by Wendy Wax
“Sorry to wake you. I’ve never actually seen anyone type and sleep at the same time before.” He nodded down to the laptop keyboard where her fingers still rested.
“I wasn’t sleeping, I was just thinking with my eyes closed.” Not to be confused with the times she was so tired her head actually fell onto the keyboard. “How many do you need?” She purposely ignored the warmth of his gaze, the muscles straining against his white T-shirt, and the impudent curve of his lips.
He slid three dollar bills across the counter. “Watcha doin’?”
“I’ve got a book due. These are my only daylight working hours.”
He nodded sagely, but the smile stayed in place. “I heard you were a writer. Romance novels, right?”
“Yeah.” She braced herself for the usual joke or ignorant comment. At the very least, most men felt compelled to offer to help her research the love scenes.
“That’s cool. My mother used to be a Masque junkie; she bought a whole new batch every month. We had stacks of them all over the house. She never could bear to throw one away. I used to sneak ’em into my room and look for the racy parts.” His grin broadened. “I’m more of a fan of Nelson De-Mille and Stuart Woods these days, but, hell, I think the world can use as many happy endings as it can get.”
She closed her mouth on the automatic acid response she’d been about to deliver as she digested what he’d said. Brett Adams was not only a reader but a supporter of romance? Perhaps the world was about to go on ahead and freeze right over.
Brett shot her a wink then took the quarters she held in her hand. “I told you not to judge this book by its cover. Don’t want to fall into those easy stereotypes, now do we?”
He whistled merrily as he walked over to a nearby folding table, dumped out the dirty laundry, and started sorting, which was pretty unusual in and of itself. In Tanya’s experience, most men who came in here weren’t anywhere close to whistling. And they were more likely to throw everything that would fit into one machine and hope for the best. Colorfastness and water temperature were not a part of their known universe.
Tanya wanted to ignore Brett and get back to her manuscript, but she couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from him. He’d yanked her right back into the here and now and even when she turned away, she caught herself watching him out of the corner of her eye.
He slipped the quarters into the slots of a nearby machine, set the knobs like a pro, and emptied a packet of detergent into the water. Then he began to drop clothes into the sudsy water, making quick work of the chore until he paused and groaned aloud. Unable to stop herself, Tanya turned to see the item dangling from his finger. It was a black silk thong, a mere scrap of fabric, clearly designed to titillate rather than cover.
Why was she not surprised?
“This is not good,” he said as he considered the triangle of fabric.
Tanya crossed her arms over her chest and gave him the look she normally reserved for diner customers who crossed the line and touched or pinched. “Most men would say just the opposite,” she replied, not even trying to hide her disapproval.
He met her gaze. “Most men wouldn’t be forced to discover that their teenaged daughter was wearing something this skimpy.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “That’s what I thought when I saw it.”
“How old is she?”
“Sixteen.”
Tanya let that one sink in for a minute. “And you’re doing her laundry.” It was a statement rather than a question.
He dropped the thong into the washing machine and closed the lid then began to sort through the whites still sitting on the table. Now that she was blatantly looking, she noticed other girl clothes go by, some that probably belonged to the teenaged daughter, others that looked more appropriate to Loretta’s and Crystal’s ages.
“Yep. I surely am.”
He turned to put the quarters into the second washing machine slot without offering any more detail and Tanya’s interest was piqued. Nothing about Brett Adams would have made her peg him as a single father, nothing. But she knew if there was a wife and/or mother in the picture, he wouldn’t be here measuring and pouring detergent with that air of competence.
He started whistling again as he stowed the empty duffel bag under the folding table and checked the clock on the wall. “The washers go about thirty minutes?” he asked.
She nodded, pretty much floored by the afternoon’s revelations.
“I’m gonna run over to the Publix then to pick up some groceries. I’ll be back in time to put them in the dryer.”
“OK.” Tanya couldn’t think of a thing to add so she just watched him stroll out the door and climb into his beat-up Jeep Cherokee. As he peeled out of the parking lot, she found herself trying to imagine what the girls over at the diner would say if they knew what kind of baggage Brett Adams carried with him. And how many of them would still be competing to be the first one to sleep with him.
13
There is no way of writing well and also of writing easily.
—ANTHONY TROLLOPE
“Mallory, here, will you read me the directions as we go?” Kendall held out the Home Improvement 1-2-3 book, which was already looking somewhat dog-eared.
“You want me to . . . what?” Mallory made a face as the tome filled her hands.
“Come on, it won’t take long if you help,” Kendall promised. “It slows me down when I have to read while I do the repair.”
“Kendall,” Mallory said, “this is ridiculous. You’ve already fixed the flipper—”
“That’s flapper.”
“Whatever. The porch railing, the back step.” She ticked the projects off on the cover of the manual. “Cleaned out the showerhead, and if I’m not mistaken, spent a good part of the morning memorizing the anatomy of a toilet.”
“And your point is?” Kendall asked, though it sounded somewhat bizarre even to her.
“My point is, it’s Tuesday afternoon and we’ve already been back to the Home Depot twice. Your friend James undoubtedly thinks we’ve got the hots for him.”
