Objects of My Affection (38 page)

I slide into the driver's seat, looking forward to cruising around and being with my thoughts for a while.

I take the long route back to Marva's, driving along the tree-lined streets, enjoying the signs of spring. As much as I wish I had the money to fix my car so I could be riding top down, that's going to have to wait. As I told Will, there aren't always second chances. I won't forgive myself if I don't do the best I can by Ash. As hard as it's going to be, I know what I need to do now.

I've done so many hard things, what's one more?

W
hat's that noise?” my mom says as soon as I tell her it's me on the phone. She still doesn't have caller ID; my dad doesn't believe in it.

“Car wash.” I'm sitting on a plastic chair waiting for my car to make it through the wash. Between the whir of traffic on the nearby street and the car wash itself, I'm practically forced to shout.

“Any news on Ash?” my mom says.

“Sort of.” I've been keeping my parents updated with quick calls, but—not wanting to stress them out or admit the depths of my problems—I've candy-coated the situation when I could. Now is when that stops. Done hiding from the truth, I tell her about Ash. I don't skip the gritty details—though I cringe when I confess he's possibly using again, and how he claims he's going to NA meetings but how even that's probably a lie. “He already backslid once,” I say, “and I don't dare risk it happening again. He won't go back to the Willows so … I'm sending him to the Betty Ford.”

“In California? That's the one where the celebrities go, isn't it? Didn't that one girl, the one who was in all those movies, you know who I mean, didn't she go there?”

Strangely, I know precisely whom my mom means. “Yes, several times.”

“But, sweetheart, isn't it expensive? Those people are rich. How are you going to afford this?”

“I'm counting on getting the bonus for this job. I'm almost finished, and it'll just be enough.”

“But that's your money for a house! Where will you live?”

“Funny you should ask.” Once I decided that I wasn't going to risk having regrets about helping Ash, the plan fell easily into place. As of Friday I won't have a job, I'll be out of money again, and there's nothing holding me to Chicago. I may as well move someplace where rent is free, and where I'll be only a four-hour drive from my son. “How would you feel if I moved in with you and Dad for a while?”

“We'd love it!” She shouts away from the phone, “Roger, guess what? Lucy is going to move here and live with us!”

I hear him say, “Good.” From my dad, that's practically gushing.

“So why Betty Ford?” my mom asks.

“It's a place he'll go.”

“Well, that's a start, isn't it?”

We talk for a few more minutes about the plan I've been working on all morning. I'll book a flight for Ash to California, where a representative of Betty Ford will meet him at the airport. That'll take a couple days. I called Ash's motel room last night, and he's excited, or as excited as Ash gets. As for me, after the job with Marva ends—barring the need to stick around for a funeral—I'll pack everything into a trailer, including what's in storage, and haul it to Arizona.

“By yourself?” my mom asks.

“I'll be fine.”

“You're not driving the Mustang, are you? I don't like the idea of you driving so long a distance in such an old car.”

“I already thought of that. I'm selling it. That's why I'm getting it washed.”

Already grieving the loss, I watch as a team of cloth-wielding men descend on my awesome, gleaming cherry-red Mustang to wipe it dry now that it's been spewed from the mechanized wash. Niko knows a guy who'd kill to buy it off me and, more important, is willing to pay
top Blue Book. I'll use the cash I make from selling it to buy a boring, sensible car.

Fishing in my purse to find a dollar for a tip, I say, “We'll get into the details later.”

“We're going to have
so
much fun. What a wonderful Mother's Day this has turned out to be.”

“It's Mother's Day? I completely forgot—and you let me get through the entire call without reminding me! Happy Mother's Day!”

“You've got a lot on your mind, honey. And happy Mother's Day to you, too. I know Ash is running you through the wringer. You've been so strong through all of this. He might not show it now, but someday he'll appreciate everything you're doing for him.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I hurry off the call because a car-wash worker is waving a rag to signal I'm done, and I don't feel like crying in front of him.

I
t's ten o'clock and I'm finishing up for the night at Marva's. The deadline is Friday, and the X-filled calendar on my wall shows a mere five days left. I should really keep working, but Marva is cranky and has bandied about the term
slave driver
one too many times for my taste. As if
I'm
the one who came up with the strict deadline and then dragged her feet for weeks.

I'm leaning into the refrigerator, deciding whether Marva would notice one of her apples missing, when the door bangs open in the living room. In walks Will, carrying a large, brown-paper-wrapped package the size of a mirror or a frame.

“Where's Marva?” he asks.

“Office. What's that?”

“A gift. Do me a favor—go in there and take the canvas off the easel. Hurry—this thing is bulky.”

I give my customary knock that I do when I enter Marva's office—even if the door is open, which it is. Will follows, setting the package on the easel as soon as I take the canvas down.

Marva looks up from where she's sifting through a box of loose photos at her desk. “What's this?”

“Happy Mother's Day,” he says, and tears the paper off. Even before he steps aside, it's apparent what he's brought her.

“How on earth did you get
Woman, Freshly Tossed
?!” I exclaim, figuring somebody had better show excitement, because Marva's expression is blank.

Luckily, Will isn't noticing because he's beaming as he says, “I still had the GPS coordinates to that house in Grosse Pointe, so I hopped in the car today and drove up there. Made them an offer they couldn't refuse.”

“What'd you pay for it?” I ask. He had to have gotten it for a song since those people had no idea of its value.

“Didn't your mother teach you manners? You don't ask what a gift costs,” Will says. “But I paid a fair price. Apparently, my interest in it so soon after it caught the eye of a certain decorating-magazine writer tipped them off that it might be worth something. They did fast homework. Damn that Google.”

