I don't know how to fix this. Any of this. My fight with Conn, yes, but also all the other relationships I've damaged. My heart is aching. I don't even call Taylor for one of her what-do-they-know pep talks. I don't deserve one. Something is fundamentally wrong with me, with what I've been doing—namely, coasting through life. So far nothing's touched me. Sure, there were some rough times when my mother left, but since then I've had a pretty good life, one that's lulled me into a certain complacency that's given rise to a dangerous cockiness. At other people's expense sometimes. Okay, often. I can ignore it most of the time…until it comes back to bite me in the butt, like now.
I mean literally—or, rather, journalistically. I'm the featured Bite on the Bottom in this week's edition of the Abbott's Bay Bugle.
"Oh, just what I need," I mutter aloud, even though I'm alone in my apartment. "Go ahead. Kick a girl when she's down." I shake out the paper and fold it back. "'Abbott's Bay's golden child has a tarnished crown…' Nice and subtle. 'Tainted by her brush with fame and fortune…' Good lord. 'And taking her friends down with her.' Blah, blah, and blah."
I don't usually throw things, but this time I take some satisfaction in launching the newspaper across the room. Its pages unfurl and flutter all over, shrouding my furniture in crappy journalism and subpar photography. I want to leave it there, but I'm tidy by nature, so I immediately pick up all the loose pages. Unable to resist, I read my blind item again with disgust. Then I read the next one. It starts with yet another reference to "lovebirds," but this time I don't think it's about me and Conn, as it goes on to talk about "a hot couple cooking up something good" but the "soufflé collapsed almost as quickly as it had been made." Though the wording is ham-handed, as usual, the Bite sends a chill through me. What if…
I'm on the phone immediately. "Beebs? Tell me it's not true. About you and Ornette."
There's a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. "Melanie, it's kind of busy here—"
"Please. I have a vested interest in this. Are you and Ornette over already?"
Another sigh then silence. After a moment he says quietly, "It's no big deal. Sometimes things don't work out."
I groan. It is a big deal. I told Ornette he had nothing to worry about if he dated Beebs. I could have sworn they'd make the perfect couple. "It goes to show you…nobody should listen to me. Ever. Now or in the future. My advice is crap, my instinct blows—"
"Melanie."
"What?"
"It's not about you. Okay?"
Oh God, he's right. Beebs and Ornette are both probably hurting and embarrassed and they have to work together, and here I am, making it all about me.
"I'm sorry, Beebs. Really." At this point, I normally would have continued, "Let me fix it—trust me." But they shouldn't trust me. I sure don't. So I hang up and keep to myself.
By late afternoon I'm climbing the walls. I have nothing to do. I don't even have any New Best Friend clients to check in with, but I'm fine with that. The way I feel right now, I'm ready to let this thing die a quiet death, before I ruin anybody else's life.
As for people to talk to…I'm dry. Taylor and Conn are real estate shopping on the Cape. Hannah's with Marty. My father is in Boston for the day with the Garveys. I've got no one. Heart hollow, I bundle up against the new cooler weather and go for a walk. I can do one good thing without screwing it up: check on Harvey. No matter whom Conn employed to look in on the cat, it couldn't hurt to be a backup.
Trudging around the bend in the coastal road, I'm hit with a new sight that sends me reeling: an Abbott Realty "for sale" sign stuck in the strip of grass at the edge of the Garvey property. With Laura's name, photo, and contact information in the slot on top.
Serves me right.
When I let myself in with Conn's hidden key—now secreted on top of the doorframe instead of hidden in the ceramic frog—I can tell an agent has been here. The place is spruced up with new curtains, a slipcover hiding the sofa's worst sins, different artwork on the walls, new decorative items set out on the tables, family photos put away. The Picture Hook of Doom has been removed and the nail hole patched. It feels as though the house is already gone, no longer a part of the Garveys' history. And, by association, no longer a part of mine.
Well, there's still Harvey. I call for him, but he doesn't appear right away. When I tap on a can of cat food, however, he materializes behind me. I wonder where his hiding place is. If Laura's shown the house while Conn's been gone, strangers tromping through here may have upset him. They certainly would upset me. I dish out his food and pick the deposits out of his litter box. When he's done with his post-meal bathing, I scoop him up for a cuddle.
"Oh, Harvey, this is something, isn't it?" I sigh as I drop into Conn's recliner, putting the cat on my lap and scratching the spot he can't reach at the base of his tail. He sticks his butt up higher, encouraging me to continue. "We can't move you from this house. You're too set in your ways to get used to a new place now. You tell Conn this is unacceptable, all right?"
I'm so busy chatting with the cat, who's rewarding me with head butts to my chin, leaving a couple of fine gray hairs stuck to my lip gloss, that I don't hear the door open at first. I do, however, hear a surprised squeak in the kitchen.
"Laura?"
"H-hi, Melanie." She closes the door behind her, awkwardly, because she's carrying a couple of shopping bags, which she deposits on the counter. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking on Harvey," I say. "You know—so he won't be lonely." It's at this moment, of course, that the cat abandons me as if to prove he doesn't actually need me around. "Congratulations on getting the listing. It's…really great."
She nods, still not meeting my eyes. "It's a nice house."
"It is." And I mean it. For all the grief I give Conn about how ugly it is, deep down I don't think it's so bad. "I like what you've done with the staging."
"Thanks."
Laura puts apples and oranges in the fridge, leaving some spices on the counter. I know what they're there for.
"When's the open house?"
She'll simmer them in a pot on the stove to make the place smell nice—homier and more inviting—to entice total strangers to imagine living here.
"Pretty soon. Conn says he wants to sell fast, even at a loss."
