Hardest to Love

by Sidney Ivens

Another unexpected crisis. The bleak feeling swept over her again, that she would never be able to lead her own life. Not after the terrifying episode two years ago, finding her aunt in diabetic shock, or calming down her brother after he raged for forty minutes.

  Her own goals and dreams? In a holding pattern, drifting further and further away. Not that she was gung-ho to return to a campus environment, to stone buildings and ivy. The manicured shrubs. She’d started to feel trapped there, as though she’d been wedged inside a tight cocoon. But she’d been in a cocoon here, too.

  So where did she belong, exactly?

  This was why tough, single-minded women succeeded and she didn’t. They pushed for what they wanted. Even her mother had known how to leverage her beauty to get men to take care of her. Elena had been programmed to stay calm during her mother’s rants. To please her and anticipate what she needed. Otherwise, her strung-out mother might hit Chris with the nearest thing handy, usually one of her thick winter boots, and the ridged soles left cuts and bruises.

  Elena had been programmed in her studies, too. Just as her mother’s erratic behavior taught her to never back-talk, her professors had rarely put up subjects for debate. She’d learned to get along and not rock the boat. Her aunt was dead wrong. Being considerate and reasonable hadn’t been virtues. They had cost her.

  She continued making calls, keeping her voice steady. A tear plopped on the sign-up page, making the inked signatures run.

  I stamp my feet a few times on the Lucky Pup’s front door mat, kicking off some snow salt from the boot treads. I fist and un-fist my hands to restore some heat to my fingertips.

  I’m here to get those papers signed. The hell with “Helen” or whoever Aunt Robbie’s having review the real estate contract. Mount Saint Helens is how I’ll blow if this contract isn’t copasetic by tomorrow.

  Is Helen a ruse, allowing Lexi to counter-offer? I don’t think so, but who knows.

  This is weird. The bookstore appears to be empty of people. A flippin’ mime couldn’t out-do this kind of quiet.

  I check my watch.

  And there’s a book signing three hours from now?

  Okay, that’s new. Near the center of the room, where the podium had been, two toffee leather armchairs are angled into each other. A mic’s at seat-height, positioned between the chairs.

  All is not well, based on the dozens of laminated bookmarkers in the garbage. A poster’s been ripped in half, and someone has scribbled a mustache on the blonde tilting her head.

  Mumble, mumble, grumble.

  Voices murmuring, the three of them rush into the front retail space, their faces flushed. Elena’s lugging a plant. Her aunt carries a stack of white towels.

  What the hell?

  At the counter, Chris plugs in an iPod and sets up a speaker.

  There is a slight roar of ocean water rolling into shore, a light tinkling of piano keys. The kind of music pumped into a masseuse’s room.

  “Elena, what’s wrong?”

  “Plan B,” she chokes out.

  “Plan A has the mustache?” I tip my head toward the torn poster in the garbage can.

  She nods. “We located a self-published author who’s going to talk about creating a home spa, but a bookstore isn’t an ideal setting.”

  I take off my jacket and point at the leafy plant about eight inches high. “What’s this for?”

  “To simulate a spa.”

  “Bamboo’s better.” I glance at the white towels on the counter. “Those’ll work. We’ll go for votive candles. White and round.”

  “What? Look, Nick, I appreciate you wanting to help, but this is my problem.”

  “I know how to stage this. I’m in the hotel and restaurant business. I know where to get the stuff, and fast. Chris.”

  At the sound of his name being called, her brother switches off the music.

  “We’ll do a couple of hors d’oeuvres. Easy finger foods. Pizza puffs, a yogurt dip with fresh fruit.”

  Elena steps in front of me. “You can’t just come in here and take over.”

  “Not take over. Help you. Say it with me, Elena. Help.”

  “No.”

  “You help customers. Your aunt and brother.”

  “He’s right, Leen,” her aunt says.

  “Let someone help you for a change.” I look at Chris again. “We’ll use my mother’s recipes.” I glance over at her. “Mainly women tonight, right?”

  Eyes wide, she nods.

  “Chocolate, then. I know where they sell the best truffles in the world. Pricey but orgasmic.” I wink at her. “You’ll help me set up down here as stuff arrives. Chris, you and your aunt will pull together the food. Elena. What is this spa lady going to do?”

