Second First Impressions Page 7

  “Alistair told me I can’t go back until I buy my share in Fairchild, one hundred percent, in full. It was one of those all-or-nothing ultimatums. I’ve never seen him so mad before.” He falls silent.

  I can feel his changed mood through the wall and my water has gone cold. What he said is true: We are the kind of neighbors who share everything now. “Are you still there?”

  “Hmmm.”

  I try to picture him now, lying in that dusty ancient tub. “I’ll make you some dinner. And I’ve got a spare toothbrush.”

  “No, I’ve realized you’ve done more than enough for me. Good night, Tidy Girl.” What kind of person tattoos TAKE on their own hand, anyway? Apparently, someone who’s acutely aware that that’s what he does.

  Every bath I’ve ever had, I’ve lain here listening to the lick of water on the edges of the tub and my own pulse. I’m back to where I’ve always been, just floating, completely alone.

  Chapter Seven

  I’m surprised to find Teddy slumped over the tiny table in our shared courtyard when I open my front door in the morning. “Good morning.”

  “Morn,” is the slurred reply. He’s drawing in a sketchbook, but he flips it closed when I approach. He notices my mug. “Oh, my, fucking, God.”

  “Would you like some coffee, Theodore Prescott?”

  A bleary eye blinks through his tousled hair. “I would marry you for coffee.”

  I absolutely itch to go inside for my hairbrush, to bring this mess back to glass-shine perfection. But that’s his strategy, right? He’s attracting females with his plumage. “No proposal necessary. How do you take it?”

  “Black and sweet.” He’s drawing again, but closes the book again when I return.

  I spent a long time thinking about how he retreated last night. It’s important that from now on, Teddy earns everything he gets. “I want one drawing for this cup of coffee. No freebies.”

  “Sure.” He opens to a fresh page. “What do you want?”

  “A tortoise.” I set the mug down.

  “That reminds me.” The pen goes to the page, and he begins a long, flat curve. “I did a terrible thing last night. I’m just working myself up to tell you.”

  I wait, but he won’t volunteer it. “Were you comfortable last night?”

  “If my Fairy God-Neighbor hadn’t looked out for me, I would have cried myself to sleep. Thank you so much.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Full disclosure: I tried to leave him alone to fend for himself. I finished my bath, ate my chicken Kiev and vegetables, washed dishes, and spent time approving new Heaven Sent You Here forum members. I took my late-night walk around the grounds, flashlight in hand, completing the checklist I’ve got in my phone.

  I finished up, as I always do, at the western edge, where I hung from the chain-link fence with both hands and listened for motorbikes. I probably looked like a prisoner.

  As I was brushing my teeth, Teddy still wasn’t back. I felt terrible about my lack of charity, especially to the boss’s son. Like a model Fairy God-Neighbor, I left on the courtyard table a stack of the following items:

  One set of sheets (cloud print)

  One towel and matching bath mat

  One quilt

  One toothbrush (red)

  One roll of toilet paper

  One spare pillow from my bed (how strangely blush-worthy)

  Like a mom, I say, “Your mattress is queen size. Anyway, have a good day with the Parlonis. I’m sure you’ll do great.” I go to leave.

  “Wait. Something bad happened last night when I was walking back from the parking lot. I knocked but you didn’t answer. Were you asleep?” He drags a hand through his hair. It shines like a raven’s wing, blue black, slightly evil, totally beautiful. With a groan, he reaches under the table and brings out a torn Kleenex box. Inside is a golden bonnet tortoise that doesn’t look so great. “I stepped on it, and now you’ll have to fill out a form.”

  “I had my headphones on.” After I’d left the bundle of supplies out for him, I’d had a sudden paranoia that he’d interpret it as a love token. I swaddled myself in bed with my laptop and turned up the volume of my Heaven Sent episode. I tried too hard to not hear him return.

  “I took it to the after-hours vet clinic, but they only stabilized it with painkillers and told me to find a reptile specialist.” He nudges a lettuce leaf closer to the tortoise’s disinterested face. “The crack it made under my shoe. I still hear it and feel it.”

