Objects of My Affection (22 page)

I wriggle the doorknob, senselessly. Of course it's locked. “Did you try knocking?” I ask. “Maybe someone is still there who can let us in.” I start rapping on the door. When that doesn't yield a response, I climb around bushes at the front to peer in the window. My feet sink into the mud, and brambles scratch at my calves. “Hello! Anybody there?” I cup my hands over the glass pane so I can see in past the fog I'm creating with my breath. There's a tiny reception area but nothing more. The merchandise must be housed in the rear. “I'm going to check the back.”

I strut purposefully around the building, darkness and puddles be damned. I'm at the back door before realizing that Daniel has followed me. He's wearing a flannel shirt open over a T-shirt, and he's tugged the flannel up to shield against the rain in a manner that makes him at a glance appear headless. I wave him over so he can crouch under the umbrella with me, and I'm hit with a jolt of nostalgia when I catch the smell of the soap he uses. It makes me want to shove him back out into the rain. How dare he stir up memories when what I need to be doing is finding a way into this building.

Daniel takes hold of the umbrella as I knock. “Anybody in there?” I call out.

“It's a Friday. I'm sure they left the second it hit six o'clock. I do have an idea though. We can just buy an old copy of
Grimm's Fairy Tales
at a used-book store and fob it off on her.”

“Marva's was a very rare edition. Are we going to find one of those?”

“Oh.” Saying the words
rare edition
to Daniel is almost like whispering sweet nothings—he shivers from the idea of it. Or it could be the cold. April in Chicago can be mighty brisk.

I turn back to my knocking, my knuckles tender from the damp and cold. I'm at it for so long I might still have been there banging away at that door come Monday morning only Daniel says, “Nobody's there, Luce. You might as well give up.”

He's right; I hate it but he's right. I pull my hand away, tucking it in my pocket for warmth, staring at the door. Perhaps I can will it open with the power of my mind. But I suppose for that to work, I shouldn't be letting myself be distracted by thoughts of Ash getting off a plane at O'Hare, fresh and hale after his successful bout of rehab, then wilting from the news that he has no home.

I've blown it. I've got no job, no money, and no idea how I'm going to move forward from here. My bag of tricks is empty. I don't even realize I'm crying until I hear Daniel groan, “Oh, man, don't do that. I hate it when you cry.”

“I'm not crying,” I snuffle.

“It's not so bad. Tell you what: We'll come back first thing Monday. We'll find the book. Then I'll go with you to Marva's and I'll charm the pants off her. She'll take you back.”

“I'm afraid you overestimate your charm.”

It sounds snottier than I meant it, but Daniel gamely says, “That's only because I usually rein it in. Don't want to make the ladies faint.” He nudges me with his shoulder, trying to bump the misery out of me.

“You know what's pathetic? I'm so stupid I thought my luck was changing. Dumb, huh?”

“Not dumb.” He rubs my back—it's an inappropriately intimate gesture, but I let myself sink into the comfort and familiarity of it. “We'll figure something out.”

“Unless you've got a hidden talent for picking locks, then I'd say it's over.”

“I am a man of many talents, but that's not among them. Although …” He thrusts the umbrella handle toward me. “Hold this a sec.” He tugs his flannel over his head again and hustles to a window that's partially hidden by a large shrub. The window is about four feet high and a foot and a half wide. It's a slat window, made of strips of glass that twist open from a lever located—unfortunately for us—on the inside of the building. Daniel lays his palms on one of the glass panes and gives it a shove up—which to my surprise slides it free.

“Are they kidding me? That's their idea of security?” I say, aghast. “What kind of slipshod operation are they running here?”

Daniel easily removes another pane. “You should give them hell when you talk to them. On Monday. In your official position as a gainfully employed representative of Marva Meier Rios.” He pauses to look over at me. “You want to give me a bit of that umbrella action over here? I'm getting soaked.”

