Objects of My Affection (33 page)

“Guess I'm the only one who's bothering to work around here,” Niko says with a smirk. He's changing a wall sconce and wearing the
hell out of a pair of Levi's, so I've been enjoying a view of more than just an empty room. In our catch-up chat this morning, Heather suggested that the best way to get over one man is to get under another. As I recall, I had quite a lot of fun beneath this particular man not that long ago—and that was with clothes
on.
So imagine if … Mmm, I'm in the midst of imagining when my phone rings from where it's lying on a dresser.

“I need to get that,” I say. As I do every time it rings, I silently pray that it's Mary Beth with more news about Ash. So far the poor person on the other end has been treated to my obvious disappointment when it isn't.

Niko reaches for my phone. “You're looking too comfortable down there. I'll grab it for you.”

Assuming he's going to hand it to me, I'm startled when he instead flips it open and answers, “Lucy's phone.” After a moment, he holds it away from his ear. “You willing to take a collect call?”

“Yes!” Without asking from whom—who else but my son would call collect?—I snatch the phone from Niko's hands saying, “Yes, yes, I accept,” and am galloping down the stairs so I can talk in private. An operator asks for my credit card information, followed by a click-click as the call goes through.

“Hello? Ash?”

“Hey, Mom, it's me.”

“Hey me.” My tone is so casual you'd never guess I'm pacing nervously in a tiny clearing in the living room like a duck in a shooting gallery. Mackenlively's advice careens through my head. Get Ash to reveal where he is. Don't give him cash unless it's to wire to an address. No yelling or lecturing or anything that will scare him off. Hearing Ash's voice at least assuages my most nagging concern: Was Mary Beth wrong and my son is dead? “I'm glad you called,” I say. “I was upset when I heard you left the Willows.”

“Didn't mean to upset you. I'm fine.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“Pay phone. It sure wasn't easy finding one. And then it wouldn't
let me call collect to your cell phone. I had to use one of those 800 collect calling numbers.” He sounds peeved, as if the process of dialing a few extra numbers was more effort than I'm worth. Still, I'm not about to waste this call with Ash now that I have him on the line and am paying good money for it.

“I mean what city are you in? Do you have a place to stay?” Aiming for perky and fearing I'm on the brink of what he'd consider badgering, I press my lips together to prevent any more questions from tumbling out. That's when I notice Marva, sorting through things in the dinette the next room over, but I'm too focused on Ash to care.

“I'm staying with a buddy of mine I met at the Willows,” Ash says. “Cool guy. And don't worry, he's real straight. Totally clean. He's helping me get a job.”

“Where?”

“He works for this company. They might have an opening.”

Gee, Ash, could you possibly be any more vague? I attempt a different tack to pin down his location. “What company? Is it near where you are … in Tampa, right?”

“I don't know. Anyway, I know this call is expensive. I wanted to let you know I'm okay. I was talking to a girl I know from high school and she said she heard you were kind of freaking out like I might be dead or something, but I'm not. Obviously.”

So Mary Beth came through after all and got Samantha to put in a plea to Ash. The motherhood underground is alive and well. It would be too time-consuming to take back every snarky comment I've ever made about Mary Beth, but I vow in this moment never to utter another.

Ash clears his throat. “Somebody's waiting to use this phone, so I'm gonna—”

I cut him off before he can get to the good-bye. “How come you left rehab? You were making progress, but they tell me you still have more work to do. I'm scared, honey, that you're risking a relapse. You need to go back and finish the program. They still have a bed for you, but they're not going to hold it forever.”

“I'm not going back.”

“Why? Did something happen?”

“I just don't need it.”

“Yes, you do, Ash. This isn't the sort of thing you do on your own. Besides, why not? It's paid for, and—”

“Look, I'm sorry. You spent a lot of money sending me there, but I wish you didn't. It sucks. Maybe the first couple days I probably got something out of it, but then it was all bullshit. I don't need that place. I can do this on my own.”

“You might think you can, but—”

“I gotta go.”

“Is there a number where I can call you? Your friend's cell phone? Or—”

“I'll try to call back again another time.”

“Ash, please, I'm begging you, give it one more chance to—”

“It's all good, Mom. Don't worry.”

I'm telling him how I can't help but worry when I realize he's no longer on the phone and I'm rambling on to no one.

U
nsure of whether Ash hung up or the call was lost, I glumly tuck my phone into my pocket as Marva calls me into the dining room. “I'm nearly ready to go through these piles with you,” she says, not giving me a moment to digest the call. “Per your request, I've put like items with like. And, for the record, you can't get anywhere by begging him. It's undignified.”

It takes me a second to realize she's talking about Ash. “You listened in on my call?”

“You of all people are going to lecture me on poking one's nose where it doesn't belong? Besides, it was impossible to ignore, what with you stomping back and forth, carving a hole in the floorboards.”

There's no denying the stomping. “I didn't beg.”

“Yes, you did. You said so—I'm merely quoting. And it's not going to do anything but give you gray hairs. Why so many mothers these
days can't seem to detach their grown children from the tit long enough to let them stand on their own is beyond me. I am genuinely happy for you that you've found him. Now leave him be.”

She can't possibly be lecturing me on parenting—Marva of all people! She has absolutely no relationship with her son, and she's going to tell me how to be a mother? “Let's stick to the sorting, shall we?” I say.

“The kindest thing you can do is set him free to be what he's going to be.”

That does it—I tried to be nice, but she won't let it go. “Like you've done with Will?”

