Back in the Burbs by Tracy Wolff
Chapter Twenty-Five
I walk my dad out through the backyard—no way am I letting him on that death trap of a porch again—then sit down at the patio table and try to figure out what I want to do next.
I could go over to see Nick, but I figure he isn’t home from work yet.
I could spend some more time going through my aunt’s photo cabinets so I can finish up the family room once and for all.
Or I could pick a random room and start going through it—God knows, there are way too many left to do.
In the end, though, I decide to start with a late lunch—avocado toast and a sparkling water consumed over the sink. Then I snap the pictures of the HOA dumpster request forms that I meant to handle last night when my mom called. It takes a few minutes, but I finally get all the HOA documents submitted.
Now all I can do is wait.
With nothing left but to procrastinate from the real work inside, I decide to skip the pictures in the cabinet—I’d rather do them when I have the time and can actually enjoy sorting through them instead of just trying to sift all the clutter out of the boxes. That means only one thing: it’s time to start on the dining room.
The table is big enough for ten, even without the leaf, and has several boxes of stuff at either end. That won’t take that long to go through. I do a tight spin because of the many shoeboxes on the floor and give a hard look to the china cabinet that is completely full of Wedgwood and another cabinet half full with Mottahedeh I spotted years ago at Neiman Marcus. Knowing Aunt Maggie as I feel I do not, I figure it isn’t just china inside the cabinets. There’s probably a Costco-size amount of tropical drink umbrellas or something, too.
After grabbing a box of trash bags from the newly cleaned shelves in the laundry room, I pick out one of my aunt’s albums at random and put it on. Jim Croce’s voice fills the house with its folksy calm.
Aunt Maggie loved this album. Not as much as she loved the Beatles, but it was a pretty close second. Right up there with Johnny Cash’s Man in Black and ABBA’s Super Trouper.
As “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” pours out of the stereo, I bite the bullet and open up the first china-cabinet door. Then I close it and weigh the option of selling the china on eBay and throwing the rest of the cabinet and the untold number of toothpick boxes, drink stirrers, and purloined diner sugar packets into the dumpster when it gets here.
Still, there have been important papers and other things in every single cabinet I’ve sorted through—except the chopsticks cabinet—and the chances are that behind everything else, there are documents stuffed in the back, so tossing it all is not really a viable option. Plus, I love this dining set with its wild swirls and curved edges, and the thought of throwing it away makes me sad.
Which means no more whining. It’s time to get to work.
I clean all the way through the first half of the album, then pause just long enough to grab a glass of water and switch sides on the record before diving back in.
I’ve just finished the first cabinet and am about to start on the second when there’s a loud knock on my back door. It startles me, and I let out a little shriek before peeking my head around the corner.
Surprisingly, and yet not, Nick stands there. As I walk down the hall to the door, he gives me an impatient look, which seems a little out of place. He’s the one standing in my backyard, after all.
“What’s up?” I ask as I slide the back door open.
“I figured I’d pick up the dumpster forms.”
Awww, that is really…hot? Kind? Sexy? Neighborly. I settled on neighborly. “Thank you, but I already emailed them in.”
He nods and walks inside and to the family room, his eyes going immediately to Aunt Maggie’s record collection. “Well, then we can focus on your case.”
Distracted by the way he looks with the top button of his crisp white shirt undone and his tie hanging loose, I miss most of his words except that last one. “My what?”
“Your case.” He pulls his tie free, rolls it up, and sticks it into his suit jacket pocket. “Remember that slimy little shithead in your driveway, the one you’re going to take for every penny you deserve? One of the attorneys at the firm specializes in divorce and would like to meet with you.”
My case. Divorce. Driveway. My body pressed up against Nick’s. The way his steady heartbeat and strong hands felt against me. The fact that I spent last night dreaming about him shirtless and pantsless and— Oh my God, Mallory. Be in the moment.
Inner me is a joy sucker, but she’s right. The last thing in the world I need right now is another man—and an attorney, no less—in my life telling me what to do and how to do it. Plus, there is the little issue of M.O.N.E.Y.
“Look, Nick,” I say as I move in front of him and stand there clasping my hands together, because I don’t trust myself with where my thoughts keep going. “I really appreciate your help, but there’s just no way I can afford the fees your kind of practice probably charges. I’ve seen the car you drive, and the art on your living room wall wasn’t a lithograph—it was the real thing.”
He scowls at me while taking off his suit jacket and laying it over the back of a chair. Then he continues to do so as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt like he’s doing a striptease but only of his forearms. By the time he’s done, I have no clue if he’s still glaring because I’m staring at his perfect sinewy forearms.
“Give me a dollar,” he says and holds out a hand, palm up.
Sure, a tip is reasonable—and wait, what? “Why?”
“Because then you will have paid our firm the going rate for neighbors who pet my plants—speaking of green things, you’ll have to mow your lawn, too. Do that and consider your retainer paid.”