  “Some kind of demonstration.”

  “Let’s call and find out. When is she going to be here?”

  “In two-point-seven hours,” she says.

  “We’ll have to hustle. Let me call my guys and get spa stuff over here.”

  Elena’s hands are on her hips. “Why are you doing this?”

  “There’s no time for an ulterior motive.” I grin. “But I’m sure you’ll come up with one.”

  “Just based on that wink alone, there’s evil involved.”

  I laugh. “You get this famous author cancellation on your website yet?”

  Her expression confirms what I suspect, that she hasn’t. She swallows. “I haven’t had time.”

  ”Go.”

  “Nick.” She presses fingers against a smile. “Thank you.”

  For another one of those smiles, I might be willing to dodge shrapnel. I watch her leave and pick up my phone. Start making a dozen calls, rallying my resources. I know several guys who can help, who specialize in last-minute requests. Soon as everything’s confirmed, they’ll send over some bamboo plants, a portable massage table, and a three-panel screen. I order long tables and big-serving trays.

  Then I make the harder call and don’t even let him say hello. “You’ve gotta help me out.”

  At the other end of the line, Cos sounds tired. “How urgent?”

  “Urgent as hell. It’s the bookstore.”

  “The same bookstore you’re making into Chicago’s hottest new sports bar?”

  “She had a famous author scheduled for a book signing, but she canceled on her.”

  “She?”

  “Elena.”

  “You say her name in a kinda funny way. Is she . . . attractive?”

  I’m silent.

  “Because you haven’t picked up a book since college.”

  “I read.”

  He laughs. “Yeah. You read billboards.”

  “Listen. You haven’t seen the bookstore yet. Come tonight, and you’ll know how good an investment it’s going to make.”

  “You’re buying out the place, what does it matter?”

  “Because it does.”

  “Only two things motivate you. Your dick and a dollar.” Cos’s tone is wry, almost rebuking.

  I flinch at that. Because it’s mostly true. I tug on my ear and fall onto a metal folding chair a foot away from the cash registers. “She’s about to face certain humiliation if she can’t pull this off. So now we’ve got a home spa expert coming and we need to reach out on social networking. Your wife’s great at that. She’s a former PR person, right?”

  “Princess Patton, you mean?”

  “Okay, yeah, I’ve called her that. We’ve both agreed that I’m an asshole. I’ll pay her. Double her rate. Tell her we’ll have free food. My mother’s recipes. Food so good that you’ll see your kid doing jazz hands from your wife’s belly.”

  “You didn’t answer me, Nick. Why? Why are you doing this?”

  “Before they vacate, I’d like to try to do the right thing by them. They’re a . . . nice family.”

  “Since when has family mattered to you? What’s up with you?”

  “This isn’t Nick. It’s android Nick. The AI robot you keep reading about that’s taking over. Please, Co
s. Can Tif Twitter and Facebook bomb this, so we’ll get the biggest last-minute audience possible? She knows a gazillion people, right?”

  Cos sighs.

  That’s when I know he’s in.

  Somehow we pull it off.

  Add one woven jute tri-panel screen, green stalks of bamboo, and music that could mellow a rampaging Yeti, and bada boom, a spa retreat in the middle of the bookstore.

  Round white candles flicker from glass votives, and Chris set his iPod on zen.

  I’m almost chanting here.

  Eighty or so women crowd around two thing-a-mah-bobs sitting on the floor, gadgets about the size of double-wide crockpots. Positioned four feet apart, the blue-and-white things are hitched to extension cords and hum like overgrown vibrators, a “heated foot bath” for the stressed-out modern woman.

  Yeah. The electric massagers look like crockpots.

  And the expert talking about them is crackpot.

  Miss Indigo, self-pubbed author and home spa guru, is pushing seventy and cackles with the frequency of a high priestess stirring a cauldron. Her silver hippie hair is parted in the middle, and she’s wearing a see-through polka-dotted black shirt and, thank the gods, a black tank underneath.

  But I’ll give her one thing. She’s got enthusiasm. Mental illness kind of enthusiasm.

