by Sara Rosett
“Cooked-to-order pancakes, waffles, or French toast with all the side dishes you can think of,” I said.
He wavered, then said, “Okay.”
A few moments later he cut into a stack of pancakes swimming in syrup. He had plates of fruit, sausage, eggs, yogurt, and pastries as well as coffee, juice, and a towering glass of milk, too.
We let him eat in peace for a while, and then I said, “So, are congratulations in order? You’re engaged?”
He started on the eggs and sausage, shaking his head. After he swallowed and wiped his mouth, he said, “Nah. Lee, or—what did you call her—Westly?”
“Wellesley,” I said.
“Okay, Lee, Wellesley, whatever her name is, called and told me everything was off. I’ve been trying to find her for days. I need that money, dude.”
Since we were back to being dudes, it seemed Joe had relaxed around us. “How did you know to look for her here?” I asked.
He said, “When I met her to talk about the…you know, the marriage thing…she had a huge stack of paperwork. I saw the itinerary for your group and the name of this hotel. It stuck in my mind, the Grand in Crystal City.” He shrugged. “It was easy to remember. And when she stopped answering her phone and e-mails, I figured this was the only place I could find her. I knew she’d be here in the morning. I saw your schedule started at nine. I’ve been hanging out in the hotel lobby in the mornings.”
“You don’t go to school or have a job?” Abby asked.
“Shift work. I’m on nights this week.”
I wanted to get the conversation back to Wellesley, so I asked, “When did she call it off?”
“Monday night,” he said, then chugged the milk.
That would have been right after the incident in the Metro. Maybe she was worried about an investigation and she’d halted all her other less legitimate business deals. I glanced over at Abby. I could see by the look on her face she’d caught the significance of the timing, too. I turned back to Joe and said, “So she was going to pay you to get married? Because you’re an American citizen, right?”
He nodded and opened his yogurt cup.
“Who were you going to marry?” I asked.
He shrugged as he stirred the yogurt. “I don’t know. Never saw her. We were going to meet at the courthouse and be done. I’d never see her again.”
“Why would you do that?” Abby’s voice rose with astonishment.
“Money. I need the money,” he repeated. “Dude, living off base is off the hook.”
“What?” I asked.
Abby looked at me and said, “He means living here is crazy.”
He nodded. “Expensive,” he translated for me. When did Abby become such an expert in slang? I let that question go and focused on what he’d said. “You said you live off base. A military base?”
“Yeah. I’m in the Air Force. And they don’t pay sh—” Abby frowned and he quickly amended his word choice. “Jack. They don’t pay nothing.”
“So what was she going to pay you? A couple of hundred dollars, maybe a thousand?” I asked. Estelle said Wellesley collected six thousand dollars and I could see Wellesley giving a portion to an American to get them to the courthouse, but their cut couldn’t be that big. And what difference could a few hundred dollars make in his life? Even a thousand dollars wouldn’t go very far in D.C. Would he splurge on one big item?
“Sure, she was going to pay me eight hundred bucks, but that was nothing. Not compared to what I’d get after I got my increase in pay.”
I looked over at Abby as I realized what he meant. I said, “BAQ.”
She nodded slowly and looked back at Joe. “And VHA, too, right?”
He looked nervous again. He angled his silverware on his empty plate and put his napkin on the table. “How do you know about that?”
“Basic Allowance for Quarters and Variable Housing Allowance, you mean?” Abby asked. “Simple. We’re military spouses. Our husbands are in the Air Force.”
Those acronyms could add up to quite a bit of money. The military took into account where you lived and paid more if you were in an expensive area. That number varied according to how many people you had in your family, but even with those increases it would still be hard to make ends meet in Washington, D.C., especially for enlisted folks. A marriage certificate meant another member of the family and a higher pay rate every payday. No wonder Joe was willing to take a small cut from Wellesley; he’d make more money all year long once he changed his marital status.
“How did you find out about this ‘marriage thing,’ as you called it?” I asked.
“Word gets around. One of my buddies did it and he let me in on it.”
“How do you contact Wellesley? Do you call her or meet somewhere?”
“My buddy gave me her e-mail. I e-mailed her and she set up a meeting at a restaurant close to the base.” He paused, then said, “It’s all legal and everything.” He inched his chair backward. “I would really be married. The ceremony and marriage certificate are all legit. It’s not like I’m lying or anything.”
“You’d just never actually live with your wife,” Abby said. “Or see her again, for that matter.”
“That system would have its advantages,” I said. “No worries about attending the spouse coffees.”
Abby rolled her eyes, at me this time, and said, “Look, Joe, you’d be a lot better off finding a roommate or cutting costs some other way. Whether or not you can justify a fake marriage in your mind, I don’t think the Air Force would agree with you.”
He didn’t look convinced so I said, “I don’t know if Wellesley’s going to start up her marriage thing again anytime soon. I know two other people she canceled on this week. And, besides, what’s going to happen when you want to get married for real?”
A bellhop crossed the restaurant and said, “Ma’am, the taxi you called for is here.”
