Marrying Up

by Jackie Rose

  “Why does there have to be a catch?”

  “Is this some sort of crack neighborhood or something?”

  “Not that I’m aware of…”

  We look left and right. More houses like this one, some a little run-down, maybe, but all of them old beauties just the same. On a wrought-iron bench across the street, in as quaint an urban patch of green space as you are ever likely to see, a pair of young mothers in Madonna-inspired tracksuits chat and clutch Starbucks cups while their bundled babies snooze in matching Italian strollers. There isn’t much traffic, but the smattering of parked Volvos and BMWs hints at affluence. Unless, of course, that guy walking the King Charles spaniel with the Burberry booties is a drug dealer.

  Probably not.

  “You ring the bell,” George says.

  “No, you.”

  “I’m shy.”

  “So am I!”

  She crosses her arms. “Well, I’m not going to do it.”

  “Fine.”

  I push through the little wrought-iron gate and walk up the stairs. George is right behind me. A wood-framed stained-glass square bearing the house’s address hangs beside the door. I put down my bags, shoo away the fat tabby cat curled up on the welcome mat and ring the bell.

  Nothing.

  George nudges me. I ring it again.

  Still nothing.

  “What’s this guy’s name, anyway?”

  “Remy something. Wakefield, I think.” I check my paper. “Yeah—Remy Wakefield.”

  “Sounds like the hero of one of those cheesy romance novels with Fabio on the cover. I used to buy them secretly with my allowance money, from the 99-cent bin at the library.”

  “My grandmother read those. The large-print kind. Before she died, we spent a month every summer at her house in Saratoga Springs, and I used to sneak her books and read them under the covers at night with a flashlight. It was years before I finally figured out what all that throbbing and groaning was about.”

  “Still, you knew enough to know you shouldn’t be reading them!”

  “Why do you think I loved them so much?”

  George sighs and goes to sit down on the top step. “My mothers found my stash when I was thirteen. They bought me a leather-bound Anaïs Nin collection for my birthday that year—to try and counteract the effects, I guess—but it was already too late. They say that’s why I turned out straight. So, you think maybe he’s not home?”

  I shrug.

  “Try the knocker.”

  I knock as loudly as I can. “Maybe we should have called first.”

  “He’s probably just out. We could wait for him across the street….”

  Just as we’re about to leave, we hear the creak of floor-boards. They get louder and louder until they stop behind the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s, um, Holly and George. From Buffalo….”

  The door swings open.

  “Oh my God!” George whispers, louder than she probably wanted to.

  The guy standing in the entrance laughs. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a wet, naked guy before!”

  Not like you, that’s for sure!

  In my peripheral vision, I notice George’s face flush pink at the speed of light. “S-sorry,” she stammers. “I just wasn’t expecting…”

  What she wasn’t expecting was for our new landlord to be, well, for lack of a more mature way of putting it, super hot. And wearing only a towel.

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I was just in the shower. Didn’t mean to freak you out. I’m Remy, by the way. Nice to meet you. Which one of you’s Holly?”

  I smile.

  “So that makes you George.” He grins at her. Teeth: Just the tiniest bit crooked. Charming. “I’d, uh, shake your hand, but I don’t want to lose my towel. Come in, already—it’s freezing.”

  “Freezing is where we just came from,” I say as we step inside. “This is positively balmy for us.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m from San Diego, where it’s seventy-five degrees in the winter and seventy-six degrees in the summer. I’ve been here almost ten years and I still can’t get used to it.”

  The tabby cat from the porch darts into the narrow vestibule and begins rubbing his face ferociously against my shin in an apparent effort to rid himself of eye crust. “Uh, is this guy yours?” I asked, hoping it isn’t.

  “Yeah. That’s Fleabiscuit. He moved in last summer. You like cats?”

