Marrying Up

by Jackie Rose

  “Holly—it’s 7:00 a.m. What’s going on?”

  “Didn’t it feel good, sleeping in a real bed?”

  “I don’t have a real bed,” she grumbles and flops down into a chair, curling up under the throw. “It’s just your old futon.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, princess! Should I order you a new mattress set?”

  She gives me the finger.

  “That was Remy. He wanted to know when we’d be upstairs,” I say quickly, keeping my eyes on the floor.

  “Upstairs for what?” she yawns.

  “To start.”

  “To start what?”

  “Work, silly!”

  She sits up. “What?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?”

  “No, Holly, you didn’t tell me anything. What’s going on? Tell me right now!”

  “I was pretty sure I’d mentioned it…”

  “Holly…”

  “Well, our rent is sort of, um, subsidized.”

  “I knew there was a catch,” she moans. “I just knew it.”

  “Are you sure I never told you? Because I can’t believe it would slip my—”

  “Nope!” George begins rubbing her temples frantically. “You never mentioned it! Not a word of it!”

  “Well, it’s been so crazy the past few weeks.”

  “For heaven’s sake—just spit it out!”

  “Okay, okay. It’s not such a big deal, really. But we sort of have to, um…help out around the house. In exchange for the cheap rent.”

  “What do you mean? We have to work for Remy?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. The deal was, we get to settle in, see the sights a bit, then start lending a hand here and there. It’s quite fair, actually. At least, I think it is.”

  “Pour me a cup of coffee immediately and put a bagel in the toaster,” she barks, knowing I’ll be glad to oblige under the circumstances. “God, Holly. Couldn’t you find any place that didn’t require manual labor as part of the lease?”

  “Sure,” I say, getting up. “But I thought this would be our best bet—our cash will last us a whole lot longer, which means we can be pickier about what jobs we take. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? And for what we wanted to spend, we would’ve had to go waaay out of the city. And what’s the point of moving to San Francisco and then not getting to enjoy it because we’re stuck somewhere in the middle of suburbia?”

  “Aren’t all the rich guys out there, anyway? In the Valley?”

  “Maybe, but I thought we’d probably have an easier time finding jobs here. And you know me, G. I’m very sensitive to my environment. Living someplace that offends me aesthetically could interfere with all kinds of stuff—my health, my sleep, my mood, not to mention my writing. How am I supposed to write living in a box with parquetry flooring and a window overlooking the highway or some strip mall?”

  “Still, I’m just saying…”

  “If you want to move, I suppose we could settle for a really shitty part of town…” I am more than willing to play the danger card here. Preying on George’s vulnerability and innate fear of strange men will virtually guarantee her compliance. “I just didn’t think that was the best option. For either of us. And certainly your mothers wouldn’t approve, and we couldn’t really lie to them about something like that, since they know the city pretty well and it wouldn’t be right, anyway. Look, George, call me crazy but I don’t want to feel threatened or nervous walking home at night. Alone. In the dark. With sex-starved weirdos everywhere and winos limping out of alleyways and—”

  “Okay, already! I get it! We’re not moving into the Thriller video!” She folds her arms on her chest defiantly. “But you should have told me…”

  “I just wanted us to be comfortable and safe, so this place seemed like the best bet. Especially since I had to figure this all out on my own, from over two thousand miles away.”

  “I suppose…”

  “Trust me. This is the only way we’ll be able to afford a neighborhood like this. I did my research, you know—apartments around here start at, like, eighteen hundred dollars minimum, and that’s for one bedroom. So we were very fortunate to get it. Remy told me he had dozens of other tenants interested in the place.”

  “Okay, Holly. Give it a rest,” she says. “Just wondering, though…how is that we got so lucky if Remy had so many other people interested in the place?”

  “It was a very extensive application process. He liked my essay best, I guess.”

  George practically chokes on her bagel. “Essay? He made you write an essay?”

  “Yes.”

  “That guy’s a real character,” she says. “I’m getting the sense he has a really twisted sense of humor.”

  “He sure does. But I think he’s probably more lonely than anything. He doesn’t seem to have too many friends.”

  Over the course of the past week, Remy Wakefield has subjected us to all sorts of nonsense, from dragging us to the vet for Fleabiscuit’s deworming to attending a town council meeting about zoning bylaws. Not that I minded—we didn’t have much else to do besides sit around and wait for our furniture and phone line, anyway. Plus, it was a lot more fun than looking for jobs, something we were more than happy to put off our first week here. I suppose we could have squeezed in a little more sightseeing, but I was happy just to explore the neighborhood and hang around with Remy. True, his early-morning drilling and hammering woke us up almost every day, which was infuriating, but…

  George snaps her fingers in my face. “Hello? Earth to Holly! Come in, Holly!”

  I slap her hand away.

  “You have a whopping crush on him. It’s so obvious.”

  “Like you don’t.” I laugh.

  “I don’t. He’s gay, remember?”

  “Yeah right. That’s why he has a stack of Maxims in the can upstairs.”

  “I saw a few Vanity Fairs, too,” she reminds me. “And one Men’s Health. So don’t get your hopes up.”

