The Moon and More (38 page)

“I’m fine,” I told her. To Luke I said, “So you really think you’re up for this?”

“Moving a margarita machine?” He snorted. “Please. How hard can it be?”

About twenty minutes later, outside of Sand Dollars, we were finding out. Not only was it heavy—blame that huge motor—but also of the most awkward size, really hard to get a good grip on, well, anywhere. At Colby Realty, we’d recruited a couple of maintenance guys and Rebecca and her spindly arms to help get it into the back of the truck. Here, though, we were on our own.

“If I get a hernia,” Luke huffed from the step above me, trying to move backwards, “I am suing your entire family.”

“Maybe it would help if you took your shirt off,” I suggested. “It seems to work with the pool cleaning, yes?”

“Do you want me to drop this?” he asked, nodding at his end of the machine.

“Please, God, no,” I said, laughing.

“I didn’t think so.” He grunted, going up another step. “So typical. We’re together for a half hour and you’re already trying to get me naked.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said. “Besides, don’t you have a girlfriend?”

He glanced at me. “Where’d you hear that?”

“It’s all the talk at Tallyho.”

He rolled his eyes.

“I’m kidding. Amber told me. Plus, I did see you guys together, remember? You were in a tie for her.”

“The tie was for my
mother
,” he corrected me.

“Still,” I said. There was a pause, which might have been awkward were we not already in duress. “I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, clearly uncomfortable. He wasn’t the only one. But it had to mean something that we’d gotten to this point. “Thanks.”

By now, I was full-on sweating, both arms straining and burning, legs wobbly. I was pretty sure my lungs popping like balloons was next. Just in time, we made it to the top of the steps. Hallelujah.

“Oh … my … God,” Luke panted once we put the machine down. He bent over, hands on his knees. “And we’re not even
done
yet.”

“No more stairs,” I told him. “Although we do have to deal with another difficulty.”

“What’s that?”

“Not what. Who.”

I hit the doorbell. A moment later, the intercom crackled. “If you’re selling something,” a loud voice said, already annoyed, “I’m not interested. Actually, even if you’re
not
selling anything. I’m not interested, period.”

Luke raised his eyebrows.

“Hi, Ivy! It’s me,” I called out cheerfully. “Emaline.”

Pause. Then, flatly, “Theo doesn’t live here anymore.”

“I’m here on official realty office business,” I told her. “Can you buzz me in?”

A pause. Then, the lock clicked open. We were in.

Or the door was open. We still had to heave the machine over the threshold, then get it down the hallway to the wet-bar area in the living room. Compared to the stairs, it was much easier. Compared to just about anything else, though, it was not.

“How big
is
this room?” Luke, walking backwards, panted at me, as we passed one of the couches.

“Only a little farther,” I told him. “You’re going to need to turn right about … now.”

He pivoted and I did the same, until we both were parallel with the countertop. “Hoisting and praying on three,” he said. “One, two, three.”

With all the strength I had left, which wasn’t much, I pushed my end onto the counter. Finally. My arms were shaking again. Across from me, Luke’s face was red, his shirt damp. We were both breathing hard, recovering, when I heard Ivy’s voice.

“What the hell is
that
?” she demanded, from the hallway.

“Our cause of death,” Luke told her. “Be sure to tell the coroner.”

I laughed, still breathless, which made me start coughing. Pretty soon, it advanced to hacking. Luke glanced around, then grabbed a glass from the bar. He filled it and handed it to me. I sucked it down, then told Ivy, “It’s a margarita machine.”

“I don’t need a margarita machine,” she said.

“With something like this, is it really about
need
, though?” Luke asked her.

She just looked at him. “Let me rephrase. I don’t want a margarita machine.”

“Yes, but the owners of this house do. They ordered this way back in April.” I turned, wiping a smudge from the main engine barrel. “You might use it.”

“Unless it can shoot and edit footage and help run my production company, I doubt it,” she grumbled. “Find me a machine that will do that, and I’ll pay for it myself.”

Luke looked at me. I said, “I think it just makes drinks, actually.”

“Too bad.” Ivy sighed as, from down the hallway, there was a loud bang, followed by another. She wiped at her face, seemingly not hearing it. One more bang. Finally, she saw we’d noticed and explained, “The screen door in my bedroom is busted. I get percussion when it’s windy. Which is always.”