  “We all need a little T and R, ladies. Tranquility and Relaxation. Personally.” Miss Indigo’s eyes bulge as she presses a hand to her chest. “I love having my feet fooled with.” She peers over her half-moon glasses. “But I’m not into fetishes. Not that there’s anything wrong with that!”

  I groan inwardly. Miss Indigo. I so want to go.

  One reason I don’t. Across the room, Elena smiles at me. She’s dressed in a white silk shirt and black slacks, naughty teacher hot. She’s pleased we pulled this off, and her happiness makes me feel—I don’t know—pulpy inside. You know. Like one of those squooshy toys. For a moment, my direct view to her is blocked, as a half dozen samplers inspect the banquet we’ve set up, two tables covered with white linens and my mother’s specialties: eggplant pizza puffs, Italian meatballs, Bruschetta bites, Caprese salad.

  The desserts are decadent: milk chocolate truffles with drizzles of white chocolate, strawberry-infused mini cheesecakes. Almond cookies that melt in the mouth.

  “Eyes on me, ladies, and not the goodies! And that includes the tall goody over here, Mister He-Man.”

  Chris is upstairs, so I duck. It’s one thing to help prepare for this shindig, quite another to be labeled a “goody.” Next thing I know, some chick will ask how many calories and fat grams I have.

  Miss Indigo touches the arm of a woman who’s eyeing the truffles. “Dare I say it, a pedicure’s better than chocolate or S-E-X. Wouldn’t you love to give hubby’s toesies a bubble bath and have him give you one over glasses of wine? Wouldn’t you?” Eyebrows raised, her gaze darts across the women, and she flings her witchy-poo hair behind a shoulder. Then Miss Indigo presses fingers to her thumbs in a pinch gesture and takes long strides into the group, wading into the audience pool. “There are literally hundreds of pressure points in our feet that are tied directly to all parts of our bodies. Massaging those points can have untold health benefits. Tonight, we’ll demonstrate the classic pedicure you can do at home. You’ll love it!” She inches toward the humming massagers and their wavy water and then reaches for a genie-shaped bottle. “Now, let’s get someone’s feet into this.” Miss Indigo turns to me, a thin eyebrow raised. “Mister He-Man. Nick—it’s Nick, isn’t it?”

  “Ruh-roh.”

  The women laugh.

  “We’re recruiting you, you sexy beast.”

  “I don’t do yoga positions,” I say. “Fetal position, yes. Lotus, no.”

  “No, Nick, darling.” Miss Indigo smiles. “Tonight, you’re going to be our pedicurist.” Before I can protest, she’s searching the faces of the women gathered. “Who struggles with tough calluses on their feet? Dry, crack-prone feet?”

  “I do.”

  The loud female voice is gravelly. Familiar.

  Ruh-rohhhh. Gastric spasm.

  In a rustle of ripped denim, a spiky-haired redhead plops into one of the toffee chairs. Her t-shirt blares: “I bathe in male tears.” Talk about a hockey puck to the head.

  She shoves aside her wool coat and her horse-feed-bag of a purse and removes her shoes. Rolls up the denim legs and gnashes her teeth at me, popping bubble gum.

  I settle onto the stool opposite her. “Still Pissed? Or have you moved on to other bodily functions?”

  She crosses an ankle over the other and wiggles her toes. “Let’s get to it, Romeo. I’ve got Christmas shopping to do.”

  To my left, at my elbow, is a bed stand from their third-floor apartment. Miss Indigo places plastic tools on top of it, as well as mystery goop and spray bottles. Lining up things like she’s the nurse and I’m the surgeon.

  White terrycloth hits my lap, again, flung there by Miss Indigo.

  Gingerella props a cankle on my right knee and her foot’s roughly the size of a schooner. The skin is not merely cracked around the heel, these San Andreas fault lines will set off Geiger counters.

  Our podiatry sensei asks Chris to move one of the vibrating massagers in front of Red. “Please.” She gestures toward the gadget on the floor. “Submerge.”

  Red sinks a freckled foot into the water.

  I want to submerge, too. Dunk my head until I turn blue.

  Miss Indigo purses her lips. “Nick, you’ll help gently exfoliate the dead skin.”

  Gently what? There’s nothing gentle about this foot. It requires a power sander.