  “Oh, yeah. Can’t get enough of ’em,” I lie. For you, I’d swim across a sea of whiskers, climb a mountain of hairballs…

  He squeezes past us to push the door shut, and I notice he has some sort of tattoo on his chest, though I can’t tell exactly what it is because I am way too shy to let him catch me looking at it.

  “Just leave your bags in the front there and I’ll help you downstairs with them later.”

  “Thanks,” I say. And he’s a gentleman, too!

  “So! Welcome to San Francisco. Your first time here?”

  We nod like idiots, following him into the front hallway. His back is perfect—toned and smooth, with really nice skin. And his legs! Oh, his legs…what I can see of them, anyway…are muscular and well proportioned, from his flip-flopped feet to just above the backs of his knees.

  The gods must have heard my prayers for a change, because his towel snags briefly on something sticking out of the door frame and starts to fall away. Of course, he catches it before it drops, but I might later convince myself I’d seen some upper cheekage. I hear George suck in her breath as she smacks me from behind.

  “Almost saw a little more than you bargained for, huh, ladies? I really oughta fix that…. Wow, so it’s your first time in San Francisco! Don’t call it Frisco, by the way—the locals hate that. God, I remember my first time here. State soccer finals junior year of high school. Sacramento creamed us, those bastards, but I swore I’d live here someday, and now I do!”

  “And you like it?”

  “Love it! You will, too. There’s no place like it. So when’s your truck coming?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” I say. “I guess we’ll have to sleep on the floor tonight.”

  Remy pauses, running his fingers back through his wet hair. “I’d offer you the couch, but as you can see, I don’t have one.”

  I’d been so overwhelmed by the unexpected gorgeousness of our new landlord that I hadn’t even noticed that the inside of his home is a little less awe-inspiring than the outside. Apart from an antique coatrack, there isn’t a stick of furniture to be seen. Actually, there isn’t much of anything to be seen.

  The entire first floor is almost completely empty, save for a few kitchen appliances lined up at the far end of the house. There are no rooms, no walls, no ceiling—just a huge stack of gyprock and two-by-fours piled up in one corner, an old toilet in another, partial framing around the perimeter, and what looks like an original but severely worn mantelpiece in what is presumably the living room. Even the bay windows, so magnificent from the outside, are considerably less impressive set into a wall of dusty, crumbling brickwork.

  “Give me a minute, will ya? I think I should probably slip into something a little less comfortable….”

  With that, Remy bounds up the stairs, calf muscles bulging, and disappears out of sight.

  As if she knows exactly what I’d been wondering, George looks to me and says, “He’s gay. He must be.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Trust me, Holly. I know. I can tell. This is San Francisco!”

  “So? I’m just not getting that vibe from him.”

  “What vibe? How would you know? You don’t know any gay guys. You don’t even watch Queer Eye.”

  “I watch Will & Grace, for your information. Religiously.”

  George waves me off. “That actor’s not even gay in real life.”

  Before I can protest, Remy appears at the top of the stairs in a pair of paint-splattered gray sweatpants, pulling a Stanford T-shirt over his muscled mids
ection.

  “Tight shirt,” George whispers. “See?”

  “I’m not convinced,” I whisper back.

  “You have a beautiful home, Mr. Wakefield,” she says to him as he reaches the bottom.

  He smiles again. “I’m well under forty, and I don’t have a job, so I think it would be okay if you just called me Remy.”

  George blushes once more and manages to squeak out an “Okay!”

  “C’mon—I’ll give you a tour…. As you can see, she’s a work in progress. I decided to restore the outside first, in case I ran out of money before it was done.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “I’m joking. But it was a huge pain in the ass—the city restoration committee is insane about permits. They freak out over even the smallest details with these old places. Took ’em two months just to approve the damn paint colors, if you can believe that!”

  George and I shake our heads sympathetically.

  “Anyway, I have a buddy who’s an architect and he finished up the plans about six months ago, then they went to the committee, of course, and then there was the demolition, so I’m only just now getting started on the inside.”

  “Are you doing all the work yourself?” I ask.

