Back in the Burbs by Tracy Wolff
Chapter Nineteen
For a second, Nick looks flummoxed. But then his face and his rigid posture relax, and he grins—really grins—for the first time since I met him. And holy cow, it is blinding in the best, most amazing way.
“So you think I’m good-looking?” he asks, and I roll my eyes. Hard. Why do gorgeous people always act surprised when someone notices their stellar gene pool?
“How’d you get the forms so fast? Were they already in the HOA Binder from Hell?” I groan. Leave it to me to ask for something that is right in front of my face.
“No, they weren’t, but—” A sheepish look steals onto his face as he continues. “I’m on the board.”
I’m not even remotely surprised. It definitely is one of those only-assholes-need-apply boards.
Not that I care. I’m just a homeowner who suddenly has the brilliant idea to bribe the HOA-whisperer-slash-board-member standing in front of me with a couple of glasses of one of Aunt Maggie’s fancy French wines. It’s shady as hell, sure, but it doesn’t mean anything else. It isn’t like I’m hitting on him, for God’s sake. I’m just loosening him up a little and greasing the wheels to get my dumpster request approved so I can avoid any more citations.
My invitation has nothing to do with his knee-weakening smile and suddenly warm brown eyes and everything to do with avoiding more fees I can’t afford.
Or at least that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
“I’m opening a bottle of wine.” I start back to the house. “You coming?” I toss over my shoulder.
“Yeah,” he says with what sounds suspiciously like a deep, sexy chuckle. “I’m coming.”
“So what has you all dressed up today?” I ask as he walks with me through the garage and into my kitchen. “I like your tie, by the way.”
He glances down at his abstract, color-blocked tie in all different shades of blue and green like he’s never seen it before. “Thanks. And I was in court.”
“In court?” Earth’s core? Meet my stomach. Stomach? Welcome to your new home. “You’re an attorney?”
It comes out sounding like an accusation, but I can’t help it. After being married to Karl for ten years, it feels like it should be an accusation. More, it feels like the mother of all red flags against Nick.
“I am,” he answers warily. “A tax attorney, which means I spend most of my days in meetings and conference calls instead of actually in court, but today was one of the rare days. Why? Do you have something against my profession, too?”
“No, it’s just—” I break off, because what am I going to say? My ex is an attorney, and he soured me on lawyers for good? I mean, I’d sound absurd, especially since this guy isn’t exactly sending out the I-think-you’re-sexy-too vibes. “Never mind.” I tell myself I’m overreacting and force a smile I’m far from feeling. “What kind of wine do you like? White or red?”
Mercifully, he drops it. “Whatever you’ve got going.”
I gesture for him to sit down at my aunt’s surprisingly elegant patio table outside the sliding glass doors. “The house is still a disaster, so I thought we could sit out there, if you don’t mind? It’s a nice evening.”
“Outside is great,” he says, almost sounding like he means it.
“Awesome. I’ll get the wine and meet you there.” I pause. “Thanks, by the way. I appreciated the help earlier.”
He nods, pulls open the sliding glass door, and steps outside. I flip on the patio light—it’s nearly dusk, and I don’t know how long the forms in that folder, and the wine drinking, will take. Then I rush to my room, splash water on my heated face, and wash off the remnants of my melting makeup in about one minute flat.
I don’t bother changing, as the tank top and shorts I’m already wearing are light and cool, if not fancy; then I race back down to the kitchen. Once there, I put together a very quick cheese-and-fruit plate and grab a bottle of Argentinian Malbec from the stash I found in the hall closet. I pause just long enough to rinse two glasses from the still-inundated-with-clutter bar area, then swoop back outside in less than six minutes flat.
Now that should be an Olympic sport.
“Want to do the honors?” I extend the bottle opener to him.
“Of course.” He stands up to take it, then reaches for the cheese tray. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
I throw him a sassy grin in an effort to disguise the discomfort I still feel over his chosen profession. “Sure I did. How else can I bribe you into accepting my dumpster request?”
“You don’t have to bribe me,” he says, all stiff and uptight again. “You just have to fill out the paperwork correctly—” His gaze lands on my face, and he breaks off mid-word. “You were joking.”
“Only a little bit.” I hand him the bottle of wine before setting the two glasses on the table between us and taking the seat opposite him.
He glances down at the label and smiles. “This was one of Maggie’s favorites.”
“We discovered it together in a little restaurant in the Village, but how did you know that?”
He gives an uncomfortable shrug. “She must have mentioned it sometime.”
“And you remembered? From a passing conversation?” I narrow my gaze and look at him a little closer. “I don’t think so.”
Nick studies me for a few seconds, like he’s trying to figure out what he wants to say. Just like an attorney, a little voice in the back of my head warns.
Or a guy who knows he said too much.
Neither is a particularly comforting thought, and I’m getting more and more upset, even though a part of me knows it’s ridiculous. Who cares how he knows about Aunt Maggie’s wine tastes? It isn’t like it matters.
