Can't Buy Me Love

by Summer Kinard

  Can’t Buy Me Love

  a novel.

  Summer Kinard

  Copyright© 2013, by Summer Kinard

  Summer Kinard

  skinard.lightmessages.com

  Published by Light Messages Publishing

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-61153-055-1

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  For Dad,

  who gave one of his last smiles to my telling of this story

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, I would like to thank my husband Andrew, without whom I would not have either the time to write or the love to write about. My gratitude also goes out to my blogging friend Lisa Golden, who encouraged me to keep writing when I almost chickened out in the first draft. All of my beta and test readers, Cathy, Linda, Kristin, Alyssa, Kim, Molly, Keely, Stevi, Joann, Lisa R., Lyn, Kimberly, Mary Lou, Rebecca, and Mom (my biggest fan), thank you for helping me iron out the kinks in the various drafts. The people of Durham, my adopted hometown, share a huge place of gratitude in my heart; it’s my love of this city and these people that led me to get writing. Not least, a huge, “Thank you” to my editor, Elizabeth Turnbull, for her dedicated work in bringing this novel to light.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 01

  Chapter 02

  Chapter 03

  Chapter 04

  Chapter 05

  Chapter 06

  Chapter 07

  Chapter 08

  Chapter 09

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Discoveries

  Vanessa pushed the door open with her back, holding her arms around the warm laundry basket stacked high with folded clothes. Something was amiss. Bradley was never home from work this early, but a rustling sound came from the bathroom.

  “Please be mice,” she whispered, dropping the basket on the coffee table. She picked up Bradley’s hookah lamp, raised it over her head, and crept through the open bedroom door, her back to the wall. Whatever was in the bathroom seemed to be digging through the cabinet under the sink. Vanessa took a deep breath and stepped forward to face the intruder.

  A towheaded blond screeched and dropped a roll of toilet paper.

  “Oh my God, Ally! What are you doing here?” Vanessa lowered the hookah and glared at the woman, who had a disposable razor and a comb sticking out of the pocket of her jean shorts. “Are you stealing our toiletries?”

  Ally put her hands on her hips and a sour expression on her face. “I might ask you the same thing.”

  “What?!” Vanessa shook her head in disbelief. She picked the toilet paper up and held out her hand, indicating the purloined objects in Ally’s pockets.

  “Well, since you are supposed to be a freegan, I just assume that you shoplifted all this new stuff.” Ally handed over the razor and comb, but she pretended not to notice a large lump in her other hip pocket.

  “I buy a few things, obviously,” Vanessa said, cowed, “but I can’t afford to have you keep that.” She pointed to Ally’s pocket.

  “Well, if you really cared about the earth, you would not buy anything.” Ally made to leave without emptying her other pockets.

  Vanessa liberated a tube of toothpaste from the back of Ally’s jeans as she passed. She stood by the front door, blocking Ally’s escape. “I’m really going to need whatever’s in your pocket there before you leave, Ally, whether that makes me a poor environmentalist or not.”

  “Fine,” Ally pulled out a wad of floral vintage handkerchiefs and tossed them on the floor. “But I’m telling everyone about your little buying habit. You can’t expect us to save the best digs for you if you aren’t going to live by the code.”

  “Right. Whatever. See you later, Ally,” Vanessa shut the door and checked over the apartment. Besides a bar of soap, which, to be honest, Ally really needed, nothing was missing.

  ***

  Vanessa swayed to the slightly crackly voice of Ella Fitzgerald. Not that Ella’s voice was off. Just that the CD —which had been a great find, of course—was a bit scratchy. Vanessa finished washing the last spoon, then closed her eyes and danced full out to Louis Armstrong’s trumpet solo. She was just about to do a one gal tango with the dishtowel, when the music ended abruptly.

