by Lori Wilde
She fidgeted, didn’t meet his gaze. “You want to know how I work?”
“Love to see you in action. Give me a crash course in organization.”
She turned to meet his gaze, but shifted as far away from him as the debris would allow. Too close for comfort? “Obviously, this goes beyond the scope of organizational problems. In fact, I usually don’t wade into hoarder territory.”
“Why did you this time?”
“Because it was your father.”
The muscles of his chest torqued. What did she mean by that? He wanted to ask, but couldn’t bring himself to dive that deep. Not today. Not yet. “Teach me.”
Katie straightened and cleared her throat. She looked like a passionate math teacher he had in school, serious about her topic. “Organization isn’t really about keeping things neat and clean.”
“No?”
“Well, it is, but that’s not the bottom line.”
“What is the bottom line?” he asked.
“Getting truly organized is about taking stock of your life, facing your fears, and letting go of the things that no longer serve your highest good.”
“Sounds kinda airy-fairy to me.”
“It’s not. Getting organized and staying that way is actually very earthy and grounding. Take this for example.” She picked up a box with faded lettering and old-style advertising circa 1980-something, Ron Popeil’s Pocket Fisherman. The box had never been opened. “It has no emotional value.”
“Except to Twyla.”
“It wasn’t the product that provided the emotional value to her. It was the accumulation of stuff. She was trying to fill an emotional hole in her heart.”
“What hole was that?”
“I don’t know. She was your stepmother.”
“What a waste of money,” he muttered, not even trying to guess at Twyla’s mental landscape.
“Hundreds of unopened boxes here. Besides hoarding, it looks like your stepmother had a shopping addiction as well.”
Yeah. Ryder knew all about Twyla’s shopping addiction, and her denial of it. His stepmother’s issues were the reason he and his father had gotten crossways in the first place. What hurt most was that his father had taken Twyla’s side, choosing to believe her lies over Ryder.
It still hurt.
“Clean out the junk, and you clean out the inner demons,” Katie went on.
“Twyla had a hell of a lot of inner demons.” Ryder sank his hands on his hips, felt a familiar roil in his stomach whenever he thought of his stepmother. She’d poisoned the well of his childhood and even though she was dead, the pain lingered. But he forgave her. Felt sorry for her, in fact. The woman had not lived a happy life.
“Hoarders do hoard because in a weird way, the junk makes them feel safe. Getting rid of stuff makes them feel vulnerable, defenseless. That’s why it’s so hard to get them to let go. It’s not about the stuff but rather the way the stuff makes them feel.”
“So for you, cleaning is like what? A religion?” He eyed her curiously, tried not to notice how well she filled out the cute red long-sleeved T-shirt she had on.
“Not cleaning per se, organizing. Although I suppose the two go hand in hand.”
“I’m a minimalist. Keep things lean. That’s my motto.”
“I noticed.” She cut her eyes at him, stared at his biceps.
Ryder hid a grin. She was still interested in him whether she wanted to be or not. “Makes it easier to move on. Prevents a guy from getting entrenched.”
“You don’t ever feel the need for something more solid? For roots?”
“I was raised with this crap. What do you think?”
“But not always, right? I mean before your mother died. She wasn’t a—”
“Hoarder. No.”
“Twyla probably considered herself a collector,” she said gently.
“Collectors have a system,” he said. “A purpose. There’s no sense to this madness.”
“I’m sure this made sense to Twyla.”
“Yeah, maybe. In crazy town.”
“We don’t know what was going on inside her head.”
“Nothing normal.”
“Ryder,” she chided. “You gotta let it go. The past is over, and hard feelings become their own form of mental clutter.”
“I don’t know,” he said, lowering his eyelids and his voice seductively. “Not all hard feelings are bad.”
“You’re out of line, mister,” she whispered, but there was a flare of interest in her eyes. He wasn’t mistaken about that.
“Are you peeved because I won’t fit neatly into one of your boxes?”
“This rebel-without-a-cause thing might have been hot when you were seventeen, but now . . .” She shrugged. “It’s kinda sad.”
He laughed like he wasn’t bothered, and he spied a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. Was she disappointed in him? Quickly, he shifted things, picking up a green canvas zippered bag with a caricature logo of Katie, a broom in her hand, and the words “Fresh Start.” “What’re these?”
“My branded packing cubes. They’re for stacking and organizing the items we’re going to retain. As I mentioned before, we’ve got three piles here.” She pointed as she turned to each mound. “Throw away, donate, keep and organize. We do one category at a time. I like to begin with clothing.”
“Mmm, okay.” He glanced around at the heaps of items stacked and stuffed every which way. “How do you find anything in this rubble?”
“I admit that can be a challenge,” she said. “But trust the system. Whatever we come across that isn’t clothing gets moved aside until we’re ready for that category.”
“Oh, this is going to be hilarious to watch,” he said.
“Don’t think you’re getting off scot-free.” She handed him another pair of vinyl gloves. “You’re in this with me.”
“Do I get a discount for helping?”
“You get good son points,” she said. “Work off some of that bad-boy karma.”
“Ouch, you sure know how to hit a guy where it hurts.” He chuckled.
