“Oh no,” she murmured softly, feeling mean and sorry and afraid she’d never see him again. Which would be for the best, right?
“What is it? Are you all right, dear?”
“Yes.” She sighed, miserable. “I’m fine. I think I may have just done something truly awful and I’m not sure how to . . . if I want to . . .” Mrs. Kludinski looked concerned. “Never mind. I’ll figure it out.”
“Long day?”
“Incredibly.”
“Can I help?”
Impulsively, she passed her briefcase to her other hand, then looped her arm around her frail shoulders and gave the old lady a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks. But I’m okay.”
“Yes, you are.” She patted Charlotte’s cheek with arthritic fingers and headed for the door of her first-floor apartment. “But if you need anything, call me.”
“I will.” She waited for her to go inside then turned to take the stairs to the second floor.
“Don’t say you didn’t miss me.”
Mel grinned at her from the middle of the staircase.
“How long have you been there?”
“Since you locked the door on me.”
“So you can walk through walls? Like a ghost?”
“Not exactly.” His expression grew guarded. So, naturally, she said, “Explain.”
With a belabored expression he got to his feet and let her by. “You didn’t want me with you, but you didn’t stop thinking about me, either. I didn’t leave; I just got out of your way.”
“Then get out of it again because I’m exhausted and I need to think . . . and you’re a distraction.”
“I can help you think. Two heads are better than one, right?”
“If I have this straight so far, you and I share a mind, so trying to solve a problem from two different heads might be a little tricky.”
“Not really. You do it all the time. All those little mental debates.” He stopped on the first landing and cupped both hands to his right. “Shall I have chicken or fish for dinner?” He moved his hands to the left and spoke at them in a slightly higher voice. “I feel like eating fish but the chicken is already thawed.” Back to the right and the lower voice. “The chicken will be fine in the frig until tomorrow and I can nuke the fish in the microwave.” Left. “Tomorrow I pick up the monthly receipts for Tops Chinese and they always send moo shoo pork home with me.” Right. “I don’t think it would be wise to risk that chicken on Thursday.” Left. “That’s okay, I can feed it to Mel and—” He gasped. “Charlotte!”
He sent a comically wounded look up the stairs and made her laugh. Taking steps two at a time he came to her side. She looked at him thoughtfully as little tumblers rolled back and forth in her brain.
“So . . . you can’t really read my mind. You don’t know what I’m going to say or think until I say or think it. You’re on like a . . . a six- or eight-second delay, aren’t you?”
“I love smart women.” He started up the steps again. “I really do. Most smart men love smart women, as a matter of fact. That just makes sense, doesn’t it? I told you there was nothing wrong with being smart.”
“So I’m right,” she said, following, recalling a short phase in her life when she’d actually pretended to be less intelligent to boost male egos. “And I bet there’s some way to turn you off and on, too, isn’t there?”
“In what sense? I have to admit that this sudden aversion to thinking in my presence is a definite turnoff for me. It would be for any man. But as to turning me on . . .” He slipped her a sizzling glance and she tripped on the next step. It amused him. “We’ve already discussed that.”
“I meant off and on like a light bulb. You come, you go. You’re here, you’re gone. That’s me too, right?”
“I am all you, babe.” She squinted at him. “You, babe? Get it? Sonny and Cher?”
“I get it. I don’t like it. I don’t like being called sweetheart, either. You called me that earlier.” She took her keys out of her coat pocket again and stopped at her apartment door. “Names like that annoy me.”
“I know. But that’s only because you hear them most often from old people and jerky men you don’t know. But now you know me, and I’m not a jerk, so I’m testing endearments. There has to be one you like.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re one of the many components of the affection you crave. Once we find one that doesn’t trigger a full-scale feminist reaction inside you, we can begin a desensitization program.”
She sighed and lean against the door. “I have one more question.” He pressed his shoulder to the door next to her and waited for it. He was a large presence and standing so close to him made her feel . . . not smothered, not intimidated, just . . . really good in a way she couldn’t explain. Safe, maybe. “Why now? Why are you here now?”
“Because you need me now.”
“For what?”
He glanced around as if the answer might be written on one of the walls, then looked straight into her eyes. “I’m not sure. We’ll figure that one out together.”
