Marrying Up (15 page)
Authors: Jackie Rose
He squeezes past us to push the door shut, and I notice he has some sort of tattoo on his chest, though I can’t tell exactly what it is because I am way too shy to let him catch me looking at it.
“Just leave your bags in the front there and I’ll help you downstairs with them later.”
“Thanks,” I say.
And he’s a gentleman, too!
“So! Welcome to San Francisco. Your first time here?”
We nod like idiots, following him into the front hallway. His back is perfect—toned and smooth, with really nice skin. And his legs! Oh, his legs…what I can see of them, anyway…are muscular and well proportioned, from his flip-flopped feet to just above the backs of his knees.
The gods must have heard my prayers for a change, because his towel snags briefly on something sticking out of the door frame and starts to fall away. Of course, he catches it before it drops, but I might later convince myself I’d seen some upper cheekage. I hear George suck in her breath as she smacks me from behind.
“Almost saw a little more than you bargained for, huh, ladies? I really oughta fix that…. Wow, so it’s your first time in San Francisco! Don’t call it Frisco, by the way—the locals hate that. God, I remember my first time here. State soccer finals junior year of high school. Sacramento creamed us, those bastards, but I swore I’d live here someday, and now I do!”
“And you like it?”
“Love it! You will, too. There’s no place like it. So when’s your truck coming?”
“Tomorrow morning,” I say. “I guess we’ll have to sleep on the floor tonight.”
Remy pauses, running his fingers back through his wet hair. “I’d offer you the couch, but as you can see, I don’t have one.”
I’d been so overwhelmed by the unexpected gorgeousness of our new landlord that I hadn’t even noticed that the inside of his home is a little less awe-inspiring than the outside. Apart from an antique coatrack, there isn’t a stick of furniture to be seen. Actually, there isn’t much of
anything
to be seen.
The entire first floor is almost completely empty, save for a few kitchen appliances lined up at the far end of the house. There are no rooms, no walls, no ceiling—just a huge stack
of gyprock and two-by-fours piled up in one corner, an old toilet in another, partial framing around the perimeter, and what looks like an original but severely worn mantelpiece in what is presumably the living room. Even the bay windows, so magnificent from the outside, are considerably less impressive set into a wall of dusty, crumbling brickwork.
“Give me a minute, will ya? I think I should probably slip into something a little less comfortable….”
With that, Remy bounds up the stairs, calf muscles bulging, and disappears out of sight.
As if she knows exactly what I’d been wondering, George looks to me and says, “He’s gay. He
must
be.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Trust me, Holly. I know. I can tell. This is San Francisco!”
“So? I’m just not getting that vibe from him.”
“What vibe? How would you know? You don’t know any gay guys. You don’t even watch
Queer Eye.
”
“I watch
Will & Grace,
for your information.
Religiously.
”
George waves me off. “That actor’s not even gay in real life.”
Before I can protest, Remy appears at the top of the stairs in a pair of paint-splattered gray sweatpants, pulling a Stanford T-shirt over his muscled midsection.
“Tight shirt,” George whispers. “See?”
“I’m not convinced,” I whisper back.
“You have a beautiful home, Mr. Wakefield,” she says to him as he reaches the bottom.
He smiles again. “I’m well under forty, and I don’t have a job, so I think it would be okay if you just called me Remy.”
George blushes once more and manages to squeak out an “Okay!”
“C’mon—I’ll give you a tour…. As you can see, she’s a work in progress. I decided to restore the outside first, in case I ran out of money before it was done.”
“Sure,” I say.
“I’m joking. But it was a
huge
pain in the ass—the city restoration committee is insane about permits. They freak out over even the smallest details with these old places. Took ’em two months just to approve the damn paint colors, if you can believe that!”
George and I shake our heads sympathetically.
“Anyway, I have a buddy who’s an architect and he finished up the plans about six months ago, then they went to the committee, of course, and then there was the demolition, so I’m only just now getting started on the inside.”
“Are you doing all the work yourself?” I ask.
“Yup!”
Gorgeous, courteous
and
carpenterly?
