The furniture is pushed to the center of each room and covered with paint-speckled canvases like little hills flecked with wildflowers. They lay on a thick coat of white ceiling paint first and I see it covering the dingy mess made by tobacco smoke.
Fresh start, indeed.
I’ve ordered all of the rest of Gavin’s new furniture and it’s due to arrive on Friday, so I’m crossing my fingers that two days is enough to finish this. My mom comes on Saturday, my birthday.
I’m cutting it close.
As the painters work, I’m alternately calming Jasper and organizing, going through closets and cupboards and making a list of what’s needed. New towels—Gavin’s are stained and ratty-looking. I make a list to restock his pantry and replenish the crusty condiments in his refrigerator.
All of Gavin’s laundry was done and delivered by a place that charges by the pound. I put away dozens of T-shirts and jeans in his drawers. It looks like that’s pretty much all he wears.
I sort through his bathroom stuff and add more things like toilet paper and toothpaste to my shopping list, then decide to get the whole mess delivered. That will save me more than one cranky trip in a cab. I start up my laptop and punch in my list. Boom! I’m on fire.
I check in with Dan via email and update him on the progress at Gavin’s. He tells me not to worry about making a trip to the James’s apartment to water plants today, he’ll send Joel over.
Yes, that Joel.
When he made good on his promise to clean up his parents’ apartment, I followed through with my promise to tell Dan about Joel. I gave him the whole truth—the party aftermath, Joel’s lousy track record and the fact that Joel needs enough money to replace a crystal vase before his parents get home.
When Dan met Joel face to face, something clicked. It was like they were kindred spirits united by neglectful, wealthy parents who had more money than time for their children.
Dan offered Joel a summer internship on the spot, but warned him he’d be doing the absolute lowest-level grunt work. To his credit, Joel didn’t flinch. He accepted immediately.
When I’m sure work is under control, I write Gavin another story, telling him about a camping trip in the mountains, fly fishing, and a lazy canoe trip down the Upper Deschutes River in central Oregon. I try to paint the picture vividly, sharing my landscape just as he shares his with me while I’m living here.
Soon after I hit send, a chat window pops up.
Gavin: I just wanted to say hi and I’m thinking about you.
Me: Awww. What are you doing up so late?
Gavin: I hijacked a Wi-Fi signal. Don’t tell.
Me: Naughty boy. The painters are here today. I hope you like hot pink!
Gavin: You wouldn’t.
Me: Try me.
Gavin: Seriously??
Me: I had them paint the trim chartreuse for a nice contrast.
Gavin: I’m gagging over here, B. I may never come home.
Me: Now you’re playing dirty. Hang on while I pop my head into the living room and have them change it …
Gavin: And?
Me: Crisis averted. No pink.
Gavin: Thank God.
Me: I was thinking about your two truths and a lie. You got anything good? I’m a good guesser.
Gavin: OK. One. I’ve never been camping. If I had to pitch a tent to survive a night in the woods, I’d be a goner.
Me: We’ll have to fix that. I’ll take you to Oregon and we’ll camp by a hot spring.
Gavin: Would you protect me from bears?
Me: You watch too much TV. I’ve never seen a bear or a wolf or anything scarier than a coyote. You’ll be fine.
Gavin: OK, then. Two. My parents have never been to any of my concerts.
Me: Three?
Gavin: The best part of being a rock star is the money and the girls.
Me: Lie.
Gavin: Yeah. That was too easy.
Me: Your parents have really never been to your concerts? They’ve never seen you play?
Gavin: I left home when I was seventeen. My dad was a mean drunk and my mom drank almost as much to cope. So as soon as I had enough money to buy a truck, I left. The only time they’ve ever contacted me was a couple of years ago. For money.
Me: Oh, Gav. I’m sorry.
Gavin: Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.
Me: It’s not that. I’m just sorry they hurt you. You don’t deserve that. No one does.