  “Oy! That stupid CD player cut out again!” She stomped to the living room, ready to unplug the old power cord and re-plug it, hoping for a few more magic minutes of sound. Instead, she saw Bradley, looking peeved, standing over the battered machine, cord in hand.

  “If you want to eat this weekend, we have got to go. Now.”

  Friday nights yielded the best hauls. Last week, they had gotten enough everything bagels to last a month, four pounds of ground coffee with nothing wrong but a broken vacuum seal, half a bottle of snooty dish soap, three bottles of mostly full shampoo, and a really fluffy towel which Vanessa refused to use on basis of suspicion.

  Bradley was convinced that this Friday would be better than usual. It was Friday the Thirteenth. If people in general thought that the Thirteenth was an unlucky day, freegans looked forward to it. Something about superstitious dates moved people to toss all sorts of valuable, but unwanted, objects. Of course, the best days for rich foods were just after New Year’s and around the start of Lent and Passover. Nothing compared to the good-old unlucky days for interest, though.

  “So, I found out from Reagan about this great new loft complex with open dumpsters. It’s full of yuppy and techie sorts. We might even find you a new laptop tonight.” Bradley raised his hand for a high five, which Vanessa reluctantly returned. High fives were getting a little tiring. Maybe Bradley was getting tiring.

  “That’s great, Bradley. Let’s hit it. I also want to make sure to get behind the bagel joint and Chipotle’s. Elliot said they toss slightly stale tortillas in a separate can back there now. Plus, you never know when “Picky Girl” will be working. We might score some very-slightly brown-edged cilantro and barely-bug-damaged tomatoes.”

  Their first stop was behind the Whole Foods where they filled Vanessa’s bike basket with several bags of recently expired raw flaxseed granola mix. Bradley wanted to pick up some dinged up cans of salmon chowder, but Vanessa won out on that one. Food poisoning could cost way more than buying food from a store.

  The bagel store and burrito place were right next to one another. They found a huge stash of everything bagels, plus a paper bag full of cinnamon raisin bagels, all of which went in Bradley’s backpack. After filling up Bradley’s bike basket with salsa ingredients and tortillas, they stopped for a food break.

  “So, did you make it by the clinic today after work?” Vanessa asked between nibbles of bagel. Stale bagels were fine toasted, but they were on the chewy side cold.

  Bradley rolled his eyes and sighed, “No. I told you I wouldn’t be able to get there. When the weather is chilly, I don’t get a break. Then the traffic is too heavy when I get off work.”

  “First of all, eighty-five degrees is not chilly. Secondly, it’s one block away from your job.”

  “Look, Vanessa. It’s creepy there. They all think you’ve caught something if you go to
ask.”

  “You’ll dig through dumpsters several days a week, but you won’t go to the free clinic to get rubbers.”

  “It’s not like that. The people are aggressive. They want to test you if you so much as hint you’re doing it.”

  “Well, we’re not doing it, Bradley, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  They ate their bagels in tense silence for a few moments. Vanessa cleared her throat.

  “Look, I know we agreed not to buy anything, but do you think we could make an exception here? I could get coupons. They wouldn’t cost much. I could take it out of my tips.”

  “Ness, we can’t just start buying stuff we could be getting for free.”

  “But we’re not getting it for free. And we’re not getting any, either.”

  “Can’t you just get fixed?”

  Vanessa’s jaw dropped open. “Do you even hear yourself?” she gaped. “Do you know what you’re saying? It’s a way bigger deal to sterilize a woman than a man. It costs lots of money, which we don’t have and aren’t willing to spend anyway. AND I’m only twenty-seven. I may want kids some day.” Vanessa’s biological clock had started ticking lately, ever since she found a bag of tiny, soft socks and hats on one of their digs.

  “I thought we agreed not to have kids.”

  Vanessa growled and tossed the rest of her stale bagel into her bike basket. “Look, let’s just go. I’m not having this conversation by a dumpster. Where’s this place Reagan told you about?”