  I’m sure no one has ever felt so rotten about stepping on a tortoise. “I’m sorry, Teddy.” His expression falls. “No, it’s not time to call a priest just yet. We can fix it.”

  I’m grateful for the practical task. I get my kit, put on gloves, and we lift the injured tortoise out. It’s a small one, the size of a deck of cards. “Well, it can move all its legs. That’s good.”

  “That’s what they said last night. But here.” He indicates the cracked shell. “They’ve put a gel in there to stop infection, but it’s not fixed. They didn’t have the stuff they need. Lucky I live next door to a reptile specialist.”

  “I know a couple of things, but I’m not an expert.” I follow the crack and try to visualize the damage, based on past x-rays I’ve seen. “The shell needs to be repaired with resin. Maybe wire for this section.”

  “Can you do that?” He’s impressed when I nod. “You really are like a vet. Is that what your goal is? Renata talked over you yesterday in the interview.” He picks up his pen and recommences sketching. The tortoise is coming to life on the page. He runs the pen along, maybe like a tattoo needle, linking lines, filling in texture.

  I tell the tortoise, “My childhood dream was to be a vet, once upon a time. But not anymore, obviously. I’m a babysitter. These guys are valuable on the black market, apparently. It’s part of my reason for living on-site.”

  “Your setup here looks pretty professional.”

  “I just give them a place to rest and recover.” I go to the edge of the low enclosures I’ve put together in the courtyard. “I think number 44 has to go to the Reptile Zoo. We’ll send this one along for an x-ray and they can do the repair. They come through town pretty regularly, and they don’t charge us.”

  “Wish I’d known that before I flirted the vet’s receptionist into giving me an account.” He grins at the memory.

  I feel a pang, but it also injects a little resin into my heart. This is what he does. I’ve got to keep these Teddy Shields Up. “I know you didn’t get your money’s worth. Sorry I didn’t hear you. I’m not used to having anyone else around.”

  He frowns over his tiny victim. “I knew you’d be really disappointed with me for this.” He’s got eyes like a little kid when he looks up, expecting a scolding. “You’ve never stepped on one, I bet.”

  “I’ve been walking around these paths in the dark for years now. I’m sure you’ll watch your step.” I take a red lipstick out of my kit. “This one is number 50.”

  “You rescue them and let them have a soft landing. I’ve never identified with a tortoise so much in my life.” He picks up his pen and writes a number 50 on the back of his hand. “I don’t think it’s too late for you to be a vet.”

  I’m flustered. “I’m just an office assistant. Anyone can do this.” I turn to a fresh sheet and give him the clipboard. “You can do the form. Write his ID on his shell. Before you ask, I’ve tried the label maker, but they don’t stick. Long wear lipstick is perfect.”

  He takes the lipstick and initials the shell TJ. “Teddy Junior. Where are you going to put him?”

  “Just with the others.”

  When it’s time to hand both the creature and the paperwork over, Teddy looks at my outstretched hand like he doesn’t trust me. Now he’s squinting up at the sky, checking for rain. He looks around the courtyard. It’s not good enough for his little prince.

  Maybe like my sketch-for-coffee deal, it would be better if Teddy had to fix this himself. Besides, he invested a lot in this c
reature. “If it makes you feel better, you can keep him until his ride arrives. Just keep the box very level, don’t jiggle him around.” We put some bedding material in the box.

  Teddy checks the time on his phone and does one of his huge lion-roar yawns. “Shit, I’ve got to start work soon. I have not been awake this early in years.”

  I’m perplexed enough to recheck my watch. “It’s eight A.M.” I’m so early for work myself, I give myself a break and sit down on the cold metal chair beside him. Another thing I’ve never done? Actually sat in this courtyard in the morning sunshine.

  “I can’t function this early. How bad is today going to be for me? Here’s your drawing,” he adds offhand, scribbling his initials in the bottom corner. I take the page he’s torn out for me. How was this detailed tortoise rendered with so little apparent effort, with a one-dollar biro? I expected a cute cartoon and I now own a one-off piece of art. I need to frame this.