By the time I join him, he's removed a third pane, and I'm awash with anxiety. “I was only joking about breaking in,” I say, whispering now since I'm an accessory to a criminal act. “We shouldn't be doing this.” I glance nervously around. The back of the building is secluded enough that we're not likely to be noticed, but it's lit by spotlights. I've got enough troubles without adding breaking and entering to the list.

“Two seconds ago you're sobbing into your sleeve, and now you're chickening out?”

“I didn't mean we should
steal
it. What if we get caught?”

“We won't. Besides, it's not stealing if you're only taking what's rightfully yours.” He pulls out another glass pane and sets it against the building. “You forget that I have a vested interest in this, too. If you get the ax, then there goes my chance to earn out a commission in merchandise. I've already cleared a space in my living room for a few of those movie posters.”

I feel a twinge of disappointment—I should have known Daniel was only here for the collectibles. Not that it matters. It doesn't. Why should I care for a minute what motivates Daniel so long as it gets the job done? Hard to believe it was only hours ago I was lustily rolling around on a bed with Niko. Now I'm following Daniel as he crawls through the tiny opening he's made in the window, which is far less fun.

Although it's dark when I step in, enough light spills in from outside that I can make out we're in a storeroom. It makes up the bulk of the building, and it's largely empty, except for a pile of boxes, bags, and crates in a corner that I recognize as Marva's. On the far side of the room are several doors, which I assume lead to other storage units
and the front reception area. A desk and several filing cabinets make up the only furniture. I kick off my shoes, which are caked in mud. There's nothing I can do about the rest of my wet clothes. Daniel is tugging off his flannel, but the T-shirt underneath is soaked, too.

“Don't turn on the overhead light,” he says.

“I'm not an idiot.”

“Didn't say you were.” He flips on the tiny flashlight at the end of his phone and shines it in the direction of the pile. “Any idea where the book might be?”

“I'm guessing somewhere in that pile.”

“Excellent. That narrows it down.”

We head over, and he tugs open the flaps of a box. “This looks like as good a place to start as any.” He tips his head toward the other side of the pile. “You want to work over there? We'll meet in the middle.”

“I don't have a light.”

“Your phone doesn't have one?”

“No. But my bra turns into a secret spy camera if that helps any.”

He lifts one eyebrow, and I instantly regret the reference to my bra. Daniel mercifully must sense my discomfort, because he shoves a box toward me. “If we stick close enough together, we should both be able to work off of my light.”

I'm on my third box when Daniel shouts, “Yes!”

My head snaps up. “You found it?”

“The book? No.” He hands me the phone and pulls his T-shirt off over his head. “Glad to see you weren't lying about that robe from
Rocky
—I'm freezing.” Daniel pulls a robe out of a box big enough to hold a washing machine and pulls it on and belts it at the waist. It's comically broad on his skinny frame. Then he dances around me like a boxer, throwing fake jabs.

“You realize that robe is losing value every second you wear it.”

“Don't care! You know why?” Jab. “Because I float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” Jab, jab.

“Any chance there's another robe in there?” I grab at my pant
leg, and the fabric makes a wet sucking noise as it pulls away from my skin.

Daniel bends back over the box. “I'm afraid not. But, this is your lucky day, my queen, because we have this!” He holds up a long, satiny medieval dress.

“Thanks, I'll pass.”

“It's the best I have to offer unless you'd prefer the gold bikini in here. This dress weighs a ton, so at least it'll be warm.”

“How about I wear the robe and you get the dress?”

“No way. Blue's not my color.”

I trade him his phone for the dress. It occurs to me that I'm going to have to take my pants off before putting it on or I'll get mud all over it. “Turn around,” I say.

“What?”

I make a twirling motion with my finger. “Around. I have to take these wet, muddy clothes off or they'll ruin the material.”

He turns around but shines the phone's light over his shoulder so I can see what I'm doing. I unzip my pants and slide them down, then pull my blouse off over my head. I'm folding them neatly and setting them aside when Daniel says, “There's nothing you've got there I haven't seen before.”