  When they got to the loft apartments, Vanessa could see that they would have a good haul. Bluish light flickered from huge televisions out of every window. A bit of casual window peeping showed that the residents here were the sort to toss perfectly good things when they were no longer cutting edge.

  “Give me a boost?” Bradley asked, standing next to the huge dumpster. His shoes were slick with age, which made it hard for him to get a foothold on the entry.

  Vanessa held out her hands to hike Bradley up. He slipped on a patch of spilled lotion on the rim and kicked out, knocking Vanessa on her butt.

  “Ouch!”

  “Hey, Ness, you’ve got to see this!”

  “I’m okay. Thanks.”

  Vanessa gripped the top of the dumpster, avoiding the lotion. She wedged her foot against the dump truck slot and pulled up. She looked down from the top, perched on the dumpster rim. Bradley was grinning widely, holding up an armful of Kung Fu DVDs. It figured that David Carradine got her boyfriend more excited than the prospect of unlimited free sex if he would just go to pick up the dang condoms.

  Peeved, Vanessa jumped down and started picking through the other side of the dumpster. She found a set of silicone spatulas and measuring cups, three balls of yellow yarn, and an unopened toothbrush that someone had obviously gotten from the dentist.

  “How’s it working out over there, Ness? Did you luck out and find a box of unexpired Trojans? And by luck, I mean because you get to sleep with me.” Bradley waggled his eyebrows over a big black trash bag.

  Not wanting to answer Bradley or even to look at him, Vanessa turned to check on the farthest corner of the dumpster. Sometimes books and records settled into the space behind the bags, where people flung the lighter weight items to the back. She felt behind a sack of Styrofoam peanuts into a crevice. Score! There was definitely a book there. She pressed into the bag of packing nuts to get a grip. Three thick books met her fingers.

  Vanessa strained to pick up the books and wound up lying sideways across what felt like a bag of old pillows. There! She pulled them free.

  “Look at this!” Vanessa called, holding the top book open. “Scrapbooks.”

  “Come on. Scrapbooks? I think that’s the definition of another man’s trash.” He flipped a couple of pages, scanning the text. “Boring, Ness, even for you.”

  Bradley’s retort stung her, but she was too tired to fight.

  “Well, these scrapbooks look to be from Costa Rica. I can at least use them for some great photos to put up at the bar.” Vanessa was a bartender at a trendy new brewery and distillery that papered the bathrooms in vacation photos.

  “Whatever. I’m not going to carry them, though.”

  They loaded up their backpacks with their finds. Bradley had found the entire series of Kung Fu, an old Blackberry Pearl, and a Mac European power adapter that seemed pristine. Vanessa added the scrapbooks to her backpack and climbed out, leaving Bradley to pull himself out.

  ***

  The one good thing about Bradley as a lover was that he persevered. After he revealed a previously overlooked strip of three condoms, they went to bed, working out the tension from earlier that night. Vanessa was spent long before Bradley. She got bored waiting for him to finish and started to talk dirty.

  She invented a story emphasizing Bradley’s preferred themes: living in a commune, no pollution of the environment, and of course, his favorite, zero population growth.

  “Zero. Population. Growth.” Bradley shook the cheap metal bed frame into the ruts on the wood floor. He kissed her forehead and rolled over, lying on his side facing her.

  “Thanks, babe,” he smiled, already sleepy.

  “You’re welcome.” Vanessa kissed the tip of Bradley’s nose just before he dozed off. At least she knew what Bradley really liked, and he suited her well enough, for the moment.

  Was it enough, that they both loved the earth? Sure, Bradley pleased her in bed and contributed his fair share toward other bodily needs. But he had taken to criticizing her clothing choices when he worried about the availability of laundry detergent. He thought she was selfish for not getting sterilized. He tried to pass his laziness off as simplicity, refusing to take extra shifts when they needed to buy stuff. If there was nothing free in it for him, Bradley had taken to choosing boredom over work. Vanessa suspected that he only kept his job at the coffee shop because of the free coffee. She was not sure he was worth the trouble any longer. She remembered the conversations from the alleys earlier that night and cast an angry look at the sleeping Bradley. He snorted in his sleep, then farted softly. It smelled like bagel.

