifty cents more. So four seventy-eight.”

  There it was. His inky eyes flashed with a statement like a headline in the newspaper. Accusation shone bright. That along with the side slant of his mouth she knew what he was thinking. Yeah, that uber-expensive coffee was a tall order for someone who had no money on her, but none of this was her fault. She wasn’t a thief. Suddenly, zoom or no zoom, she didn’t like this guy. She wished he’d just say it so she could snap back at him. She needed to snap at somebody about something. Mr. Big Shot over here with his piney smell, acting all condescending going to step in and save the day. No and more no. She was officially thirty years old. Today was her birthday, and she would be nobody’s damsel ever again if it killed her or landed her in the pokey.

  Rylee turned to Corey again, and her look implored him. “Do not take this man’s money.”

  “Well, I’m going to have to take somebody’s money. What’s it going to be?”

  “I promise I’ll bring the money to you tomorrow. First thing in the morning.”

  “Why don’t you just let me buy the coffee? There’s a line of people waiting, you know.”

  With his mouth twisted all stern like that, he looked like a pirate, black eyebrows tilting in on themselves, insolent shake of his head causing a shock of hair to fall over his forehead like Superman’s. Hot, yes, but she didn’t like him now.

  Rylee peered around the pirate. Four people indeed waited in line behind him. “Sorry.” She turned back to Corey. “Can I use your phone?” She felt like a total loser, an extremely cranky loser. She scratched at her neck. The damn coat was killing her.

  “It’s not allowed.” The way Corey’s mouth pulled downward at the corners, exposing his lower teeth, made her flinch. This guy found her pathetic or maybe he assumed she was homeless. Technically, she was, so that made it all the worse. Her face flamed.

  “Maybe just this one time you can let me use the phone to call someone?”

  Corey folded his arms and shook his head.

  “Miss.” The pirate with the Superman hair stepped up beside her. He laid a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Enough already. You’re being ridiculous.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” she said, which made no sense whatsoever unless you were a kindergartener on a playground. To make matters worse, this pirate with his big hand resting atop a five-spot smelled like the woods in autumn. She breathed him in while she wished he’d go away.

  When he pushed the bill forward, she shoved it back toward him. Her action along with the swinging arm of the too-big coat caused the clasp of her girlie purse to come undone, and the stupid-looking red patent leather useless thing tipped over and looking like a slicked-red open mouth, spit tampons onto the floor.

  She stood there, out-of-body-experience type of feeling, and looked at the splay of intimate supplies strewn on the floor like fat pickup sticks. Like a squirrel on crack, she gathered it all and shoved items into the deep pockets of Freddie’s coat. The flurry of movement managed to stir up some of the allergens in the coat, and she began a string of sneezes.

  “Lady, can’t you see there’s a ton of people waiting?” Corey motioned with his head. “Just let me take the guy’s money, okay? Do us all a favor.”

  While she was trying to think of what to say next, a rush of conversation got her attention. That group of college-aged kids she’d seen outside had come into the store, boisterous and giddy in all their youthfulness, full of chitchat. Suddenly, she felt old—an old cat lady with no cat, just the fur. The line behind Rylee was now all the way to the door.

  “What’s the hold up?” one of the kids called from the back.

  “Some lady has no money,” someone responded. “She looks like she’s on something.”

  “That’s the same lady we saw outside.”

  “She’s shoving stuff in her pockets. Maybe she robbed a pharmacy.”

  “Aw,” said one of the girls in the bunch. “That’s sad.”

  “Is she homeless? Let’s buy her food.”

  “She’s got to be homeless. Look at that coat. And there’s clothing sticking out of a pocket.”

  “Aw,” a girl said. “Poor lady.”

  Despite herself, Rylee’s gaze slid to meet the pirate’s gaze. His mouth—rather lush, she couldn’t help but notice because she was a mouth person—twitched with what she decided was his effort not to laugh at her. A surge of heat climbed up her neck and flooded her face. She was a blusher, and she was sure her face was now neon. If a hole in the floor would just appear and swallow her up, she would count it as her best birthday present ever.

  ****

  “Take the money.” Darius didn’t have any more time for this.

  The woman met his gaze with defiance, eyes a combo green with a yellow inner circle around the pupils, eyes like a cat. Those cat eyes bore into him with disdain, as if instead of offering to buy her coffee, he were attempting to steal her purse. She glanc
ed at the group of patrons who had assembled over the last few minutes.

  “For God’s sake,” she groaned. “Fine, okay. Fine.”

  Her impertinence took him aback. What did she have against chivalry? She was an odd one with her cat eyes bright with fury she had no business to display and that chin she jutted up at him, ready for round one. He bit a tooth down onto his lower lip to stifle the laugh that threatened to escape. All he wanted to do was pay for her lavish drink so she’d get out of his way and allow him to order his own damn cup of damn coffee like everyone else in line simply waiting for this rabid woman to settle her damn bill.

  Suddenly, the woman breathed a sigh and looked to Darius with eyes swimming. Was this display about something other than coffee? She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She closed the lips—full and pink, he noticed now. She sighed again. “Look, mister, I’m really not, you know, a homeless person or a crazy person or anything. I can pay for my own coffee. Usually. I, uh, appreciate you paying my tab, okay? I promise to pay you back. I just need to know how to get it to you.”

  “It’s only a few dollars,” he said. “My treat. How’s that?”

  “Nope, no treat. Do you have a business card or something?”

  “Really…”

  “Please.” She pinned him with her gaze. “Please,” she said again in a near whisper.

  An odd tugging began somewhere in his chest, and he was quick to dismiss it with a little cough. He withdrew his wallet and handed her a business card.

  She scanned the text. “Thank you, Darius Wirth. I’ll mail you a check.”

  His instinct was to tell her again not to bother, but he didn’t want to rile her again. Instead, he offered a shake of his head. “Okay, then.”

  As he was leaving, one of the college guys stepped in front of him. “Yo, mister, I recorded the whole thing in case there was a problem.”

  He gave the kid an incredulous look. “Seriously, there was no reason for that.”

  “Are you kidding? I thought she was going to start swinging.” The kid smiled with pride. “You’re that guy on the TV show that helps, like, stores that are almost belly up, right?”