Joe snorted. “I’m not going to get married for real.”
“I think you’re right about that,” Abby said as we stood up.
On the way to the Archers’ house I said to Abby, “That was crazy, or I should say, off the hook. Can you believe that?”
Abby said slowly, “You know, I think I can. Someone like Joe wants the extra money. It would be easy money for someone who isn’t making much to begin with. Just show the marriage certificate and get a raise. Anyway, Joe’s so young he probably really can’t see himself ever getting married.”
I sighed. “I don’t know. I still have a hard time wrapping my mind around a scheme like that. But I have to hand it to Wellesley; she created a business that would bring in lots of cash and I don’t see the demand for her matchmaking service tapering off anytime soon.” I shifted toward Abby and asked, “And how did you know about that ‘off the hook’ expression, anyway?”
“We had a section on slang in one of my continuing education courses. And being around the kids keeps me up to date.”
“Third graders? There’s already slang in third grade? I have less time than I thought before I become totally uncool.”
By the time we got to the Archers’ house, the clouds had sunk down to ground level, swathing everything with a fine mist. The taxi dropped us at the foot of the Archers’ driveway, behind a white van with Flint Designs emblazoned on the side in a plain black font. So Ivan went for unique and visionary in his clients’ homes, but he went conventional for his van. The buzz of a circular saw filled the air. A man with a pencil stuck behind his ear, safety glasses, and a tool belt pushed a piece of wood smoothly through a table saw in the small area between the house and Summer’s apartment. “Is the up-and-coming Ms. Archer here today?” Abby asked.
“I don’t think so. Summer said Ms. Archer had Emma’s ballet lesson and then a birthday party. The interviewer for Mom Magazine is tagging along to get a look at a typical Friday.”
The back door swung open and a man backed out, carefully balancing a paint tray full of what looked like Pepto-Bismol and a roller with the same
paint. I recognized his dark black hair, olive complexion, and compact build. “Hi, Tony,” I said as I reached out and held the door open for him. He pivoted carefully, then descended the steps and placed the tray and roller on a plastic sheet on the grass. “You may not remember me—”
“You’re Summer’s sister-in-law. We met at Ms. Archer’s office. Ellie, isn’t it?” He looked inquiringly at Abby, and I introduced her.
He wiped his hand on his Washington Redskins T-shirt, adding a few more streaks of paint to the pink splatters before he shook hands with Abby.
“Where’s Summer? In the house?” I asked, reaching for the door handle.
“No. She’s not here,” he said shortly. He didn’t look happy. “Something came up last night and she left. An emergency.”
Chapter Fifteen
Clearly, he expected me to know about the emergency. “She left last night?”
“Yeah, she sorted out the toys yesterday afternoon and took the ones she’s saving for Emma over to her place to keep them from getting lost or thrown away. She called me late last night and told me where she kept a key to her apartment hidden so I could get in there and get the paint.”
“When will she be back?”
“Didn’t say. I told her we had everything under control here.” He frowned. “And we did until three people canceled on me. We should have been finishing up about now, but, well…we’re doing the best we can.”
“But her car’s still here.” I pointed to Summer’s car parked on the street.
Tony shrugged. “She must have called someone to pick her up.” He had other things to worry about besides Summer.
I pulled out my cell phone and saw that I’d missed a call. “Probably her,” I said as I dialed my voice mail, but Tony wasn’t listening. He’d picked up a lamp and a stack of books from a pile near the door and carried them toward the house. He asked over his shoulder, “Want to see the room?”
We followed him inside. A collection of children’s furniture painted a glossy white was squashed into the living room. My voice mail played, but it wasn’t Summer’s voice. “This is Jay MacInally.” His voice wasn’t as rough as it had been when I’d met him. “I’ll try you again later.”
Why had he called? Did he want to know what I’d decided to tell Debbie? Abby looked at me and I shook my head and said, “No, it wasn’t Summer.” We climbed up the narrow stairs, squeezed past several boxes on the small landing, and entered Emma’s room. “Here it is,” Tony said and left his bundle of accessories in the middle of the floor; then he hurried back downstairs.
“This is gorgeous,” Abby said and I had to agree. Even in its half-finished state the room looked a thousand times better than it had before. Ivan must have used some glazing technique on the walls, because instead of medicine pink, the walls were a soft wash of color. Under the plastic drop cloths, I could see new Berber carpet in a soft gray color covering the floor. The newly painted white trim looked crisp against the blush-colored walls. A woman in cut-off overalls and a baseball cap stood in the center of the largest wall, painting a fairy-tale castle in shades of pink and lavender. Across the room, Ivan looked like a lollipop as he perched on a ladder hand-painting a whimsical border of white, pink, and black swirls around the top of the room.
“Excuse me,” a man said behind me.
I stepped aside and the man who’d been working at the table saw outside carried several pieces of wood into the room and began screwing them into place under the windows.
I thought of those buzzwords that the guys were laughing about at dinner. “Ivan, this space looks wonderful. I think Emma will love it,” I said.
Abby winked at me as she said, “The pale blush color with the black accents really makes your border pop.”