“What a thoughtful and generous gift.” I look leadingly at Marva. “Isn't it?”

“It is,” she says evenly, getting up from her chair. “Whatever possessed you to do it, Will?”

“You've given up so much. You should have it. And … uh …” He pauses, and I quietly begin backing out of the room so he can be candid. This is his moment to finally open up to Marva in a way that will get through to her that she's making a huge mistake. To tell her what he's been holding in all these years. He clears his throat. “It's a good investment.”

Ugh. Will.

“Thank you,” Marva says.

Hoping to prompt a more heartfelt conversation between them, I say, “I'll get going so the two of you can talk further. Will, I'm sure Marva would love to hear more about what inspired this gift.”

Staring back at me is a Will-in-the-headlights who mutters, “I've
got to run, unfortunately. Left Padma alone all day on a Sunday.” He hurriedly sets up one of the other easels I'd left in the office and sets the blank canvas on it. “Here. In case you feel like, um, creating another masterpiece.”

He's gone within a minute, leaving Marva and me alone in the office. “He bought it for you because he loves you,” I say. “You realize that, don't you?”

“I suppose I have to keep it displayed here.”

“Yes, you do.”

She grimaces, finally showing some emotion. “It's like getting an ugly sweater from someone that they expect you to wear.”

“Only this isn't ugly. It's remarkable.” Side by side with the blank canvas, it nearly leaps from the easel. “Why don't you like it, Marva?”

“It isn't a matter of whether or not I like it.”

“What is it then?”

“Complicated.”

“I've got time.”

She puts the lid on the box of photos and leans over to click off the light, leaving us with only the hall light spilling in the room. “I don't.”

O
ver the next two days, the plan for my future takes shape, as does Marva's house. Tuesday afternoon—bumping elbows with Mei-Hua as I clear the last items from the dining room and she's giving the kitchen a scrub-down—I finally come across the memorabilia that Daniel had set aside as his payment.

Although he'd told me he doesn't want it anymore, I owe it to him. Truthfully, I owe him more than this bag of boxed figurines, a popgun, and a couple of rolled-up posters, but it's a start.

Before I can lose my nerve, I grab all of it, hop in my car, and head to my old digs of the McMillan offices.

One of the Andreas greets me at the reception desk. “Lucy, what brings you here!”

“Dropping this off for Daniel,” I say, holding out the bag.

“Great! I'll see that he gets it.”

She reaches out a hand for it. I'm tempted to do a drop and run, but I didn't come this far in rush-hour traffic for that. “Is he here?”

“He was saying something about a meeting, but he might be. Go back and check his office. If you don't find him, I can try to hunt him down.”

Thanking her, I make my way down the once-familiar halls, hoping I don't run into anyone on my way. There's only one person I'm hoping to see, though my stomach is flipping nervously as I pause outside his office.

“Luce? What are you doing here?” Daniel comes out of the doorway across from his.

So much for taking a moment to compose myself. “I brought this.” I hand him the bag. “Your payment.”

“I thought I told you that you didn't have to. But, hey, I'll take it.”

We stand awkwardly for a moment, and he flaps a hand toward his office. “You want to come in?”

“Okay, sure.”

As I walk into his office, I see he's managed to cram even more movie knickknacks onto his walls and desk—it looks like a theater lobby in here. “Why do I have a sudden craving for popcorn?” I say.

“So what's going on?” This is delivered not so much as an invitation for a chat as a desire to understand why, of all the offices in all the world, I had to walk into his.

He doesn't sit, so I don't either. “I wanted to give you an update on Ash and, well, say good-bye. I've decided to send him to Betty Ford. It's the one place he's willing to go, so I'm taking my bonus money and sending him. He flies there tomorrow night, and then after that, I'm going to move in with my parents. Get a fresh start. They're still in Sun City. I'll be closer to Ash there.”

“Big changes. Sounds like you've got a plan in place.”

“I do.”

He picks up a paper clip from his desk and starts twisting it open. “Well, good luck.”

“Thanks. And, um … I also wanted to tell you that you were right. About how I was scared to admit the truth about Ash. So I took it out on you. I'm sorry.” My eyes don't dare meet his, so I'm making this apology to his Sex Pistols T-shirt.

“I told you, it's ancient history.”

“It took guts for you to confront me, and I wished I'd listened. I guess I couldn't, but I'm different now. Less scared. Or at least I'm trying to be. Anyway, I didn't want to leave without letting you know that I appreciate what you tried to do.”

“Okay.” Then his arms go around me in a hug, pinning mine to my side. “Next time you see Ash, give him this from me.”

T
he following morning, I'm saying good-bye to another dear friend: the Mustang. Niko leans in close as we watch his friend walk up, who took the train from downtown to get here. “I talked to him last night—it's exactly what he's been looking for,” Niko says. “So your top price? I told him three hundred higher than that. Don't back down. He'll pay it.”

“I hate selling cars. Thanks so much for helping me.”

“Hey, what are friends for?”

I search his face for sarcasm, but it's as guileless as ever, and, yep, just as handsome. And those
lashes. Such
a waste on a guy.

The friend's name is Skeet, and he's gangly, with a thin ponytail and those ear piercings that create a hole the size of a quarter. I can look through them and see my car behind him. The sale goes remarkably easily. Niko's right—Skeet is wearing his desire for the car pinned to his chest. I'm so effortlessly staying firm to my price, I'm almost proud that Marva is watching the whole thing from where she's having a cigarette on the porch.