“Do you really think so?” Kendall both hated and loved the idea. Just having a male look at her and really see her was worth the trip into Clayton, though that wasn’t the reason she’d been going.
“Good grief!” Mallory snapped the do-it-yourself book shut and slapped it down on the kitchen counter. “I think the larger concern is that no matter how often I bring up Sticks and Stones, you find a way to put me off. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but I haven’t written a word yet, either!”
“Ah,” Kendall said, as understanding dawned. “Now I think we’ve gotten to the crux of the matter.”
Mallory closed her eyes and blew out a breath.
“Look, Mal,” Kendall said to her friend. “I really appreciate that you’re here. Really. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up on my doorstep. I can’t even let myself think about it.”
“Kendall, I didn’t mean to complain. I just—”
“No, no, you’re right. I don’t want to keep you from working. For some reason that I don’t understand, I just feel sort of compelled to fix things here. It feels good. I don’t know, maybe it’s just a need for immediate gratification. Fit part ‘a’ into part ‘b,’ turn on switch. Voila!” She reached for the bright orange book and picked it up, hugging it to her chest. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be working. You don’t have to hold my book for me. Or my hand. You go ahead and get to work. I’ll keep the noise down, no hammering, I promise. Do you want me to set you up on the deck?” She nodded to the sliding doors, which had been left open to the afternoon breeze.
“Kendall, I only meant . . .”
“No, no, don’t apologize.” She could only imagine how fragile she must appear if outspoken Mallory was afraid to criticize. “I’m glad you were honest with me. I can always count on that from you.”
Mallory winced as the phone rang. But Kendall was i
ntent on getting Mallory to work. “Come on.” She reached for Mallory’s arm. “I’ll get you set up.”
“Aren’t you going to answer the phone?”
“No,” Kendall said. “We don’t have caller ID on this phone. The last times I answered a phone without knowing who was on the other end, it was bad news. I can’t handle any more of that right now.”
“But Kendall, it could be—”
“Whoever it is can leave a message on the machine.” She nodded toward an oversized metal box that belonged on the shelves of an antique store. There was a mechanical beep and then, “Kendall, it’s Calvin. Pick up.”
Kendall and Mallory looked at each other. Kendall shook her head slightly, oddly afraid that if she moved too noticeably Calvin might somehow hear her.
“Jesus, Kendall. You can’t just run away from everything. My attorney wants to know who’s representing you.”
Kendall continued to imitate a statue, but her heart was beating so loudly she was afraid Calvin would hear it.
“Shit, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with a machine.” A pause. “I know you have to be up there, Kendall. Although why you ever liked that place, I’ll never know.”
He waited and she wondered if he actually thought he could goad her into picking up. Clearly he was unaware of their new family motto. Avoidus, avatas, avant.
“All right, so maybe you’re not there. I don’t know. I left a message on your cell phone, too. You need to have your attorney call Josh Lieberman at . . .” He recited an Atlanta phone number area code first.
Kendall didn’t move; she couldn’t. Even the breathing thing was becoming more difficult.
“I need to know whether you’ve spoken to the kids. I didn’t really want to surprise them with Laura. I thought maybe you’d already let them know?”
Kendall blanched as his girlfriend’s name left Calvin’s lips and echoed menacingly in the kitchen. Her husband had apparently shed her and their life together as easily as any snake might shed its skin, and still he expected her to pave his way with the children, to run interference so that he didn’t have to confess to his bad behavior.
Kendall snuck a look at Mallory, who looked every bit as horrified as Kendall felt. Without breaking the silence, Mallory mouthed the word “Asshole,” overenunciating each syllable.
Evidently out of bombs to drop, Calvin finally hung up.
Kendall stared at Mallory. Mallory stared back.
Kendall opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again, searching for the words that would allow her to vent the Vesuvius of emotion boiling up inside her. But no matter how hard she tried, how deep she dug, she couldn’t seem to come up with a single sentence scathing enough to offer the slightest bit of relief.
Certain that she would erupt—or possibly implode—if she didn’t take action of some kind, Kendall reached over and pulled the answering machine plug out of the wall socket. Then she lifted the offending instrument off the counter and dropped it into the garbage can, wishing with all her heart that there was a trash compactor handy so that she could flatten the metal to the size of a Frisbee and hurl it off the side of the mountain.
“How in God’s name did I end up married to such a jerk?” she shouted.
Her eyes blurred as the tears welled and then squeezed out to slide down her cheeks, so hot and heavy she was afraid they’d sear her skin. Each rounded drop was weighted with hurt and humiliation, a visible testament to the end of life as she knew it.
She felt completely pathetic as she stood in the middle of the kitchen and cried. Mallory watched her with a baffled and helpless expression that made Kendall cry harder.
And then she was racing for the bedroom, slamming the door behind her and throwing herself down on the bed, where she buried her face in her grandmother’s chenille bedspread and sobbed.
She had no idea whether she was crying for Calvin. Or her marriage. Or her children. Or her lost career. If this were a multiple choice test, she’d be forced to check “All of the above.” All she knew for sure, as the sobs tore through her, was that everything she’d built her life on had been yanked out from under her. And she didn’t see how she’d ever find her footing again.
