Love at First

by Kate Clayborn

  Within minutes it was perfume and chat again, Mrs. Salas back with a tin of what she told him were mantecaditos, the lid already off when she’d walked back through the door. “Have one,” she’d said, practically shoving a cookie into his face, and he wondered if maybe he was about to get murdered.

  But as he chewed it—crisp and buttery, and not a bad way to go, if it came to it—he started to realize something else was afoot.

  Mrs. Salas didn’t just have ten thousand pounds of food; she also had ten thousand questions and ten thousand topics of conversation. She had to know what kind of doctor he was and what hospital he worked at and whether he’d ever watched a show about a dermatologist who pops pimples all day. She had to show him the leaky bathroom faucet, the one Donny had reported at the last building meeting he’d been to, and the one that Will would need to reschedule the plumber for. She had to tell him about the tiny storage door in the front bedroom closet, in case he hadn’t found it himself yet. She had to ask if he’d found a pair of red-handled scissors she’d let Donny borrow last month, or if he’d want a box of Donny’s mail she’d been keeping.

  No, this wasn’t murder.

  This was something more . . . complicated.

  This was filling up Donny’s apartment with things, when he’d come to clean it out.

  This was filling up Will’s time with conversation, when he’d come to be quick.

  This wasn’t easy.

  This was sabotage.

  It didn’t stop with the food.

  Barely a half hour after his first guests left, there was a knock at the door, and this time, it was drink.

  Homemade drink, to be specific, made by a middle-aged man named Benny who lived on the second floor and had a small home-brew operation. He brought Will a growler of something called American Wheat Ale, along with a special glass for Will to try it in. Food eventually got involved again, because Benny had heard that Marian made a potato casserole, and would Will mind if he had a few bites? Ten minutes later Benny was sitting in Donny’s brown recliner with a plate of cheesy bacon potatoes and then the husband of Mrs. Salas arrived, and wouldn’t you know he’d like a few of those mantecaditos? But he also had something to drop off, a handheld vacuum cleaner of Donny’s that he’d repaired, and sorry for Will’s loss, a real shame for everyone, but this handheld was now as good as new, and he’d leave it right there on the coffee table if that was all right.

  Will thought he caught a break in the late afternoon, a lull that lasted almost a whole hour, but when there was another soft tap on the door he had to bite his cheek so he wouldn’t shout in frustration. For once, there was no one on the threshold, but there were three houseplants, one with a note tucked between its fat, bright green leaves. Dear Dr. Sterling, it read, in a tiny, neat cursive. I took these from your uncle’s apartment after he passed and have looked after them since. I have written instruction cards for each one, and taped them to the pots. I hope they will thrive in your care. In sympathy, Emily Goodnight.

  A third-string player, obviously, since she could’ve taken up a ton of his time delivering those instructions with the same kind of robust, detail-driven attack all the other residents had arrived with. He’d never had a houseplant in his life, and also took ludicrous offense at the fact that Donny had. He was already thinking about people at work he could hand them off to, but before he’d gotten the last one inside he heard the sound of footsteps in the stairwell.

  He felt like he was on the longest shift of his life.

  It was the man who’d scolded him in the basement the other day, short and surprisingly fast-moving for his age as he descended the final steps carrying a cardboard box that looked a little unsteady in his wiry arms.

  “Can I help you with that?” Will said, stepping forward, already frustrated with himself. Damn his instincts. What good did it do him to make their sabotage plans easier? To let them stay, to indulge all their chatter, to walk each of them to the door like they’d been invited?

  The man squinted at him over the top of his box. “I don’t need your help,” he said, overloud, his voice echoing off the hallway walls, probably scaring the decorative cherubs. “I could bench-press you, Beanpole.”

  Jeez, all right. No one had ever called Will a beanpole. But also no one had ever accused him of killing someone for a rental permit, or given him three houseplants, so. It was a day for firsts. He sighed as the man moved past him, walking into Donny’s place like he owned it.

  The box went onto the seat of the recliner, and the old man stuck out his hand for Will to shake. “I’m Jonah Hajduk. I’m eighty years old, and I’ve lived here longer than anyone, which means I like you and what you’re doing the least, I suspect.”

  “Okay,” Will said, returning Jonah’s strong grip. At this point, the honesty was refreshing. At least he wouldn’t have to feed this guy cheesy potatoes and make conversation.

  When they dropped hands, Jonah gestured toward the box. “These are a few of your uncle’s things, mostly tools he lent me, but also a couple of books I never got around to reading.”

  “Sure. Thanks for bringing them by.” Now please go, he thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to match Jonah’s frankness.

  “You don’t look anything like him.”

  Will shrugged. “I wouldn’t really know.” He hadn’t gotten a good look, that day.

  “And he never mentioned you. Not once.”

  Will ignored the pang he felt at that. He moved toward the recliner, pretending to look at the contents of the box. But really, he saw nothing.

  “That’s not a surprise to me, if that’s what you’re aiming for. He fell out with my mother a long time ago.”