  Her buzz killed, Vanessa walked quietly to the living room to look over the finds from the night. Bradley would probably spend all weekend watching those stupid Kung Fu episodes. She saw that he had wrapped something in a piece of brown paper and set it under the living room table. This was his code, his way of warning her off of a find he did not want her to see. Whatever it was looked solid, of a piece, so probably not good coffee or tea.

  Vanessa scooted down in the couch to touch the package with her toe. Almost there. She tilted to the right a bit. Her foot just about connected with the paper before she caused an avalanche of her own finds. The topmost scrapbook fell to the floor between the couch and coffee table, opening to a page-sized photo of the most gorgeous man Vanessa had ever seen.

  Abandoning the package under the table, Vanessa leaned over to pick up the scrapbook. She looked into the portrait’s eyes and gasped. Holy Lord. His eyes were perfectly blue-green, standing out against dark olive skin and shaded by dark brows and thick, shiny hair. Vanessa reached out and traced his brows gingerly. He couldn’t have been much older than she, but he had glorious smile lines around his perfect eyes. She traced them, too. He had a full, sensual mouth, stretched into a smile. Even after all the time in bed with Bradley that night, Vanessa felt her pulse quicken. He was her perfect vision of masculine beauty.

  A thought struck Vanessa, and she searched the borders of the page, looking for a name. She found it a few pages earlier, next to a candid shot of a linen clad couple laughing at monkeys. The man was smiling at the woman; the woman was smiling at a nearby monkey. There was a column of handwritten text next to the photo.

  “Javier and me love to visit his Aunt Cecilia’s B&B any weekend when we’re both off. The monkeys there are so cute. I always sneak an orange to them. But today, Javier told me his secret. He has fed them little fruits since he was a boy so they would do what he wanted. He traine
d this one monkey to flip for me.” Although the photographs were exquisite, the writing was ugly. Like that of an illiterate teenager, Vanessa noted coolly. The photo was dated May 26, a few years earlier.

  “Javier.” Vanessa tasted the name with her mouth a few times, wrapping her tongue around it. She switched accents. Southern “Javier.” Standard American “Javier.” Mexican-Spanish accented “Javier.” She liked that one best, even though she had no idea what his name might really sound like. Suddenly she almost craved this mystery man’s voice. Costa Rican Javier, she thought, and got up off the couch.

  Grabbing one of the two remaining condoms off the dining table, Vanessa returned to the bedroom.

  “Bradley, honey, ready for another go?” she said into his ear, low and warm, but in her body, she felt only, “Costa Rican Javier.”

  The next morning, Bradley was already up when Vanessa woke. She was sore in a lot of happy places, which made her smile into the mid-morning sun flitting through the slats in the blinds above the bed. She took a deep breath and coughed at the aroma hanging over her person and the bed.

  “Yuck. I need a shower, and so do these sheets.”

  Vanessa sniffed both sheets and decided only the bottom one needed urgent washing. She pulled it off the bed and draped it over her naked chest like a toga. Passing the mirror on the way to the door to the living room, she thought she looked a little like a sorority girl on the prowl. Well, half right, then, she thought.

  Bradley was, as predicted, watching Kung Fu episodes. The Grasshopper or whoever was slow motion kicking some pioneer’s rear when Vanessa walked in. Bradley had obviously toasted a few bagels, but he had not left any out of the freezer for Vanessa. Instead, there was just a pile of everything bagel crumbs sitting on top of a pile of books on the coffee table next to Bradley’s dirty feet. Vanessa sucked in a breath when she saw that Bradley had used her scrapbooks as a plate.