Monster in My Closet (2 page)

There was a deep, melodramatic sigh from the other side of the phone. “Fine. Zoeygirl, I’m a little short on my rent and I was wondering—”

“No.”

“It’s just a couple hundred and I’ll get it right back to—”

“No.”

“Come on, Zo. Just this once. I promise—”

“Brad, there are so many reasons for me to hang up right now. I’ve ‘loaned’ you more money than I care to tally up—money I know I’ll never see again. Also, you live with your parents. My God, it’s not like they’re going to evict you.”

“Actually, they kind of did. I got my own little place now. You’d be so proud. And a job working at a paper company, unloading boxes. Pretty good money, too.”

“But not enough to pay your rent.” I ran my fingers through my hair and slumped in my chair. Maurice was busy at the sink, washing dishes. I could tell by the set of his thin shoulders he was paying close attention.

“I have most of it. I’m just a little behind until payday. Please, Zo?”

“Did you drink it or gamble it?”

Brad had the testicular fortitude to sound affronted. “I’ll have you know I haven’t had a drink in four months.”

His desperation seeped through the phone and slid down my neck. It was thick and choking, running sticky over my shoulders like hot molasses. We’d only been married for six months, but it had taken a further six months before I was able to get him to move out. That was eight years ago, and I still couldn’t dislodge him from my life.

“I’m not giving you any money.”

“But—”

“No, listen to me. I won’t give it to you, but I will help. Come down to the office at two, and I’ll pay you to do some deliveries. We could use a little extra help.”

“That’s great, Zo, but I have plans this afternoon. Any chance we could move it to a little later?”

“Two. If you want my help, be there. If you’re late, you miss out.”

I hung up on him before he could say anything else. It gave me enormous satisfaction. In the movies, nobody ever says goodbye.

“If you give a mouse a cookie,” Maurice said into the dishwater.

“Oh, you’re hilarious. Especially when you’re asking for a place to live.”

Maurice said nothing, scrubbing at an invisible stain on the counter. I buried my head in my arms, trying to shake off the phone call. The hand on my shoulder was gentle.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “It’s your gift.”

“What? Collecting needy people like gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe?” I winced. “I didn’t mean you.”

“I know. It’s the gift. Your mom had the same problem.”

I lifted my head. “What
was
my mom doing harboring a closet monster in our house?”

“She was helping. That’s what she did—she helped.” He moved to the sink to dry the dishes. “Just like you.”

Chapter Two

The numbers on the paper mocked me with their inadequacy. I rubbed the spot above the bridge of my nose, feeling the slight twinge from my crazy morning beginning to grow. At this rate a full-on migraine was sure to follow.

“Megan,” I said. “You can’t afford me. Sweetheart, you can barely afford a wedding at all, let alone a planner.”

The girl wasn’t even drinking age. I imagined myself leaping across the cherry desktop and taking Megan by the shoulders. A good shake might scare some sense into her. Why, oh why, would someone want to throw away two futures by getting married so young and broke? If I could wobble her head hard enough, some of that fluffy blond hair might clear out of the way, and the kid’s brain cells could have a chance to work. It would have saved me a lot of heartache if someone had done the same for me at this age.

Megan’s brown eyes puddled.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve wasted your time.” She gathered up her cheap purse and stood on shaky legs.

I sighed. The girl’s disappointment, frustration and embarrassment pressed against my shoulders and neck.

“Megan, sit down.”
Sit-sit-sit
.
If you give a mouse a cookie.
“My partner is going to kill me, and if I help you a little, you are not to tell anyone, okay?”

Megan nodded and slid into the plush love seat reserved for clients.

I took a long look at her, more than the cursory once-over I gave on her way in. Her dress was outrageously modest, a plain, faded-yellow cotton with small blue flowers scattered across the fabric. The neckline cut straight across her collarbones, the sleeves stopped just above the elbow. It screamed
church dress.
Her shoes were slightly scuffed flats with tiny little bows. A gold band with a breath of cubic zirconium ringed her finger, but Megan was more interested in fiddling with the silver ring hanging by a chain around her neck. Her thumb rested against it, smoothing it around and around the chain in a gesture that appeared at once nervous and comforting. As it looped around, I saw the engraved word
Purity
run past.

Ah. So that was the hurry.

I put the pieces together in my head, pursing my lips in disapproval. Religious background, purity vow, two broke kids desperate to be together guilt-free. I wasn’t going to win this battle. All I could do was help move it along.

I rose without a word and collected our coffee cups for refills. It bought me time to gather my thoughts and reclaim my professional mask. I set the cup in front of Megan and sat again behind my desk.

“Nate has a job?”

“Yes, he works for his dad at the appliance store.”

“You’ve talked to your pastor about this?”

Megan’s cheeks turned pink. “No, not yet.”

“That’s your first step. You belong to the church, I assume, so the ceremony shouldn’t cost much. Also, there’s a good chance you can have the reception in the basement for free.” I looked her over again. “Baptist?”