  His ego will be inflating but I don’t even care. “Teddy, this is amazing.”

  Careless shrug. “So’s this coffee.” He turns over to a fresh sheet in his notebook and begins drawing with loose, easy motions. The outline of a long wool cardigan emerges, shaped onto a female figure. She’s rounded nicely at the breast and hip, and there’s an arch to the back and a flattering slim line to the waist.

  I ask, “Where’d you go last night?”

  “The bowling alley. Memory Lanes has got this insane thing on the bar menu called Frankenfries, and every now and then I can’t say no to the craving.”

  “What are Frankenfries?”

  “It’s a chain, so each location has its own version. At this one, it’s french fries, topped with macaroni and cheese”—he’s layering his hands now, TAKE-GIVE-TAKE—“then they put gravy, then a layer of breadcrumbs and it goes under the grill. Before you get it, they put a hotdog frank into it like a torpedo. It looks like dog food. We go there most Friday nights after we close up.” He means his tattoo buddies. Scrolling through his photo album he says absent-mindedly, “I need to look up if there’s one near the new studio.”

  He shows me a photo of a hideous pile of food. His friends all crowding over it, pretending they puked it up. Tough guys with piercings and tough girls with presence. “See?” He uses two fingers to zoom the photo. “Yummy dog food.” One of the girls is looking at the camera, and the silly boy holding it. The look in her eye reads loud and clear. He’s divine.

  I mean it when I say: “How disgusting.”

  “When you need to eat your feelings, it’s the only thing that’ll do.”

  “Your feelings must have been pretty gross and mixed up.”

  “Yeah. You get it.” Sketch, sketch. “Anyway, that was my sad night. I came back late, imagining myself alone in the world. Then I found your care package and I remembered that there’s nice people everywhere.”

  You may have noted that I only gave him one towel.

  “I probably should have mentioned this, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring guests on-site. During the day when they’re signed in at the office . . . that might be okay if a friend wants to visit you. But I need to know every single person on-site. In the event of an emergency.”

  “Who would I bring to a retirement villa?”

  I can’t bring myself to say it. Don’t bring any of those people from the photo here. I’ve cracked a hole in the wall of my little world, and it’s only big enough for you to squeeze through. Don’t make me hear a woman’s laugh through our wall.

  His eyes flash to my face, tortoiseshell vivid. “Ohhh, I get what you’re saying. Not with our thin walls. I wouldn’t traumatize you like that.” He resumes work on his cardigan artwork. He thinks I’m just a kid.

  I defend myself like a kid would. “I wouldn’t be traumatized.”

  My brain guesses at what I might hear in the dark. A mattress squeaking, the bed headboard nudging rhythmically against the wall. A girl gasping from uncontainable pleasure, the kind you’d feel from his body, his touch, but mostly the intensity of being his sole focus. I imagine his hair curtaining around her face, pooling like black oil on the pillow as he dips down for a kiss.

  What would a filterless person like Teddy say in the moment? How carried away would he get, how would his imagination be sparked? He’d apply all that charm in just the right way. I think Teddy would laugh a lot in bed.

  And all this would happen on my cloud-print sheets.

  I manage to joke, “Okay, maybe I would be traumatized.” I close my mouth to contain the pressure building inside me. There will be zero girls experiencing that here, or I swear I don’t know what I’ll do—

  “But since Melanie tells me you’re about to start online dating, maybe you could do me the same courtesy.” He is detailing buttons onto the cardigan sketch and doesn’t look up. “I’m easily traumatized myself.”

  “I really don’t think that’s going to be an issue.” I gesture to myself with my thumb.

  He starts guessing at what I mean. “Your . . . cardigan won’t come off. There’s another cardigan under that cardigan, just hundreds of them like a box of tissues. It’s a chastity cardigan. An enchanted cardigan.”

  On the page, he dusts a few blue-ink sparkles around the shoulders and hemline. He sees shapes when he looks at me?

  His teasing hasn’t riled up my hedgehog prickles like I thought they would. I must be getting used to him. I take my breakfast muffin out of my bag and break it in half. It is almost tearfully received. We sit and eat, and I think about this wafer-thin wall between our cottages.

