Rhymes With Cupid (11 page)

And when the sun came up the next morning, things looked better. Sure, the house felt like the inside of a refrigerator, but I was handling it. I had my mom’s biggest, warmest coat on and a fleece-lined hat. The repair guys would be there soon. All I had to do was make myself a mug of hot chocolate, curl up with the heating pad, and wait. So I waited. And waited. And waited. When nine o’clock came around, I called school to explain why I wouldn’t be in. At ten, I called Hot Stuff Furnace Repair to see how soon they’d be there. The same woman answered.

“Sometime between ten thirty and four,” she said.

At first I thought she was kidding. “But I can’t wait here all day. You’ve got to understand. My house is
really
cold right now.”

“That happens when the furnace breaks,” she answered drily. “Have you got a space heater?” No, I did not have a space heater. Also, I hated her. I hated her with every icy bone in my body. “The guys’ll be there as soon as they can. Maybe before noon.” But “as soon as they can” didn’t end up being before noon at all. At three, I called Mr. Goodman to tell him I’d probably be late for my shift at the store. At four I realized I wouldn’t be making it in at all. I called Dina to give her an update and to ask her to tell Patrick I might have to cancel our driving lesson. Then I called Hot Stuff again. Apparently, it was a big day for furnace failure. They’d
probably
be by between six and nine
P.M.

After I hung up, I sighed and turned off the TV. I couldn’t stand watching another game show, or drinking another mug of hot chocolate, anyway. I figured I might as well go next door to wait for Patrick so I could officially cancel our driving lesson in person. I’d leave a note on the door for the repair guys, telling them where I was. Plus, while I waited, I might actually get warm.

When I got to Patrick’s I knocked firmly on the door and waited a minute, then two. I knocked again. Finally, I heard the shuffling of feet. “Hello?” An old man opened the door and stared out at me with big, round eyes. “I thought I heard someone knocking.” He smiled. “Are you here to collect for the food bank? I think we’ve got some tinned pears, but you’ll just have to let me see.”

“No,” I said. “I’m Elyse. From next door.”

“What’s that?” He leaned forward. “You want more?” He scratched at his head. “Well, I suppose I might have a jar of unopened peanut butter, too. And I’ve got pickles. Could you use pickles? A big jar of dills, but they’re in the cold cellar behind some boxes. If you don’t mind coming in and waiting for my grandson to get home, he can carry them up for you.”

“Oh, no,” I said very loudly. “No pickles. I’m from next door.” I pointed toward my house. Then I pointed at myself. “Elyse. Elyse Ulrich. You’ve met my mom.”

“Oh. The Ulrich girl,” he said, figuring it out. “You’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t got my hearing aid in. Come. Come inside. What can I do for you?”

I explained then, in my loudest voice, about the furnace. He nodded. “Now, you’ve got a gas-burning furnace over there, if I recall,” he said. “Have you checked your pilot light?”

I shook my head. I didn’t even know what a pilot light was, let alone if our furnace had one. “Well, that’d be your first step. Let me see. . . .” He looked down at his watch. “Patrick won’t be home for another few minutes. Have a seat.” He motioned toward the living room. “I’ll just get my hearing aid in, then I’ll be right down. Go over and see if I can have a look for you.”

I didn’t know if it was the fact that my tear ducts were thawing out after a long, frozen day, the exhaustion from sleeping so badly the night before, or the fact that when he didn’t even know who I was, Patrick’s grandfather was willing to give me a jar of pickles, but his kindness suddenly overwhelmed me. “Thank you,” I said, tears springing to my eyes. I blinked them back. “That would be great.” He shuffled up the stairs. While I waited, I took off my boots, wandered into the living room, and sat down, pulling off my mittens and looking around.

The sofa I was sitting on was formal and uncomfortable. Its floral pattern competed with another on the heavy curtains and a third on the wallpaper. Two ceramic lamps flanked it on either side, sitting primly on side tables that hadn’t been dusted in months. A collection of Royal Doulton figurines of ladies in ball gowns danced, each frozen mid-step, in a dark wood display case. Everything about the place made it obvious that a woman had once loved this room.

