Objects of My Affection (16 page)

“Aunt Lucy, is this your new house?” she asks.

She's looking at the main house. “Mine is better,” I say. “Because it's tiny—like a playhouse.”

She nods and crams another handful of crackers into her mouth.

I can tell—that kid is going to miss me.

Heather and I start to wrestle the computer cart from the back of the van.

“Here, let me get that.” Niko trots up and slips between us to pull the cart deftly out. “I take it this goes in the house out back?”

“Yeah, thanks,” I say. “Oh, Niko, this is my friend Heather.” He nods at her in greeting, then carries the cart away.

As soon as he's out of earshot, Heather starts laughing. “Oh … my … gosh …
This
is the Niko you've been working with? How come you never mentioned that he's so gorgeous? That body! Those lashes! Normally I'd say they're a waste on a man, but honestly, he is so—”

“Will you stop,” I say.

She slides open the van door to let Abigail out. “Oh, come on. The man is so pretty it almost hurts to look at him.”

We're both openly watching him as he walks back from the bungalow. He doesn't seem to notice—or maybe he's used to women gawking. As many times as I've enjoyed the view before, having Heather giggling next to me makes me remember again what a nice bonus came with the house.

Abigail climbs down from the van. She's clutching a naked Barbie. Niko bends down to her. “And what's your name?”

She's not so easily charmed as we are. A thumb goes straight into her mouth. “Babigwah,” she says.

“Abigail,” Heather translates.

“Hi, Abigail.” As he shows Abigail a trick that makes it look as if he were pulling off his thumb, Heather leans to me and whispers approvingly, “He's good with kids.”

“That's because he is one.”

She gives me a nudge with her shoulder. “If you go for it, I promise I won't call you a cougar.”

Yes, she would. Besides, nothing ruins a harmless crush like acting on it. We haul in the rest of my belongings, which doesn't take long since I don't have much. In no time, I'm saying good-bye to Heather.

“Thanks for everything,” I say as she starts her van to go.

“It's been fun having you around. I'm going to miss you.” She makes a pouty face. “You're like the sister I never had.”

“You have two sisters.”

“Yes, but I don't like them. That's why you're the one I never had.”

She pulls away, and I spend the next hour unpacking and rearranging the bungalow, now my temporary home. It's not easy since I wasn't allowed to take any of Marva's junk out, but I pile it high so it takes up only half the space.

By the time I'm done, it's noon. I'm on my way out the door to check in with Marva, and I pause to take a moment to drink in my new space.

It's not much. I'm living partially out of a suitcase, and my bed has to be inflated every night. I'll have to do dishes in the bathroom sink.

Still, it's nice having a place to call my own.

N
urse Nelson is leaving Marva's room when I walk into the house. His scrub shirt today is a pattern of tiny sushis—which reminds me that I could use lunch.

“How is she?” I ask.

He gives the so-so gesture with his hand. “Bed rest for the next few days or that infection is only going to get worse. Don't want her to lose a foot.”

A wave of guilt hits me, followed by a bigger wave of disappointment. I've pushed her so hard she's sick now. And because of it, it'll be days before I can get anything done. I noticed on the calendar posted in the bungalow that today is exactly the halfway point—timewise. We're nowhere near halfway done clearing the place out.

Nelson opens the refrigerator. “She needs to be more careful with
her diet for a while. I just delivered a heaping tray of sugar-free Jell-O and toast. Decaf tea. Which means”—he pulls out a plastic container and pops open the lid—“she says I'm free to eat this. Mmm, looks like lasagna. I'd love to be rich enough to have a cook make all my meals. The microwave is … ?”

I point to where it sits on the counter. He walks over, pops the dish in, and starts randomly poking buttons.

“Can I go say hello to her?” I ask.

“Don't see why not. What do you suppose, two minutes on this?”

I leave without answering—if he gets lasagna and I don't, he's on his own.

“Marva?” I give a rap on the door, even though it's open.

“Come in.”

She's propped up in her bed in the corner of the theater room. It's hard to tell that she's sickly because the vibrant color of her kimono and red lipstick seem so cheery. Although
she
doesn't. She sneers at the bed tray over her lap. The food is untouched.

“Take this away.”

“You don't at least want a little something?”

The sneer moves from the food up to me.

Guess not.

I grab the tray and—not finding anywhere to set it in the room—walk out to put it in the hall. When I come back in, she gestures toward the bank of six red velvet theater chairs. “As long as you're in here, start with those.”

“I'm not here to work. The nurse said you're on bed rest.”

“And I'm in bed. Now, those chairs there. Listen to me. They came from the Bijou Theater in a tiny town by the beach in California. I had them restored and shipped here. The destruction of that theater made national headlines. They'll be quite valuable to the right buyer.”

I cringe at the term
the right buyer
since Smitty won't really be selling these.

“Must be the lack of sleep talking,” Marva says, “that I'm about to tell you to take them away for the auction.”

My gaze is on my feet. “Got it. Auction it is.”

“Now, that sled …” A wooden sled hangs from the wall. Printed on it is the word
ROSEBUD
. “It's the one they used in the movie
Citizen Kane.
The original, not a replica. I won it from Steven Spielberg in a poker game.”

“Rosebud is a sled? I thought Rosebud was a horse. That Kane died yearning for the horse he'd always loved.”

She grimaces. “Why aren't you writing this down? Where is that clipboard and those tags you're always carting about? I have spent decades amassing this collection—I don't want your carelessness sending a priceless film prop to the trash bin.”