  “Tonight, when I’m in bed,” I start, and it changes him. He’s gone from sleepy-yawns to glittering, narrowed eyes. The flickering candlelight is back in them now. “And when you’re in bed”—(oh boy, his eyes are even worse now)—“we should say something out loud. To see if the other can hear. Not for any weird reason.”

  “I’m interested in weird stuff, big-time.” He’s checking the time on his phone. His lock screen is a photograph of a neon sign that reads: ALWAYS AND FOREVER. He clicks it away to blackness and hands me his empty mug. “Thanks so much. Better go.”

  “Have a good day.” I feel a little guilty because I know what sort of first days the Parloni boys have.

  “I might come down for a visit later, if I get a lunch break.” He’s gathering up his things now. He blows out a breath like he’s nervous. Maybe his survival instincts are kicking in. “Any last hints or tips for me?” He’s using the same velvety voice he probably used on the veterinary receptionist last night.

  “The Parlonis usually have a siesta. If you make it until then, you can have lunch. Come and visit us at the office.”

  “If I make it? Of course I will.” He laughs like I’ve made a joke. “I’ll have you to look forward to. Can’t wait.”

  I’m almost down the path to the office when I realize I can’t wait, either, and therefore I’m possibly in big trouble.

  Chapter Eight

  All morning, I keep trying to guess when the Parloni sisters might take their siesta. Perhaps tormenting Teddy on his first day at work has given them an energy boost and he won’t come down to visit at all. I tell myself that I’m glad to have a little peace and quiet.

  Mrs. Petersham called the office earlier and asked us to go to the store for some new magazines. “I am well qualified for this,” Melanie assured me, grabbing a fist of petty cash. “Choosing magazines is a strength I should have put on my résumé. I’ll be back.” Eventually?

  I’m catching up on my to-do list. It only took two clicks off the PDC home page to find the new site manager of Providence. Rose Prescott, Junior Management Associate, is a blue-eyed blonde with a strong stare. She would get picked first for team sports at school. She would blast a hockey puck into your face. There is absolutely no similarity to Teddy at all, from her coloring to her fierce aura.

  “Teddy would be smiling properly,” I say out loud to the empty room. The photographer would have one hell of a time just getting a shot o
f him where he wasn’t laughing, blinking, yawning, or moving. I’d love to see his passport. I print Rose’s corporate profile out and add it to my PDC folder.

  The next thing on my list, I’ve been procrastinating on.

  Dad answers the phone on the second ring. “Reverend Midona.” Put it this way: If God calls, Dad can’t be accused of not taking this seriously.

  “Hi, it’s Ruthie.”

  He presses the phone to his chest and I hear him calling: “Abigail. Abigail.” This goes on for a while and I just sit there waiting. “She’s coming from the garden.” He goes to lay down the receiver.

  I rush out, “How are things with you?” Put a tick in the dutiful daughter column.

  “Fine, busy, fine.”

  “I hope you haven’t gotten that flu that’s been going around.” I completely make that up. I wouldn’t have a clue what germs are filling up his church, but desperate times call for desperate conversation topics.

  “I don’t have the flu,” Dad says, and now we both just sit, phones to our ears.

  I break first. “Did Mom tell you that I’m the manager here at Providence while Sylvia is on her cruise?” As soon as I hear the hopeful boast in my voice, it feels like an error. This feels like that moment when you’ve set up a joke perfectly, and the other person has a killer punch line.

  He delivers it. “I hope you’re remembering to lock the office. Here’s your mother.”

  “Okay then. Bye.” I hold the receiver away to exhale. I’m shaky and tears are threatening. I’m careful now. Aren’t I?

  I open my checklist app to make sure I performed my lockup routine properly last night. One item—the recreation center door—is unticked. Did I actually do that? I know I was there, but I think I got distracted. I close my eyes now and visualize myself, out there on the path, the door handle cold under my palm. But my ears were listening for faraway motorbikes.

  Mom interrupts my miniature meltdown. “My little Ruthie Maree. You know, I was just thinking about you. How are you?”