I stood up and walked over to the fireplace mantel, which was filled with framed photos that seemed to go in chronological order from left to right. A young bride and her husband standing by a tree, grinning at each other. A shot of the same couple in a park in sepia tones: This time the woman hugged a young child from behind; the man held a baby in his arms. I moved down the line until I got to the ones that showed the couple with silver hair, cuddling two little boys—one with Patrick’s curly hair—sitting on the front steps of the same house I was in now.

Patrick’s grandmother wore the same smile in each of the photos. Her head tilted slightly to one side, her eyes gleaming with laughter. I walked back down the line of photos, looking at her more carefully as she got younger and younger. She was beautiful, actually, and not just because her hair fell in perfect ringlets and her cheekbones were high. There was an unmistakable warmth and playfulness about her. Plus, it was obvious to me now where Patrick got his twinkly green eyes and curly hair.

I had just reached the last photo again—the wedding photo—when I heard the front door open. “Hi, Grandpa,” Patrick said loudly. “I’m home.” I was about to call out to let him know I was there, but something caught my eye. I stepped closer to the picture. There, around Patrick’s grandmother’s neck was a small, heart-shaped pendant. The picture was in black-and-white, so it was hard to tell for sure, but it looked familiar: a lot like the opal pendant my mother had found between the floorboards in our attic the week before. Could it be?

“Well now.” I heard Patrick’s grandfather’s feet on the stairs again. “There he is. Patrick, the Ulrich girl is here, waiting in the living room. Having some trouble with the furnace. I was just about to head over to check on the pilot light.”

“I’ll do it, Grandpa,” Patrick answered. I sighed silently. It was one thing having Patrick’s grandfather help with the furnace, but the last thing I wanted was to accept Patrick’s help. Even though we’d agreed to be friends, things were bound to still be a bit awkward between us. But also, if he could fix it at all—which was unlikely—the fact that he’d rescued me was bound to go straight to his head. And, if he couldn’t—and if he was anything like any other guy I’d ever met—the second blow to his pride would be too much to take.

“There’s a good boy,” his grandpa said. “Save me going out in the snow. I’ll get you my tool belt.” A minute later, Patrick’s head poked into the living room.

“Patrick-the-furnace-repair-guy, at your service,” he said. I gave him a tight smile. “Well, sort of at your service,” he continued. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?” I asked, turning away from the photo and putting my mittens back on.

“As soon as I fix it, we go driving. Dina told me you wanted to cancel, but we’ve only got seven days left. You’re
not
failing that test on my watch.”

“You seem pretty confident there,” I countered.

“About the driving test or the furnace?”

“Both.”

“Yeah. Well, I’m just that good,” he said. I rolled my eyes.

But as it turned out, he’d taken an elective in appliance repair back at his school in Toronto, and he
was
that good.

Five minutes later, he was stepping around the giant wardrobe that lay facedown in the middle of our basement floor. “Do you guys always keep that there?” he asked, giving it an odd look.

“Not really.” I explained about it falling on my mom. Patrick offered to help me push it upright, but I just shivered and suggested we had bigger, colder problems to focus on at the moment.

He nodded and shone a flashlight into the dark, cobwebby recesses of our basement. “Well, it’s not your pilot light,” he said, crouching down near the furnace.

“I knew it,” I answered. “There’s something seriously wrong with this thing. It just completely died. You’re not going to be able to fix it. Don’t worry. I already called the repair people. They’ll be here between six and nine. We’ll drive tomorrow. No big deal.”

“Hey, not so fast.” He held up a hand. “I’m not done.” He walked around to the other side of the furnace, resting his hand against this pipe, then that one, hemming and hawing. “Huh,” he said finally, a smile breaking across his face. “I think I see your problem.”

“You do?”

I watched as he reached up to the ceiling and flicked on a switch—one of the same ones, I realized, I’d flicked off the night before, when I’d been turning off lights after checking that the windows were locked. The furnace hummed to life. Even in the freezing cold basement, I felt the warm flush going to my cheeks.

“You know,” he said, “if you really wanted to see me, you could have just come over. You didn’t have to shut your furnace off and pretend it was broken. I mean, fake Lyme disease is one thing, but this . . .”