Well, that would be stupid. He could get top dollar. It's not up to me though. I gave up the right to express my opinion when I refused to take the listing. I cross the room and lean on the counter dividing the kitchen from the living room. Toying with the ribbon tying the bundle of cinnamon sticks together, I mumble, "Hey, Laura?"
"Yep?"
"I want to say I'm sorry. About what I said on TV." I want to add that I didn't mean it, but the problem is…I did.
She turns to me, pushing her glasses up her nose and blowing her bangs out of the way. I force myself to look straight into her eyes. I've never really done that before. They're large and very dark brown. Pretty, really. Her hair is thick and shiny as well. She's nowhere near as hopeless, style wise, as I make her out to be. And if she wants to be…eccentric…who am I to decide she shouldn't be? At least she's unique. Unapologetically so.
She's also nice enough to say, "It's okay. I understand."
"Let me make it up to you. My dad told me what you need a friend for, and I'd be honored to visit your grandmother with you. If you still want me to."
"You don't have to."
"I wouldn't dream of making you go alone. I wish we'd known each other better before this, so you would have felt comfortable asking me to go as a real friend, instead of hiring me. When are you going next?"
"I…I don't know."
I realize I'm pushing a little too hard, so I table the discussion and offer to help her place the additional art prints, scented candles, and antique candy dishes she's brought around the living room. We talk shop a little bit, and by the time we're done I feel lighter, almost hopeful.
And then I run into Petey and his girlfriend at Henry's market. He spots me first, although I try to hide behind a display of tall, gorgeous bottles of gourmet infused oils. Petey makes sure I get a good look at his furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, even if they are distorted by cut glass and truffle oil. Then he puts his arm around Bait Shop Girl defiantly. Hey, buddy, I think, you wouldn't have your Bait Shop Girl if you hadn't come to me in the first place.
I understand where he's coming from though. I helped him achieve his goal, but I had no right to make fun of him afterward. Gathering what's left of my confidence, I force myself to approach him.
"Petey, hey."
He starts to turn away, but Bait Shop Girl clutches at his shirt, keeping him there.
"Hi," I say to her. She seems more receptive than Petey. "I'm—"
"Melanie. I know. I'm Caroline."
I wonder if Petey told her I helped him woo her. I don't ask, just shake her hand, smile briefly, and say to Petey, "Um, look…what I said on TV the other day? It was…wrong. I want to apologize."
He shrugs. "It doesn't matter," he says blankly.
"It doesn't?" Finally, someone who understands me! And it's Petey Fagle, of all people! Relief washes over me.
Until he adds, "I'm used to it. You've been like this your whole life. You were like this back in school."
My eager smile fades in an instant. "Oh. Right." Conn can give me grief about my teenage reign of terror with Taylor, and I can refute it every time he brings it up, but Petey experienced it firsthand. I can't deny it in front of him. Which, of course, confirms that Conn was right. I'm starting to get used to his being right about pretty much everything. "Well, I still want to apologize. Although I don't expect you to forgive me or anything." He stares at me longer, and with an even blanker expression, if that's at all possible. I glance around the store and then desperately grab a bouquet of sunflowers and other colorful late-summer blossoms. "Anyway, I hope you'll accept these as part of my apology."
"What am I supposed to do with flowers?" he asks as I shove them at his chest.
"I don't know. Give them to Caroline."
"She likes vegetables."
Oh, Petey. But far be it from me to argue. I'm about to present him with a stalk of Brussels sprouts when Caroline takes the bouquet out of his hands.
"I like flowers, Petey," she says with a shy smile.
"You do?" He sounds completely confounded.
That's my cue to leave and let Caroline take it from here. I pat Petey on the arm as I move away. "Make a note of it for later," I can't resist whispering to him.
He nods at me, still blank-faced. I realize that's the best I'm going to get. I'll take it.
* * *
"What are you doing here on a Saturday?" my father barks at me when I stick my head into his office. "Are you feverish?"
"I work on Saturdays all the time, Charles, and you know it."
He grunts and says, "Well, do me a favor then. I need you to contact a couple of Laura's clients. They're interested in the Garvey house."
Ignoring the jolt that shoots through me, I ask, "Why? Where's Laura?" I've been feeling almost protective of her ever since I found out what's going on in her personal life.
My father puts down the contract he's been reading. "She was in early today. Then she got a call from her grandmother's nursing home. It didn't sound good."
"I'm so sorry. Where can I find her?"
"You?"
"Don't sound so surprised. She wanted to hire me for this and I avoided her for too long. The least I can do is help her out now."
"Are you sure she wants you there?"
"I'll let her decide when I get there. Now, where's her grandmother? What home?"
"I don't know."
Dammit. How can we know so little about one of our employees? Well, my dad knew about her grandmother when I didn't, so I'm worse off here, but we should be more sensitive to their personal issues. Then I have an idea.
I call Randall, Laura's other boss at the Abbott's Bay Bugle, and get the name of her grandmother's nursing home in a matter of minutes…for a price. All I have to give him in return is an exclusive about the latest developments with Your New Best Friend. My one stipulation: that I write the article myself. I have a lot to say.
But that's not important right now. I drive to Lowell as fast as I can, find the nursing home, check in at the front desk, and quietly slip into the hospice room.
"Laura?" I whisper.
I don't know how she'll react when she sees me. I don't know how I'm going to explain myself to a room full of teary relatives. But it's only Laura, sitting quietly at her grandmother's bedside. She looks up at me, shocked, and I'm already regretting my impulsive decision.
I stammer, "I…I was worried. My dad said your grandmother…never mind. I can go."
She says nothing for a minute—just stares, as only Laura can, light glinting on her glasses, her pale face even more peaked than usual. Then she turns back to her grandmother without a word. I'm trying to determine if this means I should leave when she reaches over and pulls a second chair alongside hers. I sit and slip my hand into hers.