Matchmaking for Beginners(54)

“Tell me the truth. Just so I know. Did you somehow get her to do this to get back at me?”

“Noah! You know me better than that.”

“But now you’re going to sell it? That’s what your mother said. ‘Are you going to be able to sell that house?’ Those were her exact words. She was practically screaming it. So that’s what you’re planning, right?”

I don’t say anything.

“Yeah. That’s what you’re planning. Oh my God. And here’s what’s so ironic. If you sell it, then what? You’ll take the money and move to some three-bedroom house in the suburbs, won’t you? You don’t even care about it.” He keeps shaking his head in disbelief. “Too, too unbelievable. Just incredible. But that was my Aunt Blix in a nutshell. Totally zigging when you thought she was going to zag. Always keep ’em guessing.” Then he stops walking and sighs. “And you know what? What I’m most sorry about here? The conversation I’m about to have with my mother. She’s going to have a million things to blame me for in this little scenario. Trust me.”

“Well. I do feel bad for you.”

He laughs. “No, you don’t. This is all fucking unbelievable, you know that? I was the one here when my great-aunt dies, and yet somehow she manages to say nothing to me at all about the house or what’s going to happen, so I of course just assume I can stay here because it’ll belong to my family—and then you show up.”

There’s a loud noise from downstairs. “What’s that?” I say.

He runs his hands through his hair. “I told you. There’s a guy living down there. He has a life. Sometimes he drops things.”

“What’s his name?”

“Patrick Delaney. He’s disabled in some big way. Burn victim. Doesn’t come out much.”

“I think I’m going to take a walk. I’ll see if he’s okay.” I can’t stand looking at Noah for one more minute.

Now he’s pacing again. “Wait. I just thought of something. Do you think it’s possible that she left the house to both of us before we got divorced, and that my letter didn’t come to me yet because I was in Africa, and that what my mom wants is to tell me there’s this letter for me from the law firm? Is there any way that could be what’s happening?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Actually, I have an appointment to meet with the attorney on Monday at ten. Why don’t you come with me, and maybe we can get some answers?”

“Okay,” he says after a moment. “At least I can tell my mom that.”

I get up off the floor and go outside, closing the big heavy door behind me. Even though it’s night, it’s still bright from the streetlights, and there are plenty of people outside, walking their dogs, talking into their phones. There’s a coffee place four doors up the street, filled with people wearing scarves and jackets. I go down the little stairs to the basement apartment. It’s narrow and dark, and probably infested with New York cockroaches and rats, but I bravely knock on the door anyway. I keep my eyes on my feet, just in case something should try to run across them.

No answer, so I knock again. And then again. And again. There are bars on the windows. I shudder.

Finally there’s a muffled voice from inside: “Yes?”

I put my mouth near the door. “Um, Patrick? Listen, my name is Marnie. I’m Blix’s . . . friend, I guess you’d say. Or maybe grandniece-in-law. Friend sounds better, though. Anyway, I was upstairs and I heard a crash. Just wanted to check you’re okay.”

There’s a pause and then the voice says, more muffled than before: “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” I say. “Well . . . good night then.”

Another pause. Then, when I’ve given up on him having anything else to say, I hear, closer to the door this time: “Welcome to Brooklyn, Marnie. Is Noah with you?”

I lean against the door, close my eyes, almost brought to my knees by the question. And the kindness of his voice.

“He is,” I say finally. “Well, not now, but he’s upstairs. I think I’m going to go over to the coffee place and get something to eat. You want to come?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“Well, that’s okay. Can I bring you back something then?”

“No. Thanks. Listen, Blix has my number upstairs. Call anytime you need something.”

“Thanks. Can I give you my number? If you need anything?”

“Sure. Slide it in the mail slot, will you?”

When I get back upstairs, Noah has gone into the back bedroom and closed the door. I can hear him talking, though, no doubt on the phone with his mom. His voice is rising and falling, and when I pass by, I hear, “I’m trying to explain to you—she’s here now!”

The larger bedroom at the front of the house, with its sienna-colored walls, is open, so I go in there and close the door. The room is kind of surreal, with posters everywhere, and a big lumpy double bed, a kantha quilt, and all kinds of crazy little knickknacks on every surface, and crystals and banners hanging on the walls, little pieces of art, pieces that Blix no doubt loved and that still seem to hold on to some part of her.

I lie there looking up at the ceiling, which is illuminated by the streetlights. You could shoot a movie in this room it’s so bright.