  As near as he could tell from the few bits of information he’d been able to pry out of his mom in the weeks after their ill-fated trip here, the feud between her and Donny had mostly been about the trouble she’d caused when she’d gotten involved with Will’s father—sneaking out, lying, big fights with her mom. Maybe that all would have been regular teenage stuff, but eventually, she’d also run away, and taken a good deal of Donny’s and her mother’s money with her. She’d told it all simply, and without shame. Maybe even with a bit of pride.

  He reached into the box, shuffled some of its contents around, trying to look busy.

  “All’s I’m saying is, none of us knew you exis—”

  “Jonah,” came a voice from the doorway, and like everything else having to do with Nora Clarke, he couldn’t really explain it, the relief he felt. Out of all his visitors today, she was the enemy he should be dreading the most; she was the most dangerous to him. Frankly, she was probably here to finish him off.

  But he didn’t think any of that, at first. He looked up and saw her there and all he could think was: Finally.

  Finally, she came.

  Her hair was up again, that sleek, straight ponytail he had an absolutely deranged urge to tug on, and she was dressed casually, like she’d been the other day—a loose, long-sleeved gray shirt, dark leggings that stopped above her ankles, and a pair of sneakers that looked like they’d never been worn outside.

  She was so pretty.

  It doesn’t matter, you knob, he told himself. She’s the enemy. “Your ride’s here,” she said to Jonah.

  “Already!” He reached up to smooth his tufts of white hair, then patted his pockets. “She’s early.” He looked over at Will. “I’m watching you, pal,” he said gruffly, before heading toward the door.

  “No wine,” Nora said to Jonah when he got close, a warning note in her voice.

  “Sure, sure.” He looked over at Will and proclaimed that he was “on the dating apps!” and then waved as he passed by Nora, saying something to her Will didn’t catch.

  Will felt a tide of annoyance sweep through him. He didn’t want any more of this We’re a family performance-art shit these people had been doing all day, distracting him and slowing him down. He finally looked away from Nora, his eyes sweeping over the room. It’d started a mess
, and now it was more of a mess, and he figured he knew who’d given the marching orders.

  “I see you came empty-handed,” he said, turning toward the kitchen. “That’s new.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her, still in the doorway, a more tentative approach than any of her neighbors had taken, and for some reason, that annoyed him even more. He wanted her to come in; that was the hell of it.

  “Can I offer you something?” he added. “A casserole, or a small appliance? Maybe a potted fern?”

  She took a step inside, and he and his heart had a firm, silent communication about its recent behavior. This visit wasn’t anything special. She was the last neighbor in the building, and obviously he wouldn’t be left in peace until they all came through. It was like ticking a box; that was all. Easy.

  “So,” she said, casting her eyes around the space. She didn’t seem quite as familiar with the place as Jonah had been, and that was strangely comforting to him. “Now you’ve met everyone.”

  “Everyone but Emily,” he said, gesturing toward the plants.

  Nora shrugged, reaching out a hand to gently touch one of the largest one’s leaves. “She’s shy.”

  “I’ll give you credit,” he said, bending down to pick up his still nearly-empty Toss box. “It was a good idea.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  He held up the box. “Would you like to see how far I’ve gotten with cleaning out the kitchen? Or if that doesn’t appeal, I could tell you about Benny’s starter wort, which slowed me down quite a bit. That’s wort with an o, if you weren’t aware.” He hadn’t been, and for a good ten minutes he’d thought Benny was asking him for his professional opinion. “It’s got to do with beer. I learned a lot today.”

  Her face flushed. “It wasn’t really—” She cleared her throat. “We only thought it might be nice to welcome you to the building.”

  There was absolutely nothing so interesting about that plant. She was avoiding his eyes.

  “I’m not sure it worked as you intended,” he said, and her mouth pulled to the side.

  “Jonah’s manners are a little rough, that’s all.”

  “It wasn’t just Jonah. Marian thinks I use my medical license for bribery-related poisonings.”

  She finally looked up at him, her mouth curving into a closemouthed smile that she was clearly trying to keep from spreading further. Watching her wrestle it under control—full, pink lips, a small dent in her left cheek—was not easy.

  It was a goddamned impossible delight.

  “Marian likes a conspiracy theory,” she finally said.

  “I gathered. She thinks I did something illegal for the permit.”

  The almost-smile dropped from her lips. “Did you?”

  “No. I had some help. A friend of mine keeps a few properties like this.” He wasn’t exactly sure if it was fair to call Sally a friend, but last night when she’d texted to ask him whether he’d gotten started yet, she had included a selfie with the hotel’s buffet spread as a backdrop. That seemed friendly.

  Nora rolled her eyes. “Of course. Is that your plan, to make a business out of this? Any other property-related inheritances you’re expecting?”

  “No. I didn’t expect this one. I told you, I didn’t know him well. I’m as surprised as you all apparently are about it.”

  She furrowed her brow, crossed her arms over her chest, looking around again. She’d talked a good game the other day, about Donny being a member of this family she kept talking about, but seeing her now, he had to wonder. Her eyes kept landing on things—that box on the recliner, the stack of newspapers beside it, the black-and-white photograph of Wrigley Field hung above the flat-screen television—like she was looking for answers.