“Look. I didn’t. I just—I didn’t know what that switch was for. I honestly thought it was broken. And I made it pretty clear yesterday. I don’t feel that way about you—I—”

“Relax,” he said, giving me a condescending smile. “I was just kidding. Joking? Joshing? Fooling around? Ever heard of it? Plus, I don’t feel that way about you either. Not anymore. You don’t have to worry. My crush on you is ancient history.”

I exhaled heavily, feeling like an egotistical jerk, yet again. Of course he’d just been kidding. I’d given him the brush-off in a pretty serious way the day before and he wasn’t stupid. Obviously Patrick didn’t have feelings for me anymore. Why would he?

“So, damsel in distress,” he said, ignoring the pained look on my face and punching me lightly on the arm. “You ready to drive?”

Chapter 11

T
hankfully after rushing, unbidden, to my rescue and restoring heat to my house, Patrick seemed to know enough not to tease me about it during our driving lesson. I mean, seriously, who
hasn’t
mistaken a furnace shut-off switch for a light switch at least once in their life? Okay, so maybe I was the only person in the history of the world, but it was an easy enough mistake to make. The idiot who had built the house could have at least made the switches different colors, or labeled them—and that was when I remembered: I knew the idiot who had built the house. Or, at least, I knew who he had been. Patrick had mentioned it during our very first driving lesson.

His grandfather had lived next door since he was a child.
His
father (Patrick’s great-grandfather) had built both houses. Of course, that would have been years and years ago. The furnace had probably been replaced since then—so I couldn’t really blame Patrick and his relatives for my stupid mistake. Still though, the fact that Patrick’s great-grandfather had built the house must have somehow explained how the heart-shaped necklace had ended up in our attic.

Later that night, in my blissfully warm bedroom, I plugged my iPod into its dock and listened to “Gloria”—which had been stuck in my head ever since I’d heard it in Patrick’s kitchen. I danced around, flinging socks out of my way, as I sorted through the laundry basket looking for the old jeans I’d been wearing four days ago when my mom and I had unpacked the last of the boxes. When I found them, I took the small pendant out of the pocket and danced downstairs to the sink where I poured chalky white silver polish onto a rag and set to work. I did the chain first, working methodically down the delicate links until the black tarnish had lifted away to reveal gleaming silver. Then I turned my attention to the pendant. It was tiny—no bigger than the fingernail on my pinkie—and it wasn’t until I’d rubbed off the last of the tarnish and brought it under the light to examine it that I noticed what had looked like an anchor to hold the stone in was actually a very small diamond. I flipped it over. Some tiny script on the back caught my eye.
MBW took AC. 23-3-1917.
I studied the inscription. Was MBW a person? And, if so, where did he or she take AC? The last initial, I realized, could stand for “Connor”—which was Patrick’s grandfather’s last name. But, then, the date made no sense. March 23, 1917. I did the math in my head. The pendant was nearly a hundred years old! Patrick’s grandfather couldn’t have been older than eighty-five. I let it dangle from my hand for a minute, watching it catch the light.

As I walked into the living room the music on my iPod upstairs changed to a slow romantic song by Eric Clapton, “Wonderful Tonight.” It’s about an old married couple, and how the man still loves the woman and thinks she’s beautiful after all those years. . . . It always made me kind of sad, actually, because in real life, that was almost never how it happened. Just take my parents for example . . . as the years went on, my dad didn’t think my mom got more wonderful. He just got bored of her and started cheating. Or take Matt Love. It had only been a matter of months before he’d decided I wasn’t worth his time. It was what all men did if you gave them half the chance. Still, the idea behind the song was romantic, and for no good reason, my heart started pounding as I turned the pendant over in my hand. I opened the clasp and held it up to my neck, then went to look at myself in the mirror over the fireplace. The chain was just the right length for me, and the iridescent aqua color of the stone brought out the subtle flecks of blue in my mostly brown eyes. I fastened the clasp and lay my hand over the stone, loving how cool the tiny opal felt against my palm. One thing was for sure: If it
did
belong to Patrick’s grandmother, I had to give it back to Mr. Connor. It would be wrong not to. Patrick had said that his grandma died of a stroke recently, which meant his grandparents had been married right up until the end. A love like that was incredibly rare, and I was certain Mr. Connor would want the necklace back. I took my hand away and looked at my reflection again. I would take the pendant next door, I decided, first thing in the morning. Or, better yet, I’d give it to Patrick when I saw him the next afternoon—let him be the one to enjoy the look that would cross his grandfather’s face when he saw it again after who knew how many years.