But it does matter. It matters to me that he can’t answer a simple question. If that’s the case, then I don’t want him here drinking my wine, eating my cheese, or helping me with my goddamn dumpster request.
Something of what I’m feeling must be showing on my face, because Nick runs a resigned hand through his perfectly coiffed hair before he admits, “Maggie and I were friends.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I don’t know why, but that was the last thing I expected him to say. Maybe it’s because Karl would have never gone out of his way to befriend an eccentric old lady. Hell, Karl would have never befriended an eccentric old lady even if she was in his way.
“We’d have dinner together once or twice a week.”
For a second, his words make so little sense that I’m convinced he’s speaking a foreign language. When they finally do sink in, I’m stunned.
“Wait a minute. You had dinner here twice a week?”
I think about the barely contained mess of the first floor versus the ruthless organization of his place and can’t help but wonder how that could even be possible.
“Mostly we ate at my place,” he says with a sad smile. “But Maggie always brought the wine and the dessert. Her brownies were the best.”
“They were the best.” The salted-caramel drizzle she always put on them was amazing. “And so was her lemon cake.”
“God, yes.” He lets out a lusty sigh that makes me shift in my seat. “I used to eat her lemon cake for breakfast for the next two or three days after she would make it. For lunch, too, sometimes.”
Something about that admission makes him…more human. He seems to do everything exactly the right way according to the powers that be, but the fact that he ate cake for breakfast and lunch…I don’t know. I guess it makes him feel more real in all the best ways.
I move over to the chair next to him and pour some of the now-open bottle of wine into both our glasses.
“You ever going to tell me why you were such a dick when we first met?” I ask. I really want to know, as I realize my first impression of him was very far from the person I’m getting to know.
He holds my gaze. “Why didn’t you ever visit her, Mallory? You see now she had mental-health concerns. No one ever visited.”
I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. Boy, he doesn’t mess around, does he? I know I should be upset at the accusation, but honestly, I love the directness. I wonder, if Karl had been this direct, if I’d have risen to the challenge instead of constantly trying to anticipate how he was feeling, what he needed.
So I answer with equal directness. “Because I’m a terrible niece.”
There. It can’t be said more clearly. And oddly enough, I feel better admitting I let her down. My shame is in the open now, for all to see, and unlike my impending divorce with secrets tucked everywhere, it is liberating. I made a mistake, and I will regret it for the rest of my life—if not for the fact that I know Aunt Maggie would roll over in her grave if I don’t forgive myself and move on.
But he deserves to hear the full truth first.
“She always insisted on meeting me in New York, said it was an adventure for her, and I thought nothing of it. And when I was younger, she said she loved leaving her house to come to ours.” I shrug. “You’re right, though; I should have visited her anyway. I should have known something was up. Suspected something.” I wipe at my eyes. “She was my favorite person in the whole world, and I was too consumed with my own shit to see she was suffering. So yeah. I’m a terrible niece.”
He doesn’t interrupt me once, but as I wind down, he leans forward and places his large, warm hand over mine on the table. “I’m sorry.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Why are you apologizing? I was the one who neglected my aunt.”
He leans back again, and his gaze softens. “Because I shouldn’t have rushed to judgment. Because Maggie had an excellent sense of people, and she adored you. And worse, because I took her to several Hoarders Anonymous meetings, and the one thing everyone mentioned was the secrecy surrounding their compulsions. Of course you didn’t know. Because Maggie didn’t want you to, Mallory. And I should’ve realized that.”
The wind rustles through the large elm tree above us as we sip our wine in silence, his words settling in my chest. I vow to spend some time tomorrow researching hoarding disorders. Just to feel closer to Aunt Maggie. She obviously felt she needed to keep a big part of her life hidden from me, and even though it’s a little late, I want to show her memory that it’s nothing to be ashamed of. That I would have understood.
“This is a huge undertaking,” Nick says at last. “You shouldn’t have to do it alone. I could come over and help a bit, if you want.”
I shake my head. “I appreciate the offer, but I can do it on my own.”
“She meant something to me, too, Mallory. It wouldn’t be an imposition to help.”
I shake my head again, my throat too tight to say more. But he seems to get it. I can’t ask for help and now, with my history, I have trouble accepting it as well.
I glance at Nick under my lashes and can’t help wondering if things had been different, if I had visited, if I had left Karl sooner, would we have become friends? Would we have taken Aunt Maggie to those meetings together? Would the three of us have shared a bottle of wine and laughed into the evening over a slice of lemon cake?
“Thank you,” I say softly, reaching for a piece of cheese and nibbling on it.
“For what?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised.
“For taking care of Aunt Maggie when I wasn’t here.”
Nick just shakes his head, though, and there is a genuine gentleness in his eyes. “It was no hardship and nothing to thank me for. Maggie took care of me at least as much as I took care of her.”
I start to ask him what he means by that when my phone lights up with a text message from Karl—who, apparently, is pulling into my driveway right now.