Some Like It Perfect (A Temporary Engagement) (11 page)

Delia looked around at the boxes littering the living room and said, “No, no, no, no. If you can’t make it fit, it goes back.”

Jack broke down a box. “Let’s have dinner, take a break. And then come back and finish.”

Gus jumped up, her energy renewed. “I’ll make spaghetti. In my first kitchen, with my very own pot.”

She crawled through the remaining boxes, finally finding one labeled pantry.

Delia flopped back with a groan. “The level of preparedness is just really scary.”

Jack stacked his broken-down boxes neatly. “You mean the level of theft. The cook is going to have an interesting time tomorrow when she finds half her supplies gone.”

Gus said, “She helped me pack.”

Delia watched her grab a pot and fill it with water. “You can cook spaghetti?”

“Delia, you boil water and open a jar. Anyone can make spaghetti.”

Funny, that was what Justine had said. It was just. . . “You’ve never done your own laundry but you can cook spaghetti?”

“I have, on occasion, helped out in the kitchen on account of I get to snack while I do it. I’ve never felt the need to clean Jack’s boxers.”

Delia couldn’t fault the logic. She looked at Jack. “And you? Can you cook spaghetti? Am I the only person in the world who’s never done it?”

He shook his head. “But we might be the only two people in the world if
Gus
is proficient.”

Gus stuck her tongue out at him. “Are you going to want some of this or should I just make enough for you two to watch me eat it?”

Jack looked at Delia and said woodenly, “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want my sister becoming even more unrepentant; she’s already a brat. Can I change my mind?”

Delia tried not to laugh, he was calling both of them brats, but she couldn’t stop. She covered her eyes with her arm and laughed and laughed.

Jack grabbed her ankle, squeezing and saying to Gus, “We’ve lost Delia. Get a move on with that spaghetti.”

They ate off Gus’s plates, at Gus’s dining room table, and Delia sat across from Jack so that he wouldn’t accidentally touch her again. She could still feel his hand print on her ankle, burned into her skin.

Delia watched him twirl spaghetti on a spoon, making a nice, neat ball and said, “You have to do everything just so. I bet you even call your mother every week.”

“I live with my mother. There’s no reason to call her.”

Gus said, “Dinner, every Sunday. He’s never missed one, not since he went to college.”

“Wait, wait. You live with your mother? Jack. . .”

Delia’d been about to tell him he wasn’t perfect after all but then had realized, dammit, he lived at home with his mother to help with Gus.

“Yes?” Jack raised his eyebrows at her.

“Nothing.”

Gus shoved a forkful of spaghetti in her mouth and slurping. “Mother’s trained him well.”

Jack said, “And you not at all.” He nodded at Delia. “And you? How often do you call your parents; when the mood strikes you?”

“We have a schedule, too. I call them once a year.”

Jack and Gus froze, the same shocked look on their faces. Gus said softly, “Once a year? Do you hate them?”

“No. We get along fine.” Now that she didn’t live with them. “They just don’t have a phone.”

Gus’s expression turned from shock to horror. “They don’t have a
phone?
”

Delia laughed. “They catch a ride to the nearest payphone, about ten miles away, on the same day every year. And we write letters in between.”

A letter, it was more like a book. Her dad wrote a little snippet every day and her mom would write pages and pages of who was doing what with whom.

Gus said, “They don’t have a car, either?”

“No car, no phone, no electricity. Think Amish, just with more pot, and a whole lot of sleeping around.”

“No wonder you’re so warped.”

No wonder.

Jack said reproachfully, “Gus,” and she muttered, “Sorry.”

Delia smiled at Gus and slurped up a long strand of spaghetti. “I am warped. I’m proud of it.” She put her nose in the air. “It’s better than pretending to be perfect.
Those
people are boring.”

She looked sideways at Jack and he twirled another ball of spaghetti onto his fork and smiled at her.

They finished, quickly cleared their plates, and headed back to the boxes.

Gus found her bathroom box, exclaiming, “Oh, good. I can dye my hair this weekend. The black was starting to fade.”

Jack said, “And that would truly be a shame.”