Gavin: I try not to think about it. After all, if I hadn’t run away, I never would have met Tyler and the band. My life would have been totally different.
Me: So tell me the truth, then. What’s the best part of being a rock star?
Gavin: It’s the moment before you take a breath and sing your first note. Anything is possible and everyone’s tuned to your frequency. It’s like you’re the Pied Piper, and you can lead the crowd anywhere you want to go.
Me: I saw a concert clip on YouTube where you told the audience to get naked.
Gavin: Ha! That’s just part of our act. I take off my shirt and say I’m going to charm their clothes off with a love song.
Me: Does it work?
Gavin: Usually. There are always a few girls in the front row who take off their tops and add a little something extra to the show.
Me: That’s such a guy thing to say.
Gavin: I can’t help it—I’m a guy. So why do you want to be a writer?
Me: I have no idea. It’s kind of an antisocial thing—not like music, when you can connect with people when you perform. I write, and then maybe someone, somewhere, days or months or years from now reads it. If they ever do.
Gavin: Beryl, they’ll read it. You’ll write something great and you won’t be able to keep a lid on it. But your answer is a cop-out. Why write?
Me: For one thing, writing is daring—making stuff up, putting yourself out there—it’s a huge risk. I’m not daring, but I want to be.
Gavin: What’s the other thing?
Me: Writing is an adventure. I can invent characters and make them do stuff I’d never dare to do.
Gavin: I think you’re getting braver.
Me: I am. But my life’s been pretty sheltered. I came to New York because I wanted an adventure.
Gavin: And?
Me: And I love it! I’m obsessed with trying new things and discovering new places.
Gavin: You’re getting out of your comfort zone.
Me: I think that’s the only way to discover a new world.
Gavin: I need a new world. I thought if I got away from life in New York and constant reminders of Lulu then I’d get some peace.
Me: You ran before. Did it work then?
Gavin: Nope. Guess I’m not that smart.
Me: So, maybe the answer is not to run. Maybe you’ve got to get out of your comfort zone by standing your ground and facing the hard stuff rather than running from it.
Gavin: So my comfort zone is running, and your comfort zone is staying put?
Me: Something like that. Gavin, what do you think makes you so good at music?
Gavin: Nothing special. You practice enough, you get so tight that you can stop thinking and just feel the music.
Me: Practice? Come on. That can’t be all.
Gavin: Oh, it’s not. I don’t just mean practicing every day. I mean making it part of you, so it bypasses your brain and just comes out of your heart and feelings and fingertips.
Me: That sounds like magic.
Gavin: It’s the same as when you write. You don’t think about every letter as you type it. You don’t look at the keys. You trust your gut and just do it.
I get an error message and Gavin’s bubble goes gray. I guess the Tattooed Wi-Fi Thief got caught.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Do you like it?”
I watch my mother carefully as she takes in Gavin’s penthouse that’s flooded with morning light. Jasper weaves happily in and out of the open terrace doors and wind billows in the new white cotton curta
ins.
I’m finally finished transforming Gavin’s apartment and it looks nothing like the monochromatic bachelor pad where I cleaned up the filth Gavin left behind.
Only the grand piano remains of the old place, and I had it tuned so it’s ready when Gavin returns. Mom moves into the living room, taking in the sturdy Craftsman furniture, soft wool rug, and cozy leather couches.
I don’t know much about decorating, so to make Gavin’s place new I decided to choose only natural materials—no plastic or chrome—and a palette of greens and browns like the forest.
“I can’t believe you did all this by yourself. It’s beautiful.”
Mom’s smile is genuine and I’m relieved. I take her on a tour. Gavin’s room is pale, sea-glass green, with white linens, dark wood furniture and handmade paper lampshades.
I’ve changed the cold, gray guest rooms as well, painting them peaceful shades of sand and sage and adding rugs to make the hardwood floors feel warmer. Plants are everywhere and I hung photography of Oregon’s beaches, forests and farmland. I even planted two containers of cherry tomatoes on the terrace.