“Wow,” George says. “You must really be good with your hands.”
I pinch her, just for fun, to let her know I know she’s flirting.
“Ow!” she whines. “Whyd’ya do that?”
“Do what? Please, go on,” I say to Remy.
“Well, the kitchen’s going to be in the back, there, with a huge porch. The backyard’s pretty pathetic and it gets no sun, so eventually I want to put some sort of Asian rock garden back there or something like that, but until then, I thought I might as well take advantage of the space….”
Remy walks us through his plans for the ground floor and tells us all about his search for period moldings and woodwork and windows frames; how he won’t rest until he scores a set of eighteen brass doorknobs, circa 1880; how the right wallpaper is going to be
really
hard to come by, and so on and so forth. By the time we’ve made it up to level two half an hour later, I am almost convinced that he
is
gay—none of the guys I knew back home have ever waxed poetic about antique fixtures or knew the politics of auction houses or scoured flea markets on the weekend.
When we finally get to what appears to be the only room with finished walls on the second floor, which is in even more disarray than the first, I think George and I are both heartened to realize we’re standing in his bedroom. Aside from the mattress on the floor, it seems more like an office—a computer that could land the Space Shuttle is set up on a desk, and there are a few filing cabinets and a bookshelf. Almost the entirety of one wall is covered with drawings and plans and swatches tacked to bulletin boards.
I get a little closer to examine the details. “Did you do these?”
He flops down on the mattress. “Not the blueprints, Dave did those, but the sketches, yeah.”
“They’re incredible…” I say. “You’re
really
talented. And the detail’s amazing. I can totally see what it’s going to be like when it’s done.”
George, who’s been staring out the window, walks over for a cursory glance. “Wow…I’m sure you and your partner are going to be very happy here.”
Subtlety was never her strong suit, God bless her.
Remy stares at her, an eyebrow arched in bemusement. “If you want to know if I’m gay, just ask.”
“Are you?” George blurts, then steps back behind me.
I lean in anxiously for the answer.
“Ha! You girls—you’re here in this wonderful city not twenty-four hours and you’re already catting around! You should be ashamed of yourselves! Why don’t you go to a museum or something? Take a tour. See the sights.”
“That’s not fair!” I say, proving I’m just about as immature as he’s making us sound. “You told her to ask!”
“Gay, straight, bi, whatever—they’re all mere labels by which I choose not to define myself.”
“Gay,” George says. “Definitely gay.”
He laughs and pushes up off his bed. “Come on—I’ll
show you to your place. Oh, and maybe grab some pillows and take this top blanket. It can get pretty cold down there at night.”
I roll my eyes and follow him back downstairs.
After we’ve settled in and looked around a bit, George calls her mothers from her cell phone. Apparently, she hasn’t been through enough in the past two days.
“Hi, Ma, how are you?”
Long pause.
“No, we don’t have a land line yet.”
Pause.
“Yes, Ma. I’ll call as soon as I have the number.”
Pause.
“Yeah—it’s clean. It’s big, too. And in a great neighborhood. We each have our own bedroom, and there’s a living area and the cutest little galley kitchen. And it’s all freshly painted.”
Pause.
“Yes, it’s really clean. The owner just renovated it. We’re his first tenants, I think.”
Pause.
“No… I mean, yes. I mean…well, yes there’s a fridge and a stove, but technically there’s no washer or dryer. The landlord said we could just use his.”
Long pause.
“Ma! It’s fine! Don’t worry—he seems like a nice guy and not at all creepy or weird or—”
Pause.
“Remy Wakefield.”
Pause.
“His phone number? Holly—do you have his number?”
I pass her the paper with the details.
“It’s 415-555-9594. But don’t worry! It’s fine. He’s a nice guy!”
Pause.
“No, Ma, I haven’t seen
Pacific Heights.
”
Long pause.
She puts her finger over the microphone and whispers, “She’s nuts!”
“Look, Ma. I think you’re being really silly about this. I’m
sure
he’s not a homicidal maniac…”
Pause.