The Eric Clapton song ended, and I reached around my neck to take the opal heart off, then thought better of it. It was nearly a hundred years old, after all. A family heirloom. It would probably be safest if I kept it on. That way I’d be sure not to lose it.

“That’s a gorgeous necklace,” Dina said right away when she saw me at school the next day.

“Oh, thanks.” I glanced up from the lunch table where I was busy cramming for my chemistry test next period. “It’s an heirloom,” I added for no reason. Obviously, I couldn’t mention that it belonged to Patrick’s family. I had exactly forty minutes to perfect my understanding of kinetic molecular theory. I didn’t have time to tell her the whole story, and I didn’t want her jumping to the wrong conclusion—that Patrick had given it to me.

“How was everything at the store yesterday?” I asked instead as I underlined the definitions of heat and temperature change in my notebook.

“Awesome,” she answered. Her friends Carly and Cara joined us with their lunch trays. “Even working alone, I still managed to give out some free chocolates and sign fifteen more people up for the customer loyalty program. That makes fifty-six in total. We’re more than halfway there!”

Dina’s pocket buzzed. She stood up, taking out her phone.

“Is it Patrick?” I asked casually as she read the text.

She shook her head and closed the phone quickly. “Just my mom asking what I want for dinner.” She slid it back into her pocket. “I’ll write back later.”

Carly dipped a fry in some ketchup. “Your mom knows how to text?” she said, obviously impressed. I was, too, to tell the truth. My mom still had trouble working the voice mail on her cell phone. Sometimes she even needed help with the remote control for the TV.

“She took a class,” Dina said simply, then changed the subject. “Anybody want this muffin? I’m so full.”

“No thanks,” I said, absentmindedly putting a hand up to the necklace to check that it was still there—something I’d caught myself doing I don’t know how many times that day.

When we got to the store that afternoon, Mr. Goodman was reviewing our customer loyalty stats. He patted us both on the back with his meaty hands. “There are my top salesgirls,” he said warmly. “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up. Fifty-six customer loyalty cards in two days? Now that’s impressive. Sales are up fifteen percent from last week. Fifteen percent!” he repeated, clearly awed. We both smiled and shrugged.

Whether it was because of our stellar sales skills, our sort-of-stolen chocolates, or just the fact that Valentine’s Day was fast approaching, the store definitely
was
busier than usual. We were run off our feet most of the shift. Three different times, Dina’s phone buzzed in her pocket with a text, but she didn’t even have time to answer it. “You should never have let your mom take that texting class,” I said when it buzzed the fourth time.

“I know, right?” Dina sighed dramatically. “Now she can contact me twenty-four-seven. Can you cover the cash for a few minutes? I’ll just tell her I want fettuccine Alfredo for dinner so she’ll leave me alone.”

I’d barely punched in my login ID when I looked up and saw a familiar face. “Mrs. Conchetti!” I greeted my favorite customer. “Back for more cards? You’ll have that Cupid in time for your grandson’s birth for sure. How many days left until your daughter-in-law is due? You must be getting so excited.”

“Well,” she said, reaching into her purse for her wallet. “Sometimes these things don’t happen quite according to plan.” She pulled out a wallet-sized photo of a tiny baby and held it out to me, her hand shaking. It was obvious right away that something was wrong, and not only because of the tremor in her hand. The baby in the photo was wearing a tiny oxygen mask. “He was born last Tuesday,” she said. “Two weeks premature, which is why I haven’t been in until now. They’ve named him Nolan Conchetti. Five pounds four ounces. The most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.” I looked up at Mrs. Conchetti. A tear was running down her cheek. “The next day, they diagnosed him with a congenital heart defect—a hole in his heart. He’s scheduled for surgery a week from today. He’s just so tiny,” she said, sliding the photo back into her wallet. She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, then ran a pinkie under her eye to clear away her smudged makeup. “Look at me. I’m a mess.”

“That’s okay, Mrs. Conchetti. Anybody would be. I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.” I meant it, but even as I said the words, I knew how hollow they sounded. After all, what could I possibly do to help a sick baby? I glanced down at her purchase: a single card with a kitten dangling from a tree.
Hang in there.