  “Yup!”

  Gorgeous, courteous and carpenterly?

  “Wow,” George says. “You must really be good with your hands.”

  I pinch her, just for fun, to let her know I know she’s flirting.

  “Ow!” she whines. “Whyd’ya do that?”

  “Do what? Please, go on,” I say to Remy.

  “Well, the kitchen’s going to be in the back, there, with a huge porch. The backyard’s pretty pathetic and it gets no sun, so eventually I want to put some sort of Asian rock garden back there or something like that, but until then, I thought I might as well take advantage of the space….”

  Remy walks us through his plans for the ground floor and tells us all about his search for period moldings and woodwork and windows frames; how he won’t rest until he scores a set of eighteen brass doorknobs, circa 1880; how the right wallpaper is going to be really hard to come by, and so on and so forth. By the time we’ve made it up to level two half an hour later, I am almost convinced that he is gay—none of the guys I knew back home have ever waxed poetic about antique fixtures or knew the politics of auction houses or scoured flea markets on the weekend.

  When we finally get to what appears to be the only room with finished walls on the second floor, which is in even more disarray than the first, I think George and I are both heartened to realize we’re standing in his bedroom. Aside from the mattress on the floor, it seems more like an office—a computer that could land the Space Shuttle is set up on a desk, and there are a few filing cabinets and a bookshelf. Almost the entirety of one wall is covered with drawings and plans and swatches tacked to bulletin boards.

  I get a little closer to examine the details. “Did you do these?”

  He flops down on the mattress. “Not the blueprints, Dave did those, but the sketches, yeah.”

  “They’re incredible…” I say. “You’re really talented. And the detail’s amazing. I can totally see what it’s going to be like when it’s done.”

  George, who’s been staring out the window, walks over for a cursory glance. “Wow…I’m sure you and your partner are going to be very happy here.”

  Subtlety was never her strong suit, God bless her.

  Remy stares at her, an eyebrow arched in bemusement. “If you want to know if I’m gay, just ask.”

  “Are you?” George blurts, then steps back behind me.

  I lean in anxiously for the answer.

  “Ha! You girls—you’re here in this wonderful city not twenty-four hours and you’re already catting around! You should be ashamed of yourselves! Why don’t you go to a museum or something? Take a tour. See the sights.”

  “That’s not fair!” I say, proving I’m just about as immature as he’s making us sound. “You told her to ask!”

  “Gay, straight, bi, whatever—they’re all mere labels by which I choose not to define myself.”

  “Gay,” George says. “Definitely gay.”

  He laughs and pushes up off his bed. “Come on—I’ll show you to your place. Oh, and maybe grab some pillows and take this top blanket. It can get pretty cold down there at night.”

  I roll my eyes and follow him back downstairs.

  After we’ve settled in and looked around a bit, George calls her mothers from her cell phone. Apparently, she hasn’t been through enough in the past two days.

  “Hi, Ma, how are you?”

  Long pause.

  “No, we don’t have a land line yet.”

  Pause.

  “Yes, Ma. I’ll call as soon as I have the number.”

  Pause.

  “Yeah—it’s clean. It’s big, too. And in a great neighborhood. We each have our own bedroom, and there’s a living area and the cutest little galley kitchen. And it’s all freshly painted.”

  Pause.

  “Yes, it’s really clean. The owner just renovated it. We’re his first tenants, I think.”

  Pause.

  “No… I mean, yes. I mean…well, yes there’s a fridge and a stove, but technically there’s no washer or dryer. The landlord said we could just use his.”

  Long pause.

  “Ma! It’s fine! Don’t worry—he seems like a nice guy and not at all creepy or weird or—”

  Pause.

  “Remy Wakefield.”

  Pause.

  “His phone number? Holly—do you have his number?”

  I pass her the paper with the details.

  “It’s 415-555-9594. But don’t worry! It’s fine. He’s a nice guy!”

  Pause.