She could have stood there and looked at him for the rest of her life. His features were neither pretty nor beautiful; their appeal lay in the expressions that changed as often and diversely as his thoughts. An honest face. A trustworthy face.
He smiled suddenly and startled her. She turned quickly to unlock the door, then stopped.
“I actually have two last questions.” He didn’t seem surprised. “The second one is . . . will the man I fall in love with be exactly like you? Is that how I’ll recognize him?”
“I don’t know.” She frowned and he held out the arm he wasn’t leaning on. “I only know what you know, Charlotte, but . . . someone exactly like me would be perfect,” he said without ego. “Perfect can be hard to live with. There would be no give and take of opinions, no surprises, no compromising. No growth. No friction, no push and pull. I think we’re looking for someone almost like me, with as many of my strengths and virtues and attributes as possible. You’ll feel comfortable with him. You’ll sense parts of me in him. I think that’s how you’ll recognize him.” He paused. “You gonna open the door now?”
“As soon as you leave.”
He shook his head slowly. “Can’t leave. Not while you’re thinking of me.”
“Then get out of my way again.”
He backed away from the door. “Where am I supposed to go?”
“How would I know? Use your own imagination.”
“Very funny. You want me to stand here in the hall all night?”
“I just want to be alone for a while. To think. To sort this out.” She opened the door, went inside, then turned and blocked his entry. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t look pleased and she thought he might argue, but all he said was, “I’m here for you.”
She nodded, gave him a small apologetic smile and closed the door. Then turned to face the empty apartment with a heavy sigh. Alone sucked immediately.
She knew loneliness. Even before her few good friends got married, with her father still healthy and around all the time, there had been an underlying loneliness for as long as she could remember. She was simple and quiet and plain and so was her life for the most part. But now, she was alone and lonely and the difference overwhelmed her. Crushed her.
There was a soft knock on the door behind her. She looked through the peephole at him.
He smiled and waved. “You can change your mind and let me in. I’m good company.”
“You’re also a distraction. I need to think.”
“I won’t make a sound.”
“No. Now leave me alone.”
She dropped her briefcase and purse on the table beside the door, hung up her coat and went to the kitchen to cook the chicken she didn’t feel like eating . . . also alone.
She had to face the facts. She was in deep trouble if she was resurrecting imaginary companions from her childhood. And while she was reluctant to give him any credit for his thinking, he was right about one thing: It was time to make some changes in her life. Big ones. Huge ones. Drastic ones.
It wasn’t like it was a new concept to her; she’d been thinking about it, dreaming about it for years. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to change. She did, more than anything. So, what held her back?
As she thought about it, there came another knock on the door. She went to the kitchen doorway and stared across the room at it—decided to ignore him. A few seconds later, he called through the door, “Courage and self-confidence. That’s all you need. And a plan. I can help you with the plan. I have some really great ideas.”
“Stop bothering me!”
He was gutsy and self-confident enough for both of them . . . and stubborn and annoying. Was he everything she wasn’t? No . . . that didn’t work. She made him, so . . . she was brave and bold, too . . . right?
She took a few salad fixings from the frig, closed the door with her foot and carried them to the sink.
So say she suddenly went nuts and changed her entire life around, did everything she wanted to do, when she wanted to do it. What would people say? They were used to her being the way she was. She was used to it. Would they treat her differently? Would she be a different person? Would it make her happy? Or make her feel foolish for even trying?
Who cares what other people think? You’re not changing for them; you’re changing for yourself. You don’t have to change your whole self, only what makes you unhappy, only what you want to change to make yourself happy. And why would you feel foolish for making yourself happy? Treat yourself better and other people will treat you better. That’s just logical . . .
She threw the paring knife and cucumber in the sink, marched out of the kitchen, through the open dining room and across the living room to shout at the closed front door.
“Are you talking in my head now?”
“Well, you won’t let me in to talk to your face, and you really shouldn’t be making any unilateral decisions in there on your own. We’re a team, remember?”
“If you don’t leave me alone I’m going to . . . Ha! I have the entire six-hour mini-series of Pride and Prejudice on DVD in here. You want that?”
There was a thud on the door and a brushing sound of something sliding to the floor on the other side . . . and then silence.
Charlotte put her hand over her mouth and laughed silently into it, all the way back to the kitchen.