“Priceless?”

“Steve paid sixty thousand for it at auction. I nabbed it from him with a straight flush, but nonetheless. The sled is a difficult one to part with. The art direction in that movie was stunning. It changed my life. This art expert Will hired … what's his name again?”

“Smitty.”

“I trust you'll be making sure these go directly into his hands.”

I study my nails—anything but look her in the eye. “Uh-huh.”

“Good, good. I suppose I'll need to let go of most everything in here sooner rather than later if I want to see it properly taken care of. Now the Oscar statue—”

“I'll be right back. I'm going to … look for my clipboard.”

I pull my cell phone from my pocket as I head out to the kitchen. Nelson is sitting at the one cleared space at the table, polishing off the last of the lasagna. My stomach gurgles—now that I smell food, I'm starving.

I dial, and Will picks up directly.

“Hi, Will, this is Lucy Bloom. I need to talk to you. There's a problem.”

“Now what.”

I lean against the kitchen sink. Nelson is watching me as if I'm the dinner show. “You need someone who deals in collectibles. Your
mom is only letting go of things because she trusts they'll go to a good home.”

“I thought we went over this.”

“It's not right for me to tell her these things are going to auction if they're being sold in a yard sale. Except if I tell her the truth, she won't agree to let go of them.”

“Appears you're in quite a bind.”

“So that's why you need to bring in an expert in this area that—”

“I'm not bringing in another outside person. Handle it. And don't bother me with this again. Do your job.”

Will hangs up. Nelson doesn't even pretend he wasn't listening in. “So what's the problem?” he asks eagerly.

Ignoring his question, I pick up an individual pack of lemon Jell-O that's sitting on the island. “Is this leftover—can I have it?”

“Knock yourself out.”

I open a few drawers until I find a spoon, peel back the lid on the Jell-O, and dig in. Will says I should do my job. He doesn't care if I lie, but it feels wrong to deceive Marva that way. I won't be able to even look at her.

But, it occurs to me, I could lie to Will.

Somehow the thought of that doesn't bother me one bit.

I
step up to the counter and hand the receptionist my coupon. The gym has the same muggy smell of sweat and chlorine as it did when I used to come here a year ago, before I let my membership expire. “Hi,” I say. “I downloaded this. Free day pass. I already filled it out and signed the part that says I won't sue you.”

“Great, let me call Javier. He'll give you the tour.”

I lean closer. “Truthfully, I don't plan to join. I only want to work out this once. Can't I skip it?”

She picks up the phone. “Sorry. Gotta take the tour. Have a seat.”

I sit. If Javier wants to waste his time on a woman who is (1) broke and (2) only here so she can ambush her ex-boyfriend into helping her on a work project, then that's his business. I have time.

Although I can't see the gym from the lobby, I know exactly where Daniel is right now. At least I hope so. He came to this gym every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday after work as long as I knew him. Jogged the treadmill, then did weights—despite which he remained skinny and far from ripped (though I'd always make a point of swooning whenever he'd jokingly flex for me).

I tug to adjust my sports bra under the T-shirt I'm wearing. It would have been easier to call him. But what if he didn't answer or didn't call back? I'd be too humiliated to keep trying him. If he
doesn't help me, I don't know where else to turn. As much as Daniel may have let me down, he's still a decent person. I can trust him to be honest about what Marva's collectibles are worth—and not to tell a soul about meeting her if I ask him not to.

So my plan is to sidle up next to him in the weight-lifting area, which is where he should be by now. I'll say, “I didn't know you still come here,” all friendly like. We'll chat of course, with me deftly steering the conversation toward my job. Then I'll hit him with the bait: casually mentioning specific collectibles he won't be able to resist seeing. I won't have to admit that I need advice because he'll already be
begging
to come to Marva's.

A short man so pumped that he's almost as wide as he is tall comes up to me. “Hey, I'm Javier.”

“I'm not going to join,” I say, giving one last effort to avoid the tour. “I'm wasting your time.”

“That's okay, I'm paid by the hour.”

He leads me toward the main gym, which is packed with the after-work crowd—every one of the dozens of treadmills and elliptical machines is being used. I give a quick scan of the room for Daniel and, as expected, don't see him. Which is good—I want to take him by surprise, not the other way around.

“So what are your fitness goals?” Javier asks.

“To work out for one day.”

He gives a deliberate glance to my backside. “You'll have to do more than that if you want to lift that any.”

Oh, nice! “I happen to wear the same size I've always worn,” I say, tugging my shirt down.

“And you look good. But as a woman ages, gravity takes a toll. You have to do more than diet and—”

“As a
woman
ages? What—men don't age?”

“I'm only saying, a few squats and the right machines could tighten all that up. Lift the tush. Flatten the tummy. Get those”—and he tips his head toward my chest—“up and out. Who doesn't want a perkier bustline?”

A familiar voice behind me says, “I know
I
do.”

I want to die—right here in the middle of the gym. If an earthquake caused the floor to crack open and swallow me whole, it would be a relief.

“Daniel …” I say, turning around. “Hi.”

“I didn't know you still came here,” he says.

Grrr, that's
my
line. This is precisely what I didn't want.

“I don't. I might rejoin.”

Javier beams. “You have a friend here! A workout buddy is key to keeping your fitness goals.”

I glare at him—it's his fault I was caught off guard. “I don't have any fitness goals.”

“Of course not—not yet. That's where I can help.”