  “Aren’t you curious?” she asked, her eyes coming back to him. “I mean . . . if you didn’t know him. Aren’t you curious why he left it to you?”

  He shoved a grubby set of dish towels into the Toss box, keeping his head down. Curious wasn’t the right word. He was frustrated, full of resentment. Being curious about Donny felt like a concession, and he didn’t want to concede anything.

  “Not really. And even if I were, he’s not here to answer my questions. Not much use dwelling on the past, I’ve always thought.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “That’s going to be pretty impossible, for a while.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  She took a step forward, peered into the box Jonah had dropped off, then moved again, past the recliner and closer to where he stood, by the long kitchen counter that overlooked the living area. Her eyes ran over the space—the pots and pans he’d pulled from the cupboards below, the few stacks of dishes he’d managed to take down from the ones above.

  “It means you’re surrounded by the past. His past, specifically.”

  He swallowed, his neck heating. He thought of the haul-away companies, the cost of their most comprehensive packages. If he could’ve afforded it, he would have had them in here sorting through all this, leaving him well out of whatever was in Donny’s past. He didn’t want any part of it.

  “I’ll move quickly,” he said gruffly, and then he looked up at her. “If you’ll let me.”

  She turned her face from him, looking back over the living room, toward the door that led to the balcony. He liked it, seeing her profile—the slope of her nose, the angle of her jaw, but also the curve at the back of her neck, exposed to him thanks to that ponytail.

  “I thought you might change your mind.”

  Her voice was quiet, like she was telling him a secret. Like he was on that balcony again, waiting for her voice to filter down to him. The truth was, he was probably at great risk for changing his mind, if only she kept talking to him this exact way. If it was dark and they were alone. If Donny had nothing to do with it.

  She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, she’d stripped the softness from her voice. Easier, he told himself. “After, you know. You met everyone. It’s real people here, in this building. It’s not an investment property.”

  “Real people have investment properties. I’m a real person.”

  She looked back at him, her eyes narrowed. “You’re missing my point.”

  “Am I? What’s your point, then, Nora?”

  She made a noise—a quick, frustrated exhale that was almost this side of a groan, and . . . yeah. It made him the exact opposite of easy. He caught one side of his cheek between his teeth and bit down. He said it like a chant in his head—easy easy easy—and tried to feel a sense of victory when she gave up, dropping her eyes and turning to go.

  He couldn’t really explain what happened next, except to say that once again, his instincts failed him. If she was going, he’d walk her to the door.

  But either she hadn’t expected him to be behind her, or she’d thought of something else to say to him. She turned, suddenly, right next to that brown recliner he hated so much, the back of her foot catching on the sloppy stack of newspapers. In a split second, she reeled backward, one of her arms going out to restore her balance, and he could’ve let her ass hit the arm of the chair, an unplanned sit-down that might’ve jostled Jonah’s box but certainly wouldn’t have hurt her.

  He didn’t, though.

  He reached out and caught her hand.

  Palm to palm. A clap as they both curled their fingers to grip each other.

  A seal.

  He was bent slightly over her, and up close like this he could see everything: the fine, wispy hairs that quivered along her hairline. The impossibly small flecks of gold hiding like a secret in her blue eyes. The irregularity he’d seen before in her left cheek—not a dimple, but a thin, straight scar, barely visible. The flash of white from her slightly crooked bottom teeth when her lips parted in surprise.

  The thudding pulse in her neck.

  Holy shit, he thought. Holy shit, the palm of her hand.

  It felt like an electric shock. All the way up his left arm. All the way thro
ugh to his heart.

  Let go, some distant part of his brain said. This is dangerous to you.

  But he wasn’t really listening to his brain. He was listening to his heart, which had been shocked right out of its hiccup, beating in time with her pulse. He watched as she watched him—as she looked up at all the up-close things she could see about him, too. He thought it would be the easiest thing, to pull her closer. She only had to say, and he’d do it. He’d catch her full bottom lip with his own; he’d—

  “Is there someone else?”

  He blinked, and straightened. Barely realized that their hands were still clasped, even though they were both fully upright now. Her voice had been low, almost a whisper.

  No, he wanted to say. There isn’t.

  But he actually had no idea what she was asking, what with his brain having jumped ship. So instead he said, “Someone else?”

  Along her neck, he could still see her pulse. “I—um.”

  She cleared her throat and took the smallest step away from him, dropping her eyes. He immediately loosened his hand, opening his mouth to apologize—what had he been doing, holding on to her like that?—but she rushed out the next part of her sentence.

  “I only thought—listen, you obviously don’t have any interest in this place. But don’t you think someone else in your family might? Maybe they could buy it off of—”

  Like that, his brain came fully back online. Easy: she was the enemy again.

  “I’m an orphan,” he snapped, cutting her off. “And Donny was, too, eventually, so I guess we had that in common. No siblings, no cousins. So no, Nora. There’s no one else.”

  Everything he could see of her flushed. From her wispy-haired hairline all the way down to the place where the pulse beat along her neck.