“Absolutely,” I said, grinning.
“Thanks.” He came down from the ladder, which squealed and groaned as each step took his weight. His black leather and flashy rings were gone. Today he was in plain red sweats. He did a full 360 turn, taking in the whole room. Then he nodded once and said, “Subtle. Whimsical. Magical. That’s what this space is all about.” He pointed his paintbrush at the castle mural and said, “We’ll place the bed there. The headboard will blend in with the mural. My carpenter is modifying the four posters so they will look like turrets with flags.”
“A castle bed, how cool,” Abby said, taking in every detail. I bet there would be a fairy-tale-themed nursery in Abby’s house before the baby arrived.
“These boxes need to be off the landing, Ivan,” Tony said as he entered the room with another load. “Excuse me, Ellie. Got to get these inside in case it starts raining.”
Ivan climbed back up the ladder and nodded absently as he studied his border. “Yes. Of course. We’ll do…something with them,” he muttered, but his attention was on the exact placement of his brush.
“Ivan, did you hear me? We’ve only got a couple of hours left.”
“Yes, I heard you, but if we don’t get the painting done, the rest doesn’t matter.”
Tony left without saying anything else, and he crashed down the stairs. I looked at Abby. “I’d better stay and help Tony get everything sorted out. The decorating is coming together, but Tony needs help to finish the organizing. You could call a taxi to take you back to the hotel.”
“I’m not going back to the hotel,” Abby said. “Nothing there but an outdoor swimming pool. Who wants to swim on a day like this? I’ll help you go through the boxes on the landing and then I’ll accessorize.” She was practically rubbing her hands together at the thought of delving into the pile of pictures, knickknacks, and books. Home décor was like nirvana to Abby. Her house looked like a spread in a decorating magazine. And the amazing thing was that she decorated with stuff she picked up during her bargain shopping expeditions. Just like with clothes, she knew how to put it together in a way that looked great.
I saw a couple of mismatched china plates at a garage sale and thought, Those are cute, but what would I do with them? Abby bought them—after I decided I didn’t want them—and hung them on the wall of her dining room in a clever arrangement with a quilt and a sepia photograph of her grandparents.
I knew that if Abby put the finishing touches on Emma’s room it would look spectacular. I just hoped she didn’t butt heads with Ivan.
I hurried down to talk to Tony in the living room while Abby started on the boxes. “Hey, Tony. Abby and I are going to stay and help—” I broke off as I realized he was on the phone. He snapped the phone off and cursed under his breath as I came down the last two stairs.
He ran his hands across his eyes, then down over his mouth. “Why do I put up with this—” He noticed me and said, “We’ve got two hours.”
“What? Until Ms. Archer gets back? Great, she can pitch in and help.”
“Right,” he laughed. “No, we’ve two hours until the photo shoot. The schedule’s been changed and the photographer is coming to do the shoot this afternoon instead of tomorrow. The writer for the article will be here, too. She can interview you this afternoon.”
“But the light is terrible and the paint isn’t even dry. You can’t put the furniture and the accessories in with the paint still wet. And where is Summer? She’s got all my notes on everything that has to be done.”
“I wish I knew. All I know is that we’ve got to put something together so they can take the photos. The light isn’t a problem. They’re bringing lights. We may have to tell them to just shoot one side of the room.”
“Which side?”
“The side we finish,” he said over his shoulder as he went upstairs.
“But neither side of the room is finished yet.”
A few seconds later a shout from upstairs seemed to rock the house like a minor explosion. A torrent of words followed. I could make out a few phrases. “Unfeasible…can’t be rushed…impossible.” Tony must have given Ivan the new deadline.
Tony trotted back downstairs and flashed a smile at me. “He took it better than I ex
pected. I’m bringing the furniture up as soon as I get everything in from outside.”
It seemed he’d gotten over his irritation with the new deadline. Maybe he was one of those people who thrived under pressure. I hurried back up the stairs.
Abby said, “I heard. I’ll get rid of these boxes. You see what has to be done in the room.” She said something else about reinforcements, but I’d already rushed into the room, the plastic drop cloths crackling under my feet. I twirled around. Suddenly, what had looked so good a few moments before—a makeover in progress—looked like chaos now. It was anything but organized. And Summer had said that the article wanted to play up the organizational size of the makeover—how a well-ordered room makes life easier for a busy, working mom. I ran my fingers through my hair. Where was Summer?
I grabbed my phone and dialed her number. Why had I given her all my notes? My precious lists. I needed those lists. Her voice mail answered and I snapped the phone off.
Okay. Deep breath. I could do this. I’d just have to wing it. I hated winging it. I loathed working under pressure. I liked the planned approach with checklists and sticky note reminders. I scanned the whole room again and decided that Tony and Abby could handle getting the new stuff, the furniture and accessories, into the room. The muralist was packing up her paints and Ivan did look like he was moving a little bit faster on the border. Instead of moving at a snail’s pace he’d upped it to a turtle’s pace. We might be okay. If none of the photos in the article were close-ups.