Mom touches the soft green duvet cover in her guest room and turns to me, her arms open for a hug. “I’m proud of you, Beryl.”
“Thanks, Mom. The painters just finished yesterday, so hopefully it doesn’t smell too much like paint.”
“No, it’s fine. It smells fresh. It smells new, like no one has ever lived here before.”
“That’s the idea. Gavin wants a new start before he comes home, so he told me to change everything.”
“When he comes home, where will you live?”
“I’ve got another house-sitting gig. There’s a family on the Upper East Side that’s going to Europe for the summer and I like their chocolate Lab a lot.”
“That’s a pretty nomadic life.”
“Yeah. It’ll be weird moving around so much since you and I stayed in the same apartment so long. But I like new. It’s an adventure.”
“That’s what your father always wanted for you.”
I pause, fighting the question on the tip of my tongue. “It seems like you always wanted me to stay put.”
“No. I just wanted you safe. Your dad was the adventurer, but I need security. It’s frightening to not know what will happen next, and not be able to control it.”
“That’s what makes it exciting,” I say. “If I’d stayed in Eugene, I never would have had this crazy adventure.”
Mom lifts her brows at the word crazy, but smiles.
“Genetics are so funny. Here you are, looking so much like me, but everything about you is like your father. Your spirit. Your daring.” She cups my cheek for a moment and I feel thirteen again. “Beryl, it’s a gift. But be careful with it.”
***
Mom takes a nap to catch up from her redeye flight and I check in with Gavin on my laptop. His bubble is gray, but I expect that. It’s the middle of the night for him.
I open my email to send him a note and find a message from him waiting.
Let me be the first to say happy birthday, sweet B! I hope you’re celebrating tonight and that your mom arrived safely. What does she think of the apartment makeover?
I didn’t want to be boring and send flowers, so go downstairs and find a special delivery box.
I’ll be online tonight and I’m hoping to chat with you even if it’s late. I’ll wait for you.
Always,
Gavin
I race downstairs and fidget as Charles helps an elderly resident figure out a problem with his laptop. Chalk up tech support to Charles’ long list of informal duties.
Charles sees me fidget and excuses himself, reaching behind the counter for a giftwrapped orange box with a bow on top.
“Happy birthday, Beryl. It looks like someone special is thinking of you.”
I grin and take the box from him, whispering, “It’s Gavin.”
Charles’ eyebrows shoot sky-high and a grin spreads on his face. “Looks like you’ve given him a very good reason to come home.”
I blush and carry my package to the elevator. It’s a little bigger than a basketball, square and heavy. It doesn’t rattle when I shake it, but I feel something solid inside.
I set it on the kitchen counter and untie the white satin bow, unfolding the glossy box top to reveal a Styrofoam lid. Underneath it, packed tightly in dry ice, are four pints of passion fruit gelato.
He remembered!
And how in the heck did he find this stuff? I guess it’s true what they say—you can get anything in New York if you just know where to look.
There’s a card taped to the underside of the Styrofoam lid and I rip into it to read a typewritten message.
Beryl,
I hope you enjoy this birthday treat—it took some searching but I finally found the passion fruit gelato you love in New York. Isn’t the Internet cool?
Your other treat is a spa day tomorrow. You’ll get that massage you wanted, plus I picked all sorts of weird services since you like trying new things. I hope it makes you feel as beautiful as you are.
Always,
Gavin
There are appointment details for the spa at the bottom of the card and I squeal with delight. It’s far too extravagant, but I guess rock stars don’t do subtle.
What really makes me happy is that Gavin listened. He took the things I’d said I liked and remembered.
I put three pints of gelato in the freezer and grab a spoon for the fourth, taking it out to the terrace to enjoy the view of Central Park while Jasper lies in the sun on the mini-lawn beside me.