“No! Don’t put her on! I don’t want to talk to—”
Pause.
“Hi, Mom, how are you?”
Long pause.
“No, Mom. I’m not coming home.”
Long, long pause…
George flips her phone closed. “She hung up on me.”
“You’re a glutton for punishment.”
“I just wanted to let them know we were okay. Aren’t you going to call your folks?”
“You think I should?”
“Yes,” she says and passes me her phone.
“I’ll call them tomorrow. It’s been such a long day already and—”
“No. Call them now.”
Even though the kids are probably already asleep at Cole’s, George is right—I should at least call my dad.
“Fine,” I grumble and begin dialing. “I just hope I don’t wake anyone.”
My dad picks up on the first ring.
“Hi, Dad, it’s me!”
“Holly, sweetie! You got there okay? Everything’s fine?”
“Yeah. Sorry I didn’t call last night, but it was late by the time we got in.”
“Of course, of course.”
“I’m having fun. It’s a beautiful city.”
“It sure is,” he agrees, then yawns.
I can just see him there, in his robe and plaid pajamas, nodding off on the couch in front of
Law & Order.
“Anyway, I’d better go ’cuz I’m on George’s cell. The phone guy’s coming tomorrow so I’ll call you with the new number.”
“Okay, dear. Bye!”
“Bye, Dad!”
I shut the phone and hand it to her. “And that’s how it’s done!”
She passes it right back to me. “Now, your mother.”
“No way.”
“Holly…”
“Grrr…”
I dial Aunt Deb’s house.
“Helloooo?”
“Hi Deb, it’s Holly.”
“Holly! Good to hear your voice. Are you settled in okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Hold on—I’ll get your mum.
LOUISE!!! LOUISE!!! HOLLY’S ON THE PHONE!!! LOUISE!!!
”
I cross my eyes and George laughs.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, dear. I can’t talk right now. I have an eBay auction ending in six and half minutes.”
“Okay.”
“You’re okay?”
“Yes.”
“Good. E-mail me a picture of your new place.”
“Okay.”
“Bye! Miss you!” she says, and hangs up before I have the chance to say anything else.
George puts the phone back in the charger. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“I suppose not. But she’s so—”
She puts her finger up to interrupt me. “Was that a knock?”
“I think so.” I walk over to our back door, the one that leads to the laundry room and the stairs up to Remy’s kitchen.
“Who is it?” I ask.
“It’s the landlord. Are you decent?”
I open the door. “Not everyone answers the door half-naked, you know.”
“Too bad, isn’t it?” he says. “Anyway, I just thought I’d invite my new tenants up for some pizza. It’ll be here any minute.”
“God, yes!” George practically shouts and rushes past us. “I’m starving!”
Remy jumps back to let her through. “The lady knows what she wants!”
“Only when it comes to food,” I explain, which elicits a hearty laugh.
“You know what, Holly?”
“What?”
“You’re kinda funny.”
“Thanks for noticing.”
“You coming?” George shouts from the top of the stairs.
A Woman’s Work
G
eorge shuffles out of her room, rubbing her eyes. Her curls are piled up in a loose topknot and she’s wearing her fuzzy bunny slippers.
“Who the hell’s calling us so early?”
“I just put a pot of coffee on. It’ll be ready in a minute.”
She stares at me blankly as I hang up the phone.
“Isn’t it great, finally having our own stuff here?”
The movers had taken their sweet time (apparently, their truck broke down somewhere near Lincoln, Nebraska). Remy had been kind enough to lend us a few blankets and an old sleeping bag, but still—we’d been sleeping on the floor for a week. One more night of that and I would have been forced to blow our weekly budget on a two-hour massage at the nicest hotel I could find.
“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
Maxim
s in the can upstairs.”
“I saw a few
Vanity Fair
s, 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 somewhere 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.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Miss you…
you there? howzit going? the city? the apartment? the book-writing? the men?
From: [email protected]
Subject: Still miss you…
ahem. I said, you
there
?
From: [email protected]
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…
From: [email protected]
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 [email protected]. 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.
From: [email protected]
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!