“It’s broken?” I asked. “Why didn’t you call us to come fix it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, flipping her wrist. “Too busy dealing with arrogant artists and traitorous employees. A girl’s only got so much time in the day.”

“Wow,” Luke said, under his breath.

Ivy looked at him. “Aren’t you the pool guy?”

“Yep,” he replied. “I wear many hats.”

“That seems to be the norm around here,” she observed, nodding at me. “This one has a habit of popping up everywhere I turn.”

“She’ll do that,” he agreed. The door banged again, hard.

“Can I go take a look?” I asked her.

“Sure,” she said, walking into the kitchen and pulling open the fridge. “Knock yourself out.”

I started down the hallway, Luke following. When Ivy was out of earshot, I heard him say, “Man. She’s a piece of work, huh?”

“You have
no
idea,” I said. “She’s—”

I had to stop there, as what I found myself facing struck me utterly, suddenly speechless. Oh my God.

The airy, expansive master bedroom I’d helped furnish back in May had been gorgeous, with creamy, white walls, a huge bed with a full ivory comforter and pillows, and matching dresser, chair, and bedside tables with pale wood accents. A framed, mirrored mosaic hung over the bed, with a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall opposite. The rest of the room was windows, huge, tall ones, showing the best view of the ocean. It was, seriously, one of the prettiest rooms I’d ever seen, like something from a magazine.

This
room, however, was a pigsty: dim, cluttered, and smelling strongly of fried food. I couldn’t even see the ocean, due to the black trash bags that had been put up—oh, God, please not with tape, I thought—to cover the windows entirely. The comforter lay in a heap on the floor, dotted with water and Diet Coke bottles, which also covered any other flat surface, often two or three deep. The floor was equally cluttered, with piles of papers, at least two different laptops, tangles of cords, and, inexplicably, many boxes of cereal, several of which were both open and spilling. And then, there was the banging.

The screen door, I saw as I peered into the dimness, was not just broken. It was hanging by only the top hinges, scraping the house’s exterior each time a gust of wind blew up underneath it. Which, judging by the noise and the plentiful white paint chips piled up along the slim bit of view visible under the garbage bags—which were, in fact, attached with duct tape, oh dear Jesus—was pretty much constantly.

I couldn’t even make a noise. Maybe I squeaked. It was Luke who said, “Oh, boy. Someone’s not getting their deposit back.”

“The windows …” I pointed, my finger shaking. “And … the carpet. Is that … is that
blood
over there?”

He stepped around me, gingerly, then navigated past a box of Froot Loops, two empty coffee mugs, and a huge pile of clothes to examine it. “Not blood. Cranberry juice, maybe?”

“I think I’m going to pass out,” I said, reaching behind me for the wall. Instead, I hit a couple of plastic bottles, knocking them to the floor.

“Go ahead. I’m going to shut this door up before it makes me crazy.” He picked his way across the floor, over the laptops and cords, and started feeling around under the garbage bags for the door handle. After searching a bit, he pulled the bag loose. And there was light.

I bent down, picking up the bottles I’d knocked over, an action not unlike removing a tablespoon of water from a tidal wave. “Who rents an ocean-view house … and then covers up the view?”

“The same person who lets a loose door scrape off half their siding, apparently,” he reported, having finally gotten
the sliding door open. Fresh air was coming in now, a stark contrast to the dankness. He stuck his head out, examining the damage. “Boy. Forget the deposit. She’s in for more than that with this repair alone.”

Now that I could see, I went over to the windows and carefully eased off a large piece of duct tape to take down another bag. It took up paint, leaving behind black, sticky residue. Still, the light made me feel better, so I started taking them all down. Luke pitched in, and soon the room was flooded with sunshine. Which, honestly, just made things look worse. The door was still banging.

“I’m going to get the toolbox from my truck,” he said, as I surveyed the clutter and damage again. “I can at least take it off that hinge. Okay?”

I nodded, dumbly, and he headed to the door, clapping my shoulder on the way out. He knew better than to offer anything more positive.

I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, just staring, before I heard Ivy behind me. She was just suddenly there. “What’d you do to the windows?”