“For my daughter-in-law,” Mrs. Conchetti explained. “I thought this might remind her to keep her chin up. Nolan’s a fighter. I can just tell. All the Conchetti men are.” I rang up her purchase, then stamped the customer loyalty card she slid across the counter. She was still nine cards short of earning a Cupid doll.

“I don’t know why I bothered to get that stamped, considering the circumstances,” she said, putting the card back into her wallet. “I don’t think I’ll be buying enough cards this week to get Nolan the Cupid doll.” She sighed. “And I guess the promotion will be over by the time I’m in again. But next year. I’ll get it for him next year.” She said it like she needed to convince herself that there
would
be a next year for her grandson.

“Of course you will. Next year. Like you said, he’s a fighter, right?” She nodded. “You hang in there too,” I said, giving her hand a quick squeeze when I passed her her bag. “Let me know how little Nolan is doing whenever you get the chance, okay? I’ll be thinking of him.”

“Thank you, Elyse. I’ll keep you posted,” she answered, smiling bravely before turning to leave. I took a deep breath and tried to blink back my own tears as I sorted the change she’d given me into the cash register.

“Hey, Elyse.” I looked up. Patrick was standing beside the counter. How long had he been there? I’d been so focused on Mrs. Conchetti that I hadn’t even noticed him coming in. I sighed. I didn’t know why—I’d only met her three months ago when I’d started working at Goodman’s—but the news about Mrs. Conchetti’s grandson being sick had made me really sad. I needed a minute to pull myself together, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen with Patrick staring at me.

“Please don’t tell me you need another pen,” I said. I opened the drawer under the cash and pretended to be looking for something so I wouldn’t have to make eye contact. I was too afraid I was about to start crying about the sick baby and I did
not
want him trying to comfort me on top of everything else.

“No,” he answered, biting at his lip and shaking his head. “No pen today. Just some cards. But you stay there. It’s cool. I can find them myself.” He wandered away, thankfully leaving me a few minutes to myself. He came back five minutes before our scheduled driving lesson, dumped an armload of Valentine’s Day cards on the counter, then pulled out his wallet, counting out the bills and coins.

“I’ve got forty-five dollars and seventeen cents,” he said finally, sliding the cash and his customer loyalty card toward me. “How many of these can I afford?”

“You’ll have to leave these five behind,” I said after I’d totaled up the purchase. “But that still makes eleven cards. Have you met a lot of new girls recently, or something?” I hadn’t missed noticing that the card I’d suggested he buy the other day—the blank one with the silver background and red heart—wasn’t in the pile. But the nauseating one with the puppies wearing floppy hats (which always made Dina go “Awwwwww”) was.

“Hey, it never hurts to be prepared, right?” But I couldn’t even force a smile in response to his lame joke. He’d just gone and proven to me what I’d suspected all along: Like most guys his age, Patrick wasn’t picky. I’d turned him down, so he was moving on without a backward glance. He’d be covering his bases by giving tons of valentines to tons of girls; then he’d be happy with whoever took him up on his offer.

Dina, who was standing near the printer paper texting her mom again, looked up and waved at him. I felt my heart sink. I knew that she had a serious crush on him, but if this was the way Patrick was going to be, by encouraging her to pursue him, was I just setting her up to get her heart broken?

The thought distracted me all through my driving lesson that afternoon. “So, are those cards for girls at your school?” I asked Patrick after I’d steered the car onto the highway ramp for high-speed-merging-hell, part two. “Or will you mail them to girls back home in Toronto?” I pressed when he didn’t answer.

He fiddled with the CD player. Today’s driving soundtrack wasn’t Surely Sarah, but it was similar. Soft and acoustic, but with a male lead singer this time.

“I haven’t exactly decided yet,” he answered. “You’re going to want to get into the left-hand lane here.” I checked my mirror and blind spot, then quickly glanced over at Patrick before changing lanes. He was gazing out the window nonchalantly.

“What do you mean ‘you haven’t decided’?” I said. “It’s almost Valentine’s Day. And, in case you don’t know, you’re supposed to have
one
valentine. Not eleven. It’s not the time to be keeping your options open.”