“Here.” She thrust a large cardboard box in his hand, which was full of what looked like garage sale finds. “Start digging.”
“Couldn’t we just throw the whole room away and call it a day?”
“Have some sensitivity. It’s your father’s entire life here.”
“Then shouldn’t he be the one sorting through this stuff?”
“Normally, yes. But I don’t think he’s physically or emotionally strong enough for that right now,” she said. “This is where we start. See what’s salvable for charity. Anything ripped, pilling, worn, age-faded, or stained gets discarded.”
“You’re the boss.” He shook his head, shrugged, stared at the insurmountable task in front of them.
“The items we want to keep will go into color-coordinated cubes. Blue for pants, green for shirts, black for undergarments, brown for shoes.”
“Aren’t you carrying this just a little too far?”
“I didn’t tell you how to do your job, did I? And frankly, I could have offered some constructive criticism, like don’t tackle the wrong person,” she teased.
“Point taken,” he said, and fished a pair of blue jeans from the cardboard box. “Pitch? Donate? Or keep?”
“Are they your dad’s size?”
“How the hell do I know that?”
Katie sighed and sank her hands on her hips. “He’s about a thirty-eight-inch waist.”
“These are thirty-fours.”
“Donate pile. Unless they’re ripped—”
“Pilling, worn, age-faded, or stained, yada, yada, I get it.” Ryder put down the box, unfolded the jeans. “I wear a thirty-four.”
“Donate pile.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at the appropriate pile.
“What if I want them?”
Katie rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Are you going to give me grief about every single item?”
“Not this,” he sai
d, pulling a hideous purple and orange muumuu from the cardboard box. “Definitely trash. This thing should never have been created.”
“Ack! That’s a top designer.” She grabbed the muumuu from the “toss” pile. “It’s in pristine condition. Someone somewhere will want it. Your father needs the money. We can sell it.”
“How am I supposed to know high-fashion designer duds from Wal-Mart clothes?”
“This isn’t working. Explaining things to you is going to take three times as long.” She made shooing motions toward the door. “Out.”
“You’re throwing me out of my own place?”
“It’s your father’s place,” she said. “You haven’t been home in thirteen years. Go. Shoo. Get.”
“I’ll do better,” he said, wanting to stay. “Show me how it’s done. I’ll be good. I promise.”
She pushed up her sleeves, waved him aside, dove into a big cardboard box. Bam. Bam. Bam. She was through the box in under a minute flat and that included neatly folding the few clothes she was keeping. “And that’s the gold standard.”
She handed him another cardboard box stuffed with clothes.
“You know,” he said, “I’m more of a visual learner. You went at it so fast, it would help to see that again in slow motion.”
“Watch closely.”
He lowered his head.
“Eyes on my hands, not my ass.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Listen up. Here’s how to clean out a hoarder’s haven.”
“The gospel of Miss Priss. I remember your closet . . .” He paused, met her gaze head-on, added, “And that pink sweater.”
“You remember that sweater?” Her cheeks flushed.
She thought their time together in California had gotten her past this silly shyness, but here she was feeling foolish and embarrassed all over again. In LA it had been easy to pretend she had a whole new persona. But here, surrounded by their past, it was a lot harder. The old roles were back—the prim ugly duckling and the rebellious bad boy.
“How could I forget? Two minutes later you launched yourself into my arms and kissed me.”
“Learning how to get organized is life-changing magic,” she went on, as if he hadn’t said anything, babbling to fill the air so she’d stop talking about her most embarrassing moment. He knew her. She babbled when she got nervous. “It will change your lifestyle and your perspective. You’ll feel freer, richer . . .”
“You’re preaching to the choir, honey,” he said. “I lived in this house with Twyla. I saw firsthand how holding on to stuff can weigh you down, warp your beliefs, and cloud your judgment. But I like how you think. Keep talking. What do you love about this job?”
A helpless smile ran away with her face, curling her lips up to her cheeks. The woman had found her passion. “The alchemy of creating order from chaos. Taming the . . .”
He stared at her, his gaze hooked on her lips. He recollected what those lips tasted like, both salty and sweet.
“Taming the . . . taming the . . .”
“Uh-huh?”
“Wolf.”
“Wolf?” He chuckled.
“Um, um . . . I meant taming this wolfish mess.”
“Sure you did,” he said, pleased that he’d hijacked her brain. “Because most messes are wolfish.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“What can I say?” He grinned wickedly. “Being back in Twilight brings out the bad boy in me.”
“There is nothing boyish about you.”
“Glad you noticed.” He stepped closer, drawn irresistibly by the sight of her in those skinny jeans, her blond hair pulled up in a bewitching ponytail that swished whenever she nodded or shook her head. Her T-shirt was sliding off one shoulder, revealing the strap of white cotton bra.
God, how he wanted to kiss her.
“Look,” she said in a serious tone that told him he was too close for comfort. “I really don’t have time to teach you my trade. In order for your father to come home on Monday, this place has to be halfway decent. So I’d appreciate it if you’d just get out of my way.”
“No,” he said.
“What?” She jerked her head up.
“I’m not leaving. My father is in a helluva mess.”