“Yes.”

“That will save you on music and alcohol if it’s at the church.”

Having lopped off a considerable amount from Megan’s near non-existent budget, I wrote down a series of phone numbers and presented the sheet to her.

“Discount florist, a woman who makes cakes out of her home, a couple places in the city that rent wedding gowns and bridesmaid dresses. You can do this if you work hard. It won’t be a big, ostentatious wedding, but it can still be nice.”

Nearly an hour (and two tearful breakdowns) later, Megan had a plan, a long list of contacts and a lecture on self esteem.

“Thank you so much, Zoey,” she said. Halfway out the door she came back to the desk and threw her arms around me. She was so quick, she didn’t give me a chance to stand up. “I’ll send you an invitation.”

As Sara came through the door, she held it open and eyed Megan on her way out. When the door closed, she swung around and looked at me with one eyebrow arched.

“You just did another freebie,” she said.

“How the hell did you pick that up so fast?” I gathered my unused paperwork and made a show of tapping it straight against the desk before filing it away.

“Honey, she’s dressed like a pilgrim, her purse is a knock-off of a knock-off, and she looks like she’s twelve. Tell me you charged her for the consult and I’ll apologize.”

I made a face at my old college roommate. We’d known each other too long for me to attempt a defense. It was an old argument, and I knew Sara was right.

“You can’t save the world, Zo. There are too many needy people in it. You’ll drown.”

I wondered what Sara would think of the homeless monster I had squatting at my house. I grimaced. Worse, I was going to have to bring up Brad in a minute, and that was likely to earn me another disapproving lecture. My head throbbed.

Sara never missed anything. That was part of what made her good at her job.

“Migraine again?”

I nodded. “It’s coming. Really weird day, and it’s only eleven-thirty.”

“That’s your third one this month. Go home. I’ve got it covered the rest of the day. No appointments left. It’s just phone calls and deliveries. Come back Monday.”

“The Miller-Radcliffe wedding is tomorrow. Gotta make sure everything goes smoothly.” I was stalling. Any second I would have to drop the bomb.

“They didn’t pay for on-site coordination for tomorrow, so you’re done. I’ll get Charlie to make the deliveries, put in some last-minute calls so they know we’re on it. You’re good. Go.”

I groaned. “Don’t be mad.”

Sara’s eyebrow went up again. Always a bad sign.

“I told Brad if he got here by two, I’d give him some delivery work.”

“Oh, good Lord, Zoey. Stick your shoe in the freezer already. The gum will come right off.”

I was silent for a moment, feeling like a five-year-old caught sneaking around after bedtime. “If he’s not here by two, call Charlie. I left money in an envelope in my desk. Do
not
give it to him unless he’s made all the deliveries.”

Sara snorted. It was a strange sound coming from such a petite, immaculately dressed woman.

She wore her blond hair in a short, clean bob with well-placed highlights that looked at once orderly and natural. There wasn’t a disobedient strand. Her designer skirt and jacket looked tailored to her tiny frame, and a touch of cleavage flirted from the folds of her peach silk blouse. Somehow, and I couldn’t imagine the man-hours involved in the search, Sara’s pointed-toe heels were the exact same peach, several shades darker. Her fingernails, a businesslike, squared-off shape, duplicated the color of the shoes as if they had come from the same factory. I glanced down at my own chewed nails and considered painting them an obnoxious chartreuse to yank Sara’s chain a little.

For years Sara had tried, with growing exasperation, to counsel me on wardrobe choices. I had agreed to disagree, but Sara was still fighting the good fight.

Gathering my things together, I rose from my desk to head home, hoping I’d slip out without Sara commenting. She was not, however, going to let me go that easily.

“
What
are you wearing?” It wasn’t so much a question as a verbal eye-roll.

I had a tendency to choose clothing items one at a time, without thought to how they would look in an outfit. My closet was filled with oddly patterned tights, men’s hats, sequined blouses with Disney characters, skirts that were too short, skirts that were too long. When we opened the wedding-planning business, we had come to the agreement that I would be allowed one quirky item per outfit. I tried to comply, since Sara was pressed, powdered and perfect no matter what the occasion.

Today, in my haste to clear out of a monster-invaded house, I hadn’t been as careful as usual. The deep purple, button-down blouse had been a gift from Sara, so sitting behind the desk, I had passed muster. When I stood, the jig was up. To be fair, I had attempted to stay within a particular color palette. My black and purple pumps went well with the blouse, and in my opinion, the short, floaty yellow skirt spattered with violets was a nice complement. Perhaps the yellow tights with lavender butterflies had been over-enthusiastic. The gigantic fabric daisy I’d attached around my waist as a belt buckle was probably the kicker.

It was a good thing Sara was my partner and not my boss.

To me, this vast difference in taste between the two of us was an external expression of why we worked so well as a team. Sara had the aura of a capable tyrant who controlled every detail of a client’s big day. I came off as creative, whimsical, and in touch with the emotional needs of an anxious bride. The dynamic worked. But my sense of style (or lack thereof) still drove Sara nuts.

