Always the Last to Know(46)

“Please. I can afford an entire refrigerator box.”

“You’re a teacher at a Catholic school.”

“It’s my art, Jules. Some people actually like what I do.”

She got that constipated look I loved so well.

As an architect of super-fabulous buildings, my sister could have recommended me to some of her clients, or commissioned me to make lobby art for, say, that corporate headquarters she designed in San Fran a couple of years ago.

She did not. She wasn’t in charge of artwork, she said, and besides, DJK usually went with . . . other artists.

By which she meant important artists. And hey. I got it. Plus, I didn’t want to make it because my sister used nepotism and threw me a bone. Still, it would’ve been nice to be able to turn her down (and have her competitors start a bidding war for me, but so far, nada).

I put my hands on my hips. “Well, I have my work cut out for me. Want to drive me to Home Depot?”

“Will you let me make you a list, at least?”

“No thanks! I got this.” I smiled.

Her jaw hardened. Oh, it would drive her crazy to have me buy laminate flooring, some fake plants and a couple of throw pillows to sex the place up, but that was exactly my plan. There was nothing wrong with Ikea chic. I should know. I’d been living with it since college. My apartment was currently drawing $175 a night on Airbnb, thanks in large part to my new throw pillows.

I’d make this house adorable, too, thank you. And, as my mother pointed out, I did have a rich boyfriend. If he wanted to help me out, that would be quite lovely, especially as I was ninety-five percent sure he was going to propose, now that Dad’s crisis had stabilized and he was on the mend.

“Instead of having me chauffeur you around, why don’t you borrow the Volvo while you’re home? That little shitbox you’re renting is a death trap. You get hit in that, you’re dead.”

Death trap, money pit, shitbox. So judgy. “Can I have your Porsche instead?”

“No.”

“I had to try. Sure, I’ll take the Volvo. Thank you so much, Jules.” It was awfully nice of her.

She nodded. Pushed her hair back and sighed again, looking at my house.

“Everything okay, Jules?” I asked. “Aside from Dad?”

“Sure. Listen. About Dad. I think you better . . . prepare yourself. He might be like this for the rest of his life. Which could be really short.”

“Jesus. Why don’t you dig his grave while you’re talking?”

“Just facing facts.”

“The facts are, the brain is very elastic. People have come back from far worse. Clara, that nurse at Gaylord? She said they’ve had people in comas who—”

“I know,” she snapped. “I was there, remember?”

“Well, don’t you want him to get better?”

“Of course I do!”

“Then stop being so pessimistic! A caregiver’s attitude can really affect—”

“Get in the car, okay? I have to help Brianna with a history project.”



* * *



— —

Two days later, it was official. I was a property owner.

My house—such nice words, my house!—did need a bit more work than perhaps I acknowledged, now that I was here. Alexander, who was in Sausalito at the moment, the poor bastard, had very sweetly covered the cost of moving my furniture from Juliet’s to here, and the movers had just left after cursing and sweating and wrestling my bed up the narrow stairs, for which they received a generous tip. Otherwise, I had a couch, a table for two, a chair and some pots and pans and kitchen stuff. A couple of lamps. My books and pictures were still at Juliet’s, but I wanted to sleep here tonight and get the feel of the place.

I also wanted to put some distance between my mother and me. Her disapproval of whatever I did, had done and would do seeped into every interaction we had. Even my care of Dad seemed to irk her, and her own lack of tenderness irked me right back. I had paintings to do, and she hated the smell. Even though their house was huge, there never seemed to be enough room for the two of us.

Hence, my purchase.

Perhaps not the best decision.

Did I mention I had no neighbors? Fifteen years in New York City had made me used to that safety in numbers thing. In the entire time I’d lived there, I’d never once been scared.

But I was kind of scared now. What if Connecticut had a serial killer? What if those giant coyotes that ate cats marked me as a slow runner?

I should get a dog. I would get a dog. I glanced at my watch. Shit. Six o’clock and already dark. Allegedly, my heat was on, but it was cold in here. I did have a fireplace, but Jules told me I’d burn to death if I tried to make a fire.

Maybe I’d go to my parents’ house to sleep. Get the dog tomorrow, preferably a large, vicious, loyal-to-only-me type, and see if Alexander would be back from California and wanted to spend the weekend in scenic Connecticut doing a little house renovation. We’d be a team, like that irritating couple on the house-flipping show that I did indeed watch. Except that we’d be adorable. In fact, maybe we’d get our own show. I knew art and had great taste, and Alexander was rich and photogenic. What else did you need?

The knock on the door made me scream.

“Jesus!” yelled the person. I peeked out the window.