  “We still have an open seat.” Miss Indigo gestures to the other toffee-dyed chair. “I know one hard-working gal who deserves it. Elena, dear, please. Come sit.”

  Ahh, yesss. Thank you, God. The evening just got more interesting. My hands on her soft skin? Bring on the scented oils.

  “Miss Indigo, why not one of our guests? Auntie Rob?”

  “Sit.” Shaking her head, Auntie Rob gestures at the chairs.

  “We’ll put your mules over here,” Miss Indigo says.

  Mules. A truer label never existed. Those eyesores are mules.

  Elena slides free of the black Dutch shoes, the clodhoppers. She blushes and looks radiant. Goddamned radiant. Her skin glows, her full lips are a darker crimson, and she’s wearing gold coin earrings that flash against her dark hair. She rolls up her black slacks to reveal calves smooth as alabaster. Toes evenly shaped. I meet her eyes for a long moment until she looks down.

  It’s hard for me to stay focused, but I’m managing. It’s just that every other minute, Elena shifts in her chair next to me, and her legs and feet distract me. I fantasize about those bare legs in my bed, underneath me.

  I rearrange the spa towel on my lap. Elena’s flippin’ feet are giving me a hard-on.

  “Hey.”

  Called back into action by Carrot Top.

  “You crash any other classes lately? What’s your name again?”

  Miserable, I almost say. Miserable Bastard. Nice to meet you.

  “All right, Nick. I’ll take over here.” Miss Indigo sits in front of Red and motions me to sit in the chair across from Elena.

  Yesss. A reprieve from the gods.

  I glance over to see Elena move her legs to the side, ladylike. Modest. Her face is relaxed and her mouth is soft, almost blurry with sensuality, dark bangs in her eyes. Even her feet are pretty. Her toes need to be painted red and slipped into a high heel with a little puff in the center. Boudoir slippers.

  I’m about to handle a scrumptious female as an estrogen-fueled cabal watches on.

  She lifts a dripping foot from the water, and my hands lift a towel underneath her leg.

  I am neither tranquil or relaxed in this homemade spa.

  “How’s that feel?” Nick’s voice came out husky, a soft growl. One hand cradled her ankle and heel, and the other rubbed the instep of her foot.

&nb
sp; Tingles, a sensual unfolding stream of tingles, broke out in waves along her legs, spine and neck. Tingles that went up and outward and made her lips throb to be kissed.

  He stared at her, eyes in a burn.

  “Nice.” Elena managed to choke out.

  “Nice? Just nice?” His shoulders and arms worked in sync, like a languorous jungle cat.

  She rose up on her elbows, hair in her eyes. Again she tugged nervously on the rolled-up fabric of her slacks.

  He laughed softly and continued, applying an exquisite amount of pressure with his fingers, as though he’d been trained in massage. As his fingers drummed along the bridge of her foot, his thumb did a deft scoop of the instep.

  Her breath caught as he found new nerve endings.

  If he kept this up, she’d start to mewl like a love-starved cat. Except she couldn’t, because a rapt audience of women watched.

  Her gaze dropped to his lips. Sensual lips, framed by a strong jaw and masculine bristles. Above that sculpted mouth, two golden eyes.

  He shifted and moved both hands around her left foot. One hand held her foot steady, while his thumbs rubbed the sore ball and arch. She closed her eyes, and her head fell back. It felt so good. So, so good.

  Again his fingers danced up her ankle, up her calf.

  She let out a gasp.

  His smile expanded, gaze blazing hot. He stared at her mouth, transfixed.

  Fingers smoothed over the ball of her foot, briefly parting her big and second toes. A sharp sensation leaped in her stomach, and her thigh muscles contracted.

  Desire surged, pleasurable drumming between her legs, a pulsing that rushed heat to her face. She dug her nails into the leather. She wanted to lunge for him, tear apart his shirt, feel his mouth on hers. She could easily imagine them on Nick’s sumptuous bed, kissing . . . and more. Much more.

  He was driving her crazy.

  Grinning lazily, he cupped her calf and continued to rub the heel. “All work and no play make Elena a very frustrated girl.”

  And then the lights shorted out.

  Although the evening’s officially over, our spa guests linger, grazing on the last of the truffles by candlelight.