Feeling helpless and out of her depth, Mallory stood in the center of the kitchen listening to the sound of Kendall’s sobs fill the house. Though she’d known great despair twice, Mallory had spent most of her life since determined not to feel it again, and she’d never tried to help another person through it. She wasn’t sure she had it in her.
Quietly she retrieved the answering machine from the garbage can, wiped it off, and set it back in its place on the counter. For some time she paced the house, trying to decide what to do, finally coming to a stop outside Kendall’s bedroom door. She wanted to help, but didn’t want to intrude. Oh, who was she kidding? She was afraid to go in there because she might say the wrong thing and somehow make Kendall feel worse. Or give something away.
Finally she pushed open the door slightly. The shades were drawn and it was difficult to see; she could just make out Kendall’s limp body angled across the top of the old-fashioned bedspread. “Kendall?”
“Y-y-yeah?” Kendall rolled onto her side and curled into a fetal position, facing Mallory. Her face was streaked with black mascara and tears.
Mallory stepped inside the room and inched toward the bed. “Can I get you a cold drink? Or a wet rag for your head?”
“N-n-no,” Kendall stammered, and looked at her expectantly.
Still uncertain how to offer comfort, Mallory took another step toward the bed and said the first thing that came into her head. “I hate that Calvin is such an asshole.”
Kendall smiled weakly and sat up. She sniffed. “Me too. He’s a major, big-time asshole.”
“The biggest,” Mallory agreed, casting about for some extra adjectives to throw into the pot. “Calvin Aims is a gargantuan, King-Kong-sized, we-should-throw-him-off-the-Empire-State-Building-and-watch-him-bounce-sized asshole.”
Kendall smiled and this time the smile curved her mouth upward and even reached her reddened eyes.
“Do you want a glass of wine?” Mallory asked, encouraged. “Maybe two glasses of wine?”
Kendall shook her head. “Not now. I think I’m going to take a little nap or something.”
“OK.” Mallory stepped back toward the door.
“But when I get up we’ll have a drink, OK?” Kendall said.
“Absolutely,” Mallory promised. “In fact, I’m going to stick a couple extra bottles of white in the refrigerator in case you wake up parched.” She reached behind her for the doorknob.
“Thanks, Mal,” Kendall said quietly.
“No problem.” She swallowed and prepared to leave. “I’ll be out on the deck.”
“OK.”
Mallory closed the bedroom door softly and walked out to the kitchen where she retrieved her cell phone from her purse and walked outside. Shaken, she stared out at an array of distant peaks for a time and then she carried the phone to the only spot from which it seemed able to retrieve a signal.
Chris picked up on the third ring.
“Hi,” Mallory said, her voice still trembling. “How are things in the large apple?”
“Are you OK?”
Mallory almost sighed aloud at the quick concern in his voice. “Yeah. I think so.”
“How’s Kendall?”
“Not so good. Her husband is in a hurry for a divorce, and she, she doesn’t even have an attorney.”
“How’s her book coming?”
“It’s not. Not at all. She won’t even talk about it. She’s become obsessed with fixing things.”
“What?”
“Yeah.” Mallory smiled. “You’d be in your element here. I’ve been to the Home Depot down in this little place called Clayton three times now.”
“You? No way.”
“Way. Yesterday I helped Kendall pick a router.”
She could picture him shaking his head in
disbelief. She didn’t want to think about the fact that she’d braved Home Depot for Kendall, but had refused to stop working long enough to share in the nuts and bolts of their own major remodel. Another man would have stuck it to her about that now, but Chris didn’t have a malicious bone in his body.
She waited for him to ask how her own work was going, but he didn’t. Of course, he would assume she was writing away regardless of what was happening around her. She’d never stopped for him, why would he assume she’d stop for Kendall? Not that it was actually Kendall she’d stopped for.
“Patricia’s left several messages,” he said, mentioning her agent, Patricia Gilmore. “And so has Zoe. I wasn’t sure if you wanted them to call you down there?” Chris said. “Or whether they could reach you on your cell phone?”
Hearing her agent’s and editor’s names caused a moment of actual panic, followed by a sharp stab of guilt. For the briefest moment she considered admitting to Chris the stress she was feeling, how frightened she was of her inability to get anything on the page, hell, to even sit down and try. She refused to even consider it writer’s block, let alone call it that. As if somehow admitting it would make it more real, give it more power over her.
She forced a laugh. “The only way you can use a cell phone here is to press yourself into the corner of the deck and lean to the left, hard. But, truthfully, I’d rather not talk to them right now. I’m trying to focus on Kendall.”
“So shall I call and let them know that you’ll be in touch when you get back on Thursday?”
Mallory stared out over the mountaintop, looking for the right words. “About Thursday . . .”
There was a silence on the other end of the line.
“I, um, don’t feel like I can leave Kendall so soon. I thought I was just coming in for a quick check and maybe a pep talk, but she’s in a really bad way.”
“We’re supposed to leave for the beach house on Friday. It’s Labor Day weekend.”