It’s beautiful—the day, this place, my mood—and I’m feeling more optimistic than ever.
I force myself to stop eating gelato even though I’m sure I could devour the whole pint. I open my laptop and see Gavin’s bubble still gray, but that’s fine. It’s my turn to send a message.
You win. You totally rocked my birthday, Gavin, and I’m already in sugar shock from the amazing gelato. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
I’m a little nervous about the spa day since I’ve never been to one before, but hopefully they won’t torture me too much. I’ll be back online tonight to chat.
Yours,
B.
***
I take Mom to the West Village for dinner, a gastropub called The Spotted Pig with tin ceilings and pig paraphernalia all over the walls.
I order a pint of Old Speckled Hen, an English beer that’s as frothy as a pint of Guinness, but blonde. Another new thing! It’s delicious.
“I told Dan to meet us here,” I tell my mom as she sips white wine. Her eyes widen with alarm.
“What? I wasn’t expecting him.”
“Well, after you shouted at him and accused him of dragging me to New York, I wasn’t expecting he’d want to come, either.”
My mom looks down at her hands and fidgets. “I shouldn’t have shouted at him. It was just a lot to take in, all at once.”
“Then just apologize tonight. He used to be one of your best friends. I remember you and Dad sitting with him in the backyard for hours, drinking beer and telling stories. Why can’t you be friends again?”
“I’m not really … ready.”
“Ready for what? He’s been awesome to me. I thought you’d like to ask him about life here.”
Mom takes a big gulp of her wine and coughs a little. “Beryl, it’s complicated.”
“I’m an adult. Try me.”
“Dan and I used to, before your father …”
“Go out?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. He never said. But maybe that’s why he keeps asking about you, why he wants to see you so much. When I told him you were flying in today he pretty much begged to join us.”
“B, it’s complicated because it feels wrong. We broke up in high school over some silly thing, and then I started dating your father, his best friend. It was uncomfortable for a while, but then he got a new girlfriend and things worked out.”
&
nbsp; “Why do I feel like there’s a but coming?”
“Dan was my first boyfriend and my first love. And I still remember those feelings. But it would be a total betrayal to ever follow them.”
“A betrayal? Mom, Dad would want you to be happy. With Dan or anyone else, but maybe especially with Dan. Dad liked him. He trusted him. Why wouldn’t you at least see where things go?”
I watch my mom closely and for a moment I feel like we’re girlfriends trying to figure out the mystery of men. They can be so confusing—Anthony, Peter, and Gavin have my brain and my heart tied in knots.
“You sound so grown up, B. Like you’ve figured things out.”
“Oh, I’m far from figured out. Pretty much any guy I like is complicated.”
“Do you like someone here in New York? Already?”
I’m tempted to tell her about Gavin, but I resist. It’s hard enough explaining how I ended up living in a rock star’s apartment. I can’t tell her I’ve fallen for him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“Here’s the birthday girl!” Dan pats my shoulder and then freezes as my mom looks up at him with wary hazel eyes.
“Meredith.” He reaches for her hand and she lets him take it, squeezing it gently. He pulls a little and she stands, her shoulder-length brown curls falling into her face as she stares at his shoes. “I am so, so glad to see you.”
Dan wraps my Mom in a hug. At first, she’s limp like a rag doll but then she responds, pulling him close and hiding her face against his neck. Their reunion is so intimate I have to look away.
Finally I peek and see tears shining in my mom’s eyes as they ease their hug and look at each other. Dan bends and gives her a soft peck on the cheek, then reaches for her chair at our table, holding it for her as she sits.
“Beryl just told me you were coming. It was quite a shock,” my mom mumbles. “I’m so sorry for the way I treated you.”
“In Eugene? It’s forgiven,” Dan waves his hand as if it were nothing. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d want to protect Beryl, but the truth is she’s doing a pretty good job protecting herself.”
Tattoo Thief (BOOK 1) Page 18