Gus carried the box into the bathroom and shouted, “I couldn’t pull off this cut with
blond
hair, I’d look like a mental patient.”

At his pained look, Delia said, “Hair grows out. At least it’s not a tattoo.”

Gus poked her head out of the bathroom. “You have a tattoo?”

“Mm. My ex-husband’s name.” Delia laughed, pointing her finger at Jack. “Now that’s a mistake that’s hard to live with.”

He said, “Let me guess. His name was Butch and he rode a hog.”

“His name was Pierre and he sold flowers.”

“And that didn’t last?”

She shook her head. They’d loved, the fire had burned itself out, and then there had been no reason to stay together. There had been nothing once the fire was gone.

They broke down the last empty box and Delia sighed with relief. She was exhausted; she couldn’t wait to try out her new bed.

Jack pulled on his jacket, taking out a thin, white box and handing it to Gus. “A housewarming gift for my favorite sister.”

She opened it carefully and pulled out a thin and, most likely, obscenely expensive keychain.

Gus looked down at it and whispered, “Thanks, Jack.”

He hugged her tight and looked at Delia. “Take care of her.”

“She can take care of herself.”

“Like you did with Pierre?”

Delia smiled. “Yes. He wasn’t fatal. Not even close.”

Jack pushed Gus away, holding her at arm’s length and saying, “Do not marry Nate and tattoo his name somewhere inappropriate on your body.”

Delia laughed before Gus could get mad. “How do you know the tattoo is somewhere inappropriate?”

“It’s not even a guess, Delia.”

Gus looked at her. “Can I see it?”

“Maybe after your brother leaves.”

Jack groaned and Delia said, “Don’t worry. It’s embarrassing enough to stop her from ever wanting to get one.”

And unfortunately, that was true.

Jack left, pulling the door shut behind him and saying, “Good night. Lock the door.”

Gus quickly went to the door, turning the deadbolt loudly. She turned around, looking like a young girl, looking like she knew everything had just changed. She said, “He would have waited, to make sure.”

Delia nodded, knowing he would have, too.

Then she clapped her hands loudly. “I call dibs on first shower.”

Jack sat in his office, looking out at the cityscape and breathing. Shallowly, his chest hurting, gripping him.

It wasn’t a heart attack. The doctors could find nothing wrong with him.

But a weight pressed on him, suffocating him.

It was a panic attack. It was Gus leaving. It was turning forty.

He hadn’t thought turning forty had fazed him. What difference does one year make? Not much that he could see.

But then he thought of his father, dead at forty-one. From a car accident, leaving him and his mother alone.

Who would Jack leave alone? If he died this year, who would even miss him?

If he lived another forty years, what difference would it make?

He sat in the wood-paneled office his mother had decorated. She’d told him of her plans on the anniversary of her first husband’s birthday and what could he have said?

It had made her happy and he didn’t care what his office looked like.

He sat under a cherubic sky his mother had commissioned on the anniversary of her second husband’s death.

She was manipulating him, of course. But that didn’t stop it from making her happy. Didn’t stop her from finally taking an interest in the outside world.

Jack looked up, studying the ceiling. He was not entirely certain she was getting what she’d asked for. It was hard to tell from down here but the shadows. . .the shadows didn’t look right.

He’d raised his mother’s daughter. How could he have done anything else? How could he have left Gus to his mother and her grief?

But now. . .now his mother had found the perfect bride for him.

It would never happen. Not with that woman.

But he hesitated in coming right out and saying that. Hesitated in giving his mother a reason to go out and find him a bride that he couldn’t object to.

A man had to draw the line somewhere. There had to be some point where a man stopped humoring his mother and started getting walked all over.

He’d found that line. His mother had walked right up to it and tried to cross over.

He wouldn’t marry Diane Evans, there was no question about that. He’d never marry a woman who could lie like she did. A woman who never told the truth, never even knew what the truth was.

But his chest squeezed, and he knew that even if Diane Evans was taken out of the picture, he was looking at a future with someone his mother would think was appropriate. A woman who would be good for Jack’s future, a woman worthy of the Cabot name.

Or nearly, because to his mother’s thinking, what woman would be?