It does seem odd to be so modest when mere months ago Daniel would not only have been welcome to see me in only a bra and panties, he'd be an active participant in helping to remove them. Those days are over. I wrestle myself into the dress. It's got about five layers of fabric; it's also made for a woman about a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier. When I finally get it on, I face away from Daniel, gather my hair up, and say, “Do me up.”

It takes him a couple awkward minutes to secure all the buttons. When I turn around, the top of my bra and straps are showing. The dress's waistline hangs to my hips. “You look enchanting,” Daniel says.

“I look ridiculous.”

“Yes, but in an enchanting sort of way.”

I turn back to the box I'd been looking through. “Let's find a book, all right?”

We're not at it more than fifteen minutes when Daniel says, “Oh, wow!”

“You found the book!”

“No. Sorry. I'll quit doing that. But it's a baseball signed by Robert Redford, I'll assume from
The Natural
. Greatest baseball movie ever made—parts of it filmed right here in Chicago.” He tosses the ball up and catches it. “Hey, remember that time we took Ash to that event on Wrigley Field? And he got to run the bases?” As soon as Daniel mentions Ash's name, I find myself bristling. Sure,
now
Daniel wants to reminisce about the good times, but when things started to fall apart with Ash, all he could do was point out the negative.

“I wasn't there,” I say. “It was the two of you. One of your guys' nights out.”

“That's right.” Daniel lets the ball drop from his fingers into the box. “How's he doing?”

“He's good.”

“Do you get to talk to him much?”

“Once in a while.” That's close to the truth. At least the
once
part.

“What's he have to say?”

Most of my phone call with Ash wasn't anything I'd care to recount for Daniel. I'm still feeling hopeful after it, but I have a niggling fear that Daniel would tell me I'm in denial—that it wasn't good news at all. He'd probably only focus on the part of the call where Ash was complaining. Which, granted, was 95 percent of it. “He's making progress” is all I say.

“You must be so happy. How did you ever get him to—”

I cut Daniel off before he can finish the question. “We should get back to what we came here to do. We are here illegally, after all. We shouldn't dally.”

My abruptness must have offended him because he says, “Uh, okay. Back to work it is. No dallying. I won't even dilly, if it makes you feel better.”

“I didn't mean to be rude.”

“No big deal. I get it: You don't want to talk about Ash. It's just that I care about the kid. And I—” He pauses, and I busy myself by opening the flaps of another box. Trying to do anything but look at Daniel. “I want to see him get better.”

“It looks like he's on his way.”
No thanks to you.

“I'm glad.”

We go back to work, and we're not at it for five minutes before Daniel says, “Hey, check this out.”

Could his attention span be any shorter? “Now what is it?”

“Is that any way to talk to the man who has found …
this
?” He holds up a tattered copy of
Grimm's Fairy Tales.

Without thinking I throw myself at him in a hug. “I can't believe you found it so fast! Thank you!”

“You're welcome.”

I can feel the book against my back where he's holding me, and I reach to grab it. I flip to the title page. Daniel's hand lingers on my waist as he holds the light so I can see.

“She's written all over it!” I say. “I can't believe she put me through all this for a book she's ruined!” The spine is cracked and the pages yellowed, and a quick scan of its contents reveals Marva has scribbled here and there throughout—in margins, on blank areas at the end of chapters, right over the top of the book's text and illustrations.

“Are you sure it's Marva's writing?”

“Positive.” It matches the signature on her paintings, and the crazy forward-scrawl of the
Do not disturb
note she'd taped to her door my first day of work. Plus I'm constantly seeing her writing in a book. I just didn't realize that was the one I've been on this scavenger hunt for.

“She defaced this rare an edition?” he says as if Marva had graffitied a national monument.

“Whatever. The good news is, now I have it. Thanks to you—credit where credit is due. I'll take this baby back to Marva and wave it in her face. She'll have to give me my job back.”