“I didn't have my personal situation in mind, but, yes. I did that for Will.”

“More like did it
to
him. And still are. He doesn't want his freedom. Your son wants his mommy.”

“That's ridiculous.” She picks up a teakettle and chucks it in a box with a sweater (what category those two items might make is beyond me). “Although I can't say he and I are close, I must have done something right. It's not the path I'd have chosen for him—far too conventional for my tastes—but Will is a fully functioning adult with a well-paying job, a wife, and a baby on the way.”

I can't resist the dig. “A baby that you didn't even know about until a week ago.” The darkness that passes over Marva's face instantly takes the fun out of winning this argument. “I'm sorry. That was out of line.” I realize I'm about to plead for the second time today. At least with Marva, I have an opportunity to get through to her—if for no other reason than she can't hang up on me while I'm standing in front of her. “Maybe Will doesn't have the words to tell you, but he wants you in his life. If he doesn't ever get the chance, it's going to break his heart. It doesn't have to be too late for the two of you. If you only were willing—”

My phone rings, and although I want to push my point further with Marva, having a chance to talk to Ash trumps that. “This might be my son calling me back.”

“Well, hell,” Marva says, suddenly cheery. “What is life but a glorious chance to make mistakes and never learn from them? What are you waiting for? Answer it!”

“Hello?” I run out to the porch and close the front door behind me. Better to brave the sideways sleeting rain that's been going on all day than Marva's ridicule.

“Hey, it's me.”

Wrong me. “Oh. Hi, Daniel.”

He clearly picks up on my disappointment because he says, “I'm only calling to tell you that I promised I'd do a run-through for collectibles at the yard sale, so I still plan to be there.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I keep my promises.” The edge to his voice makes it clear he's as eager to get this call over with as I am.

“Okay. I'll see you then.”

He gives an irritated huff. “There's one more thing. I did some poking around on the Internet. Did you know Marva once had a house burn down?”

“Yes, she told me she lost almost everything.”

“Did she mention that somebody died in the fire?”

“No. That's awful! Who was it?”

“Rumor has it he was her longtime lover. Officially, he was a business partner. Name of Filleppe Santiago. Ring a bell?”

I tug my sweater tighter around me against the cold. “Filleppe. From her notes in the book. What was it she wrote?”

“She'd written his name quite a few times. And it was always like she was talking to him, and not necessarily in a positive way. Something about him leaving her to do the dirty work. That one I remember specifically.”

“That's right. How strange that she told me about losing her possessions, but not that a person had died.”

“I'm guessing she doesn't want to talk about it.”

A lover, dead in a fire. As I quickly wind up the call with Daniel
with a set of good-byes so overly polite they were almost F-you's, I peer in through the foggy window at Marva and try to imagine what she used to be like. It's impossible to picture, she's so cranky now, but maybe once she was a softer, sweeter Marva.

Maybe once she was a girl in love.

W
hat are you doing here?” I eye Nelson suspiciously, unable to figure out why a nurse would be called in for a woman who intends to kill herself in days unless it's to assist her with it in some way.

“Oh, how I've missed you and these delightful chats we have.” He plunks a duffel bag on the mudroom floor and looks around. “Someone's been a busy beaver! This place almost looks habitable. And speaking of beavers”—he tips his head toward Niko, who is in the yard with Torch finally emptying Marva's things out of the bungalow—“how's our office romance going?”

“Seriously, Nelson. Why are you here?”

“The lovely Miss Marva is having knee pain. I'm going to see if I can provide a bit of relief. So, as I recall from our arrangement, this is where you now offer up a juicy detail or two about your sex life in exchange for that information. And don't be afraid to be graphic—I can take it.”

“You'll have to find your kicks elsewhere. Nothing's happened.”

“No fair holding out on me.”

“That's the truth.”

“Hmmph. Pity.”

Couldn't agree more. As I watch Niko muscle a box out of the door—
muscle
being the operative word—it's hard to fathom I've let
over a week fly by without following up on what was such a promising start between us on Marva's bed. I blame the bout of temporary insanity that caused me to kiss Daniel. It messed up my judgment and made me miss out on what was right in front of me. Not only is Niko a sweetheart, but he's willing to accept me as I am. Or, even better, as I purport myself to be. Why am I
not
giving myself the pleasure of being with someone who thinks I'm competent at my job? Who doesn't question my abilities as a mother? And, I'll admit, is also fun to look at?

Niko must sense my gaze on him because his head lifts and he winks a hello. I wave back.

“Ah, young lust,” Nelson says, fishing through his bag. “So where's the patient?”

“She's been holed up in her office all morning working on something top secret. Won't let me in when I knock.”

Nelson frowns. “If her knee is giving her problems, she should be lying down.”

“She might be busy painting,” I say, which is what I've had my fingers crossed for, ever since she yelled at me through the locked door to go away. “If she is, that's more important than resting. So don't give her any lectures.”

“You say that now. Nobody appreciates knees until they're gone. She's at least going to lie down for a while if I have any say in the matter, and—as luck would have it—I do.”

“How long will you be?”

“It depends … why?” he asks.

“No reason.”

It's Nelson's turn to eye
me
suspiciously, and justifiably so. As soon as he disappears with Marva into her bedroom, I steal toward her office. I'm dying to see if my scheme is working, and this may be my brief opportunity for a peek. Even if she hasn't started a painting, maybe she's dabbled with mixing paints or played with a few strokes or …