  “So? That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “It proves he’s bi at the very least.”

  I throw a pillow at her.

  “Hey! Watch it!”

  “Get dressed,” I say. “I told him we’d be upstairs in half an hour.”

  I suppose I do have a teensy tiny crush. But where’s the harm in that?

  “So I take it you finally told her?” Remy asks when we finally make it upstairs. He’s standing in the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, and wearing what George and I call his uniform—the same pair of torn jeans, scuffed work boots and a plaid shirt.

  George glares at us. “Conspiring against me. Very nice.”

  “Hey, don’t blame me!” he says. “I was under the impression you’d both agreed to this when I rented you the place. Your little friend here told me to keep quiet about it.”

  “That’s enough, Remy,” I say quickly, to preempt any further protest from George. “So what exactly do we have to do?”

  He takes a step back and gives us the once-over. We’re both basically still wearing our pajamas—sweatpants and T-shirts. I wasn’t about to get all dressed up to hammer in a few nails, no matter how cute the taskmaster. George is wearing lipstick, but I think it’s still from last night. (I had a two-for-one coupon for Subway that had been burning a hole in my pocket all week.)

  Remy shakes his head and sighs. “Since I’m assuming neither of you brought steel-toe shoes, I’ll start you on light duty today. I’m also assuming you can both count and work a measuring tape, so—”

  “Hold on a sec,” George says. “Before we start, I’d like to know exactly what this little arrangement involves. If you don’t mind.”

  “You’re my slaves until you find jobs. Then, we’ll see how much you can get done evenings and weekends.”

  She points her finger at me. “This is ridiculous.”

  “I can raise your rent, if you prefer,” Remy offers, stepping in between us. “I figure the going rate for a renovated two-bedroom in this neighborhood runs som
ewhere about twenty-two hundred, plus utilities.”

  George skulks over to the window and stares out at the brambles and junk in the backyard.

  “I don’t think that would be very fair to my dad,” I say to her. “We owe it to him to give this a shot.”

  “So the old man’s floating you, huh?” Remy asks.

  “None of your business. George, come on—it’ll be fun!”

  He goes over to her and puts his hands on her shoulders from behind. “Yeah, George—come on! It’ll be fun! I guarantee you by the time I’m done with you here you’ll both know a thing or two about carpentry. And if you’re good, I may even let you wear my tool belt….”

  She turns to face him. “Really?”

  “Yup.”

  She sneaks a look at me out of the corner of her eye. “Okay. But if I get hurt, or hate it, I’m quitting.”

  “Not an option. But let’s get started, anyway,” he smiles and walks over to some sort of power tool on a workbench. “This, ladies, is the finest table saw money can buy….”

  “You’re right,” George whispers to me as she passed. “He’s not gay.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I felt it.”

  I haven’t checked my e-mail in ten days. Surely, there would be tons.

  Hmmm…

  Three. Just three?

  Two were from Zoe and the other was from…my mom? (Well, wonders never cease!) Thank heaven for Zoe, at least. Seeing her name in my in-box confirms that I’m not a complete loser, and that I do indeed have more than one friend in this world.

  To: hollyhastings@hotmail.com

  From: zoewatts@doggietails.com

  Subject: Miss you…

  you there? howzit going? the city? the apartment? the book-writing? the men?

  To: hollyhastings@hotmail.com

  From: zoewatts@doggietails.com

  Subject: Still miss you…

  ahem. I said, you there?

  To: zoewatts@doggietails.com

  From: hollyhastings@hotmail.com

  Subject: re: Still miss you…

  hi, zoe! sorry I haven’t written you back, but my dsl line won’t be in till next week. the landlord lives upstairs and was kind enough to offer me the use of his computer in the meantime to check messages. how are things in philly? how’s your dad? asher? puppy primping? I want to hear everything!

  all’s well on the western front. apartment’s great, city’s great, tho george and I have hardly had time to see the sights. you were right—the apartment is a sweet deal, even with the manual labor. We’re working our asses off for this landlord guy. speaking of landlords, mine’s a complete hottie! Pretty nice, too, tho a tad sassy for my taste. anyway, he’s nice to look at. his name’s remy. can you beat that? george has a camera phone, so I’ll try and snap a secret pic and send it.

  as for the business side of things, nothing really to report. we’ve both applied for a few jobs we saw in the paper but no word yet. And as for the REAL reason we’re here, we haven’t had a chance to meet any men, let alone men of means, since we’re currently knee-deep in spackle and sandpaper. but fear not—a dot-com millionaire will be mine before the year is out! then the whole story will be coming soon to a bookstore near you! love to asher and the dogs,

  h

  And now for the painful part…

  To: hollyhastings@hotmail.com

  From: louisehastings@buffalonet.com

  Subject: Hi Honey

  Dear Holly,

  How are you, dear? I am fine. I have been very busy planning my trip to Miami. I am leaving in less than two weeks. Aunt Deb has decided to come with me, so we will drive down in her car together. We are going to stop along the way and do some sightseeing. I do not know how long I will be gone but it could be quite a while. I am very excited and not at all concerned about your father. I am also taking a salsa class. It turns out I am quite a good dancer!