I don’t believe him but walk over to the couch and grab my purse off the cushion anyway. “My lawn mower is trapped behind a zillion old magazines stacked almost all the way up to the garage ceiling, remember?”
“So you can use mine.” He crosses the room and stands next to me. “Do we have a deal?”
I get it. The grass is long enough that a toddler could get lost in it. The time has come. Ugh. I hate that Mr. Green Grass Police is right.
I scrounge around in my handbag until I hit pay dirt—a single crumpled-up dollar bill.
“Deal.” I give him the cash. “I’ll get to it this week.”
“So does Thursday work for you to meet with the attorney to discuss next steps and give background on that numbnut?” he asks.
“Sure. I hope they have a free afternoon. There’s a lot of background.”
“Don’t worry.” He places his hand on the small of my back. He doesn’t try to guide me away from the couch; it’s just the weight of his palm against me, like a transfer of power. “Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Like that’s possible.” The idea of it is so ridiculous, I start pacing from one wood-paneled wall to the other. “I’m barely able to afford the dumpster the HOA better approve, I owe a ton of back property taxes, I have to come up with more than $120,000 for the inheritance tax, and even if I shake the couch cushions in hopes of finding enough to cover home repairs, I still haven’t been able to find a job.” I wrap my arms around my middle and keep marching one way and then the other. “And why is that? Because I’ve spent my entire adult working life dedicated to making sure Karl’s practice became a success. I worked seventy-hour weeks for minimum wage because he said the practice needed the money more to continue to grow—but I have my doubts now.” I take a deep breath and look Nick square in the eyes. “Really, does it make sense to you that the firm would own our condo? It doesn’t, does it?” It’s like a series of lightbulbs is going off in my head, illuminating just how screwed I am. “Oh my God, what was I thinking?”
By the time I’m done, I’m out of breath, my hands are shaky, and I have a million more thoughts going a gazillion different directions. Nick? Not so much. There isn’t even a flicker of emotion or panic or freaking the fuck outness on his too-handsome-for-real-life face.
“So you need a job?” he asks. That’s what he wants to focus on? Not the fact that I’ve been such a child with my finances?
“Yeah, that would be a good start.”
He nods. “And you have experience as a law firm office manager?”
“Eleven years’ worth.” Working at not even close to my value. The frustration of it all has me pacing again, right back to the couch and next to Mr. Lotsa Plants.
“Give me until Thursday,” he says. “I think I have a lead on the job situation.”
Something unfamiliar and bubbly fills my chest. It’s been about a million years since I felt it, but the old-old Mallory, the teenage one who spent way too many nights staring at her canopy and dreaming of her future, recognizes it right away.
Hope.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, wariness seeping in.
He pivots, the move bringing us face-to-face. Okay, more like my face to his top button—did I mention it’s undone?
“I like to help,” he says.
“Says who?” I scoff, trying to distract myself from the shadow of chest hair I can almost see. “Your mom?”
He hooks a finger under my chin and tilts my face upward. “Are you trying to imply that my mother would lie?”
“Maybe.” Not really. I don’t know. Wow, are his eyes gorgeous and intense and pulling me right in.
“At this moment, my mom is somewhere laughing her head off and she doesn’t know why.” He pauses, his gaze searching my face as if he’s trying to figure out why he can’t look away. “She’s gonna love you.”
“What, you want to introduce me to your mom? Does she have a grass obsession, too?” Oh yeah, immature jokes in the face of uncomfortable feelings. Classic Mallory.
God, inner me is such a bitch sometimes.
His thumb traces the line of my jaw. “You do love to give me a lot of crap for following the rules, don’t you?”
“I’ve committed the rest of my life to a no-bullshit-rules mantra.” I try to make it come out all cocky and confident, but even to my own ears, it’s all soft and breathy and take-me-now. “I’m the new Aunt Maggie.”
“Funny,” he says, taking a step forward and eliminating any space between us. “You don’t look a thing like her.”
“That’s a lie; we have the same eyes and the same Martin family mouth.” One that I, all of a sudden, have no idea how to keep quiet.
“I can assure you that you do not, because I never wanted to…” His words fade away as he dips his head lower.
My breath catches.
My brain checks out.
My hormones give a loud cheer.
And then—he pulls away, dropping his hands to his sides and taking a quick step back. He rubs his palm across his neck and works his jaw back and forth. “Anyway, I gotta go.”
He leaves without another word, and what in the hell am I supposed to say after that? I have nothing besides yearning. My phone vibrates on the dining room table—a text from Mikey asking me if we’re still on for dinner. I can’t type yes fast enough. This is exactly what I need.
Being near my h-o-t contractor is perfect, because unlike with my uptight neighbor (and much to Angela’s disappointment, no doubt), I do not want anything more from him than a new porch.
There. Man situation sorted. Now, if I can just figure out the job situation, the house situation, and the tax situation, everything in my life will be perfect. And I almost believe it.