And he’d marry the woman because he needed to marry, that is what one did. He’d like to marry and have a family and he didn’t have any prospects himself. He didn’t have any idea what kind of woman he’d like so he might as well marry one his mother thought would do.

As long as she wasn’t a liar.

He smiled humorlessly because he knew, every woman was a liar.

They weren’t all
malicious
liars. In fact, he’d found that most women lied to themselves more than they would ever lie to him.

Some lied to get close to him, some lied to be worthy of him. Some lied to themselves that he was more than just a man. That somehow there had to be more to him than there was to other men.

There wasn’t. He was just an ordinary man living an extraordinary life.

Ms. Charles alerted him that Ms. Woodson had arrived and Jack swiveled in his chair to watch the door. To watch her blow in, wild and mussy and chaotic.

She threw open the door and he didn’t know why it never hit the wall. She’d stopped slamming his door closed but she hadn’t stopped throwing it open.

Her eyes met his and he thought she hadn’t stopped looking at him like he was part-god, part-spider. Like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to squish him or if she thought she should bow down before him.

She pulled off her coat and popped her beanie off, her hair springing free joyfully, and said, “God. What time do you get here in the morning?”

He glanced at the clock. “Quite a bit earlier than 9:18.”

“Never heard of nine to five?”

He smiled. “That’s a horrible myth I’ve tried my best to cull from my workers.”

“I bet.”

“Tomorrow, why don’t you try coming on time?”

He was almost sure it was humanly impossible for her to get here on the hour. He said it only to hear her response, to see the disgust pop up in her eyes. He’d never before enjoyed taunting someone, especially someone who didn’t like him, but with her he could see every emotion, every thought.

All women lied. Delia
tried
to lie, she tried to hide what she thought of him.

He’d never met anyone who was as bad a liar as she was. He’d never met anyone whose every thought flitted across her face.

It fascinated him. It calmed him. He settled back in his chair and she said, “Sorry, Jack. I need the light to work by.”

“The 9:18 light?”

She laughed, popping her fists on her waists and reminding him again of Pippi Longstocking. “Yep.”

She loved that he couldn’t say otherwise. She loved that she could waltz in anytime because what did he know. Maybe she did need the 9:18 light.

He bent his head to his computer, still smiling. Unsure if he could even stop.

He practiced, stretching his mouth wide, puckering, until the urge had passed.

And then he looked at her pulling on her booties and smiled again.

“Why the booties?”

“So I don’t get paint on my shoes.”

“You get paint in your hair, on your shirt, on the seat of your pants.”

She wiggled her foot at him. “I know, but look at these boots. They’re gorgeous. I found them at a thrift store and they’re Italian! Real leather! There wasn’t a mark on them, they hadn’t ever been worn, and they were sitting there, waiting for me.” She looked down at them and whispered, “I love these boots.”

He looked at her guilty expression and said, “That doesn’t make you a bad person.”

She looked up at him, and he saw lust and guilt and pleasure on her face. “You don’t understand. I
love
these boots. If I had money I would have a closet full of boots just like these because I love them. I might do horribly wrong things for boots like these.”

“All women love shoes.”

“Not all women. Maybe most women.”

She looked at her boot again, turning it this way and that so she could see it from every angle.

She sighed, “So many wants, not enough money.” Then she snorted. “I’m sure that’s not a problem you have.”

It wasn’t. But it wasn’t because he had enough money. It was because he didn’t want anything.

That wasn’t true. It was because what he wanted was silly and so unlike him that he couldn’t do it.

Jack closed his eyes in disgust. When the doctors had found nothing wrong with him, they’d sent him to a psychiatrist.

The diagnosis? He was having a midlife crisis.

How horribly pedestrian. How incredibly embarrassing.

What would he do next, buy that sports car he wanted?

A little red sports car. Convertible.

And he would drive it up the coast to a little fishing village in Maine and sit and watch the gray ocean. Just sit and watch. No worries except for the icy spray, the storm on the horizon.

He would be unreachable, let everyone take care of their own problems.

He bet Delia would go with him to Maine. No thinking, no hesitation. Just, “Maine? I’ve never been to Maine before.” And then, “Just this once.”