From my black leather bag, more traveler’s carry-on than purse, I pulled out a lemon-yellow beret. I kept defiant eye contact with Sara as I shoved it over my mass of unruly curls and headed out the door.

The minute I hit the sidewalk, Sausalito at low tide smacked me in the face like a punishment for playing hooky from work. Most stressful days the salty bay breeze blowing in from two streets away was soothing. This, however, brought to mind dead things washed up on the shore and left to rot in the open air. Scrunching up my face in distaste, I took in a huge whiff. I often heard people advise breathing through the mouth to avoid a stench, but I was of the well-considered opinion if I didn’t want it in my nostrils, I sure as hell didn’t want it in my mouth. With my lips shut tight, I breathed deep, and the scent gradually became more tolerable.

Mercifully, the sun had chosen to hide behind an overcast gray rather than stab my migraine-sensitive eyes with lancing fire. To be safe, I dug through my bag and pulled out my sunglasses, cramming them over my face. Properly safeguarded, I turned to walk up Caledonia Street toward my waiting car.

I made it half a block before the cheerful, muffled tweep of my cell phone alerted me to an incoming text. Dropping my hand into the enormous bag-o-crap, I fumbled blindly and got lucky on the first try. It occurred to me that Sara must have remembered some dire situation that needed attention before I left to make the forty-five-minute commute home. I thumbed the screen and read the message:

If it’s not too much trouble, could you pick up a wedge of Asiago and maybe a bottle of wine, please? Something white. Thanks.

—Maurice

I stood planted on the sidewalk, staring at the message, while an ocean of joggers, tourists and suited professionals washed past me. I had pushed the morning’s events to the farthest back room of my mind in the hope that if I had enough distance from them, they never happened. Denial was a powerful tool. Unfortunately, this time it hadn’t worked. Not only did the problem still exist, it had acquired my phone number.

In a fit of rebellion, I made a decision to ignore the text. Obviously, I hadn’t put enough effort into ignoring the problem. Denial takes a concerted effort. As I trudged in the direction of my car, the memory of magical orangeberries melting on my tongue took over and replaced rebellion with culinary curiosity. I made a quick pivot and went back the way I came.

My shoulder collided with a man walking toward me, jarring me out of step. He was oddly dressed (even by my wardrobe standards) for late summer. Marin County attracted the weird and different, but this man stood out. He wore a crimson smoking jacket made from cheap velvet. A white, blousy shirt peeked out from underneath, giving him a pirate-y air. Paired with crisp, creased jeans and black, buckled boots, he looked both dashing and prissy at the same time. His dark hair was clipped short, as was his beard, with the exception of an oiled curl jutting out from his chin.

The focused stare of his green eyes licked at my soul as if I were a tasty morsel meant to be savored.

I stood still, frozen in place until a woman walked too close on the sidewalk and smacked my shin with her shopping bag. I broke eye contact and stepped away from the strange man.

“I’m so sorry. Excuse me,” I said, ducking my head. Feeling enormous discomfort and embarrassment, I forced myself into a brisk walk, holding back from letting it turn into a trot or full-out run.

As I retreated, I could feel him still watching me, his attention focused between my shoulder blades and searing me there like a branding iron.

* * *

The low light and near emptiness of the gourmet shop were a welcome reprieve after the crowded, noisy street. I took my time picking out an organic wedge of cheese and a bottle of local-label Pinot Grigio. Ahead of me at the register, a woman was buying an exorbitant number of portobello mushrooms and two containers of soy milk. When the woman proceeded to pay the cashier from a large, clunking bag of quarters, I concentrated everything I had on not tapping my foot with impatience. My headache held in place, neither increasing nor abating. Traffic in the store began to pick up and the door swung open and closed several times. I lowered my sunglasses from the top of my head to my eyes and turned away from the door. Even the weak light of the overcast day was a bit piercing in the store’s gloom.

Having gathered her bag of change and what had to be the makings of a very expensive vegan mushroom soup, the customer in front of me left. I placed my items on the counter.

“Paper or plastic?” The tattooed woman behind the register frowned at me. Both were the wrong answer, and I knew it. I was being judged inferior before I’d answered. I could feel the disapproval brushing against me like a cat rubbing against my legs—soft, but with the intent of tripping me the moment I moved.

I had no idea why it mattered, but it did. I was twitchy and shifted from foot to foot. I was cornered. I never got this question right.

Inspiration hit. “Just drop them in my bag.” I held out my purse. In my head I punched the sky in triumph.
Not going to get me this time
.

The clerk’s face relaxed in approval. “Did you find everything you need?”

I nodded.

“This is a good label,” she said. “Myron and I toured the vineyard once.”

I nodded again and glanced out the window, not bothered by who Myron was. Thick clouds rolled in, giving the sky a smudged appearance. The drive home would be cool with the windows down.