  “No, Ma, I haven’t seen Pacific Heights.”

  Long pause. She puts her finger over the microphone and whispers, “She’s nuts!”

  “Look, Ma. I think you’re being really silly about this. I’m sure he’s not a homicidal maniac…”

  Pause.

  “No! Don’t put her on! I don’t want to talk to—”

  Pause.

  “Hi, Mom, how are you?”

  Long pause.

  “No, Mom. I’m not coming home.”

  Long, long pause…

  George flips her phone closed. “She hung up on me.”

  “You’re a glutton for punishment.”

  “I just wanted to let them know we were okay. Aren’t you going to call your folks?”

  “You think I should?”

  “Yes,” she says and passes me her phone.

  “I’ll call them tomorrow. It’s been such a long day already and—”

  “No. Call them now.”

  Even though the kids are probably already asleep at Cole’s, George is right—I should at least call my dad.

  “Fine,” I grumble and begin dialing. “I just hope I don’t wake anyone.”

  My dad picks up on the first ring.

  “Hi, Dad, it’s me!”

  “Holly, sweetie! You got there okay? Everything’s fine?”

  “Yeah. Sorry I didn’t call last night, but it was late by the time we got in.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “I’m having fun. It’s a beautiful city.”

  “It sure is,” he agrees, then yawns.

  I can just see him there, in his robe and plaid pajamas, nodding off on the couch in front of Law & Order.

  “Anyway, I’d better go ’cuz I’m on George’s cell. The phone guy’s coming tomorrow so I’ll call you with the new number.”

  “Okay, dear. Bye!”

  “Bye, Dad!”

  I shut the phone and hand it to her. “And that’s how it’s done!”

  She passes it right back to me. “Now, your mother.”

  “No way.”

  “Holly…”

  “Grrr…”

  I dial Aunt Deb’s house.

  “Helloooo?”

  “Hi Deb,
it’s Holly.”

  “Holly! Good to hear your voice. Are you settled in okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hold on—I’ll get your mum. LOUISE!!! LOUISE!!! HOLLY’S ON THE PHONE!!! LOUISE!!!”

  I cross my eyes and George laughs.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hello, dear. I can’t talk right now. I have an eBay auction ending in six and half minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. E-mail me a picture of your new place.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye! Miss you!” she says, and hangs up before I have the chance to say anything else.

  George puts the phone back in the charger. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “I suppose not. But she’s so—”

  She puts her finger up to interrupt me. “Was that a knock?”

  “I think so.” I walk over to our back door, the one that leads to the laundry room and the stairs up to Remy’s kitchen.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  “It’s the landlord. Are you decent?”

  I open the door. “Not everyone answers the door half-naked, you know.”

  “Too bad, isn’t it?” he says. “Anyway, I just thought I’d invite my new tenants up for some pizza. It’ll be here any minute.”

  “God, yes!” George practically shouts and rushes past us. “I’m starving!”

  Remy jumps back to let her through. “The lady knows what she wants!”

  “Only when it comes to food,” I explain, which elicits a hearty laugh.

  “You know what, Holly?”

  “What?”

  “You’re kinda funny.”

  “Thanks for noticing.”

  “You coming?” George shouts from the top of the stairs.

  chapter 13

  A Woman’s Work

  George shuffles out of her room, rubbing her eyes. Her curls are piled up in a loose topknot and she’s wearing her fuzzy bunny slippers.

  “Who the hell’s calling us so early?”

  “I just put a pot of coffee on. It’ll be ready in a minute.”

  She stares at me blankly as I hang up the phone.

  “Isn’t it great, finally having our own stuff here?”

  The movers had taken their sweet time (apparently, their truck broke down somewhere near Lincoln, Nebraska). Remy had been kind enough to lend us a few blankets and an old sleeping bag, but still—we’d been sleeping on the floor for a week. One more night of that and I would have been forced to blow our weekly budget on a two-hour massage at the nicest hotel I could find.