“Yes, and I’m straightening it out. So shoo.” She waved him away.
“Not leaving.”
She looked stumped, chuffed out a breath, finally said, “All right. If you really want to help, bag the things in the throwaway pile, and take them to the dump.”
“As you wish.”
“The Princess Bride? Really?”
“It’s your favorite movie.”
“You remembered that too?” She interlaced her fingers and held them up to her chest like a knotty shield.
“I remember a lot of things about you.” He lowered his voice and his eyelids.
She nibbled her bottom lip, offered him a wobbly smile, and he realized she was as nervous about being near him as he was being near her.
It touched him. Right down to the center of his bones.
And it occurred to Ryder that maybe coming home wasn’t going to be as difficult as he feared, and that’s when he saw THE BOX.
Chapter 9
The small black jewelry box was the first thing Ryder ever stole.
Reaching down, he curled his hand around the box on the nightstand that was peeking from underneath a pile of newspapers, flicked it open with his thumb, and stared down at the silver heart pendant necklace.
His heart cracked into a million brittle pieces.
“Ryder?” Katie asked, concern in her voice.
He swayed on his feet. The room narrowed, and Katie disappeared.
A familiar nightmare came to him, right smack in the middle of the day while his eyes were wide open.
It was the one about his mother.
His body jerked as if he’d taken a pugilist’s fist to his solar plexus. His heart pounded. The daymare clung to him like spiderwebs, sticky and binding. He heard the sounds of Katie moving toward him, but he raised a palm, warning her off.
Stay away. I’m no good for you.
Caught in the grips of a terrible memory, the last thing he wanted was for her to touch him, and try to make everything all right.
Nothing would ever be right. Not for him. Not in this lifetime.
In his mind’s eye, he saw his thirty-year-old mother, how she’d looked the morning of the accident, this very necklace around her throat. The necklace he’d bought her for Mother’s Day with money earned from helping his father around the farm. Mom, smiling and waving him off to school, having no idea it was the last day of her life.
Or that her young son would be the instrument of her death.
It was at noon on that same day when Great-Aunt Delilah came to pick him up at his third grade classroom. She’d been crying, and when she whispered something to his teacher, tears misted her eyes too.
“I’ve come to take you to my house,” his great-aunt said.
He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay at school with his friends. He didn’t know his aunt well. Only from family get-togethers, and he’d never stayed at her house by himself.
“No,” he’d said, sensing in his bones something was terribly wrong.
“You have to go with your aunt,” his teacher said kindly. “Get your things, Ryder.”
He balked, digging in his heels, crossing his arms over his chest. “No. Mama told me never to go with strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger,” said his aunt, who smelled like clove cigarettes, and the koala bears at the zoo. Her too-red lipstick was smeared at the corner of a mouth that sagged with age. “I’m your father’s aunt. Your great-aunt Delilah. I know you remember me. Stop being so stubborn.”
“No.”
Under her breath, she muttered, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.”
“You’re scaring him,” his teacher said, and he liked her more than usual because she said that.
“I
’m sorry.” Great-Aunt Delilah sighed and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I’m upset. Not thinking clearly. Please Ryder, your father sent me to get you.”
“You have to go with her,” his teacher said firmly, and cut a nervous glance at Delilah. “Something’s happened at home.”
The way his teacher looked at him, with fear and sadness in her eyes, spurred him to sink his hand into Great-Aunt Delilah’s outstretched palm, even though he didn’t want to.
She took him to her house and fixed a peanut butter sandwich on stale whole wheat bread, and chocolate milk, but the milk was slightly soured. Blinky, his mother called it. When the milk was blinky at home, she’d mix it with old breadcrumbs and give it to the chickens.
Chicken food. His great-aunt was feeding him chicken food.
He took one sip and pushed it away. “I want to call my mama.”
“You can’t,” she said, smoking one of her funny brown cigarettes and pacing the green linoleum floor.
“Why not?” he challenged, crossing his arms over his chest. He felt sick to his stomach, but determined not to throw up.
“Your father will be here after a while and you can talk to him.”
Yes. Dad would straighten this all out. Clearly, there had been a mistake. They’d laugh about it, and Dad would take him home and Mom would be waiting with Blue Bell vanilla ice cream and homemade chocolate chip cookies.
Day turned into night and his father didn’t come. Great-Aunt Delilah fed him a frozen dinner she nuked in the microwave and let him eat it on a tray in front of the television, and watch The Three Stooges. A show Mama wouldn’t let him watch.
There were lots of phone calls. Great-Aunt Delilah took them in another room, whispering low and frantic. A couple of times, she caught him pressing his ear to the door trying to overhear her conversations, and she shooed him away with pursed lips and a worried frown.
The cold, sick knot in his stomach twisted even tighter.
Finally, when it was time for bed, his father showed up at the back porch looking shattered, his hair was every which way, his eyes bloodshot, his shoulders stooped.
Ryder ran to throw his arms around his father, but Dad put a palm to Ryder’s head, holding him in place, not letting him come closer than arm’s length, even though Ryder pedaled his legs hard. Fresh fear bubbled up inside him and he started to cry even though he didn’t quite know why.