I turned, slowly, to face her. “Me? What did
I
do to the windows?”

She pointed at them. “I had them covered for a reason.”

“With garbage bags and duct tape?” I was pretty sure I was shrieking.

“I’m very light sensitive,” she told me.

“Then sleep in a hole, not an oceanfront mansion!” Okay, I was shrieking. “I can’t believe you did this to this room. It was perfect before you moved in. Pristine. And now—”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” she said, looking around.

“Are you an
animal
?” I demanded. She looked at me, surprised. “Seriously. Because only animals live like this.”

“It’s just messy,” she told me. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?” I repeated. “The owners of this place are expecting to move in as soon as you leave. Which, by the looks of this, will probably be today.”

“You can’t kick me out,” she said. “I have a contract.”

“Read it,” I said, gesturing around me. “You’re in violation.”

Now, she actually looked sort of worried. “I have to stay here until I finish this phase of the project. Especially since I’m working alone now.”

“You should have thought about that before you trashed someone else’s house.”

In response, she picked up a Diet Coke bottle from the floor, then another one beside it, tucking them under her arm. “It’s not trashed. It’s just messy. Watch, I can fix it.”

“The outside of the house is scraped clean of paint,” I said, my voice flat. “Can you fix that?”

“Probably not,” she admitted, still gathering up bottles, now at a faster clip. “But you can. Right?”

I just looked at her. “Why on earth would I help you?”

Her arms were full of bottles now. “You help everyone else.”

“What?”

“You do!” she said, turning and dumping them out into the hallway. “You helped Theo, and Clyde …”

“That was different. They’re my friends.”

She looked up at me, one of the laptops now in her hands. “Oh, that’s nice. Thank you so much.”

“Ivy. We’re not friends,” I told her as she walked over to the bedside table, the laptop’s cord dragging behind her, knocking bottles over as it went. Watching the plug approach an open box of Kix, I couldn’t help myself. I went over and picked it up. “You don’t even like me.”

“That’s not true,” she said, dumping the laptop on the bed. I picked up another box of cereal, as well as a couple of more bottles. “I have no feelings about you whatsoever.”

“The feeling’s mutual.” I picked up the two mugs. “Oh, for God’s sake. I’m going to get a trash bag.”

“Maybe bring the box,” she called out, as I stomped down the hallway, passing Luke on his way back in with his toolbox.

“Are we leaving?” he asked.

“No. We’re cleaning,” I told him. Then I hit the laundry room closet, where just about everything I’d stocked at the beginning of the season—cleansers, wipes, mops, and sprays—remained basically untouched. Even the vacuum cleaner still had a plastic cover on the plug. Unbelievable.

Back in the bedroom, Ivy was still picking up things off the floor, while Luke was working on the hinge with a screwdriver. I walked over to the red stain with some carpet cleaner, taking out my aggression on the pump until it was totally saturated. “This better come up.”

“It’s just tomato juice,” she told me.

“
Just?
” I said.

Outside the open door, Luke snickered. I looked at him,
and he reared back. “Sorry. No offense. But if you could see

your face right now …” He trailed off, biting his lip.

“This is so not funny,” I told him.

“You’re exactly right,” he replied, now straight-faced. “It’s dire.”

Now, Ivy laughed, and I glared at her. “Sorry. I laugh when I’m nervous. What? You are
really
kind of scary right now.”

“If I were you, I’d stop talking,” I told her. “Otherwise, I’m out of here and you can deal with this on your own.”

For the next thirty minutes or so, we all worked quickly and silently. Luke got the door off, while Ivy and I filled trash bags, dealt with the carpet, and got everything off the floor. I plugged in the vacuum and pushed it at her, then made the bed with fresh sheets from the linen closet, which had also not been used yet. By the time we were all done, it slightly resembled the room I remembered. Which was honestly more than I expected.

“See?” she said, as we all stood by the door, surveying our work. “All better.”

“Not all. And it’s not like it could have gotten worse.”

I heard a buzzing, and she pulled her phone from her pocket. “Hello? Oh, Clyde, hi. I’m on my way, just hit a little snag, so—What?” She glanced at her watch. “But we said ten thirty, so we could really get in some good time …”