  I will bring my laptop with me so I can follow the auctions. These collectibles don’t buy themselves you know! So the best way to reach me while I’m away is by e-mail. My freemail address is lustylou2@yahoo.com. Do you know what freemail is Holly? It means you can get your e-mail anywhere. Not just from home. Isn’t that wonderful. E-mailing is very practical and I wouldn’t want you to spend any more of your father’s retirement money on long-distance calls from your cell phone. I hear from Cole that you’ve been calling him there quite a bit. You better have a good rate plan. I assume you still don’t have a regular phone number or you would have given it to me by now.

  I love you,

  Mom

  p.s. Hope you’re having fun in San Francisco!

  p.p.s. Have you found a job yet? You should hurry up and do that.

  Nice. Very nice.

  To: louisehastings@buffalonet.com

  From: hollyhastings@hotmail.com

  Subject: re: Hi Honey

  dearest mother,

  sorry—I guess I forgot to call you with my phone #. why don’t you just get it from cole, since he seems to be on top of everything back there. i’m really glad to hear that things are going so well for you. it sounds like you’re very busy and that’s great. even though you’re not worried about dad, I am and that’s why I’ve been calling him a lot. I swore to myself before I left that I wouldn’t get involved but let me remind you that this separation is VERY difficult for him (even though he won’t admit it) so please try and be sensitive. he’s the one being left behind in all this, so i’m just trying to make sure he’s okay. i’m very happy and excited for you about your trip. taking aunt deb along is a great idea. I bet she hasn’t had a real vacation in 10 years. please drive safely and rest if you get tired. don’t be a hero! I promise i’ll try and be better about keeping in touch, if you do too. I will call you before you leave. give flipper a big hug and a kiss from me!

  love, holly

  p.s. hope you have a good time on your road trip!

  p.p.s. children of divorce are more likely to divorce themselves.

  Just as I send it off, another message comes through. Maybe I’m not a loser after all! Maybe people back home really are missing me…

  To: hollyhastings@hotmail.com

  From: s7s#g(*&juU2798d38@yyl.net

  Subject: R Cheep V!aG*Ra Will Make Your C*&K Hard!

  I press delete without reading it. If it had been an “Increase Yer B*r&st Size In 14 Dayz Garanteeed!!” ad…well, that would be another story.

  Upstairs, we’re finally making some progress, but you wouldn’t know it from the way Remy carries on about being behind schedule. Why he even bothers with a schedule is beyond me. It’s not like he has anything else to do, though George and I certainly do—we want to see more of the city, take a cable-car tour, find real jobs so that we can be released from servitude. Alas, we’re stuck working from nine to four every single day for a guy with sawdust on the brain (and we were supposed to be happy about it, because he wanted to start at eight!). Remy is still nice to look at, don’t get me wrong, but a girl cannot live on proximity to cuteness alone.

  During one of our designated thirty-minute lunch breaks, I finally gather up the courage to ask Remy something I’d been wondering since George had brought it to my attention two weeks earlier.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, Holly.”

  “I’m curious. Why exactly did you choose us to live here?”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “What was it about my application?”

  “Oh. You mean why did I pick you out of the countless more qualified renters with better credit ratings and higher incomes?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Sorry,” he says and reaches out to tousle my hair. It’s the first time he’s actually touched me—the first time any guy has touched me since Mateo the golf pro—and I can tell exactly what George meant that day when she said he wasn’t gay. “I liked what you said in your personal statement.”

  “I still can’t believe you
made everyone write a personal statement!” George says.

  “And five hundred and fifty true or false questions,” I add.

  “No!” George squeals and falls to her side, laughing.

  “What’s so funny about that?” he asks, chuckling himself. “How else was I supposed to weed out the maniacs and losers?”

  “I take it you were a psych major in college, Remy?”

  “English actually. I minored in psych. And so what if I did, smartass? There’s no law that says a guy can’t put the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory to practical everyday use in his own life.”

  I reach over to grab another slice of pizza from the box. “Is that what that was? I sure am glad I passed, then.”

  “You didn’t,” he said. “But you were close enough.”

  “If I’m so nuts, why bother with me?”

  “To make things interesting, I guess. ‘They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm…’”

  I swat him on the arm, now that we’re on touching terms.

  “If you want to feel my biceps, girly, just ask!”

  George pretends to get up. “I could leave you two alone, if you’d like….”

  “No, please, stay,” he says.

  “I’d smack you again, Remy, but I wouldn’t want you to take it the wrong way.”

  “And what way would you have me take it?”

  I try to think of a witty comeback, but can’t. The story of my life. “Seriously. Why did you choose us?”

  “You,” George clarifies. “He chose you. I had nothing to do with it.”

  Remy puts his beer down and leans back. “It’s no big deal. I guess I sort of liked what you said about wanting to be a writer. So I wanted to give you a chance. You seemed very…sincere. And odd. But in a quaint way.”

  “Quaint? You think I’m quaint?”