The Fixer Upper (27 page)

Queens was another New York neighborhood Ned wasn’t familiar with. He suspected that to Libby, it was as remote as Vermont. “Queens would put you farther away from Reva,” he pointed out.

“I have a car. I could drive to Queens.” Harry drank some more Scotch.

So did Ned. If he could afford this quality of booze, he might turn into a Scotch drinker. “You weren’t the bozo who painted the fireplace, right?” he asked.

Harry’s eyes hardened. “Why on earth would you even ask such a question?”

“Somebody painted it,” Ned said. “Someone globbed multiple coats of white enamel over a beautiful marble structure. If it wasn’t you, I don’t see why you’d be so ticked about someone—namely me—removing that enamel.”

“Who are you, anyway?” Harry shook his head. “Libby’s opening her house to all sorts of strangers—”

“Libby and I are friends.”

“She never mentioned you to me.”

“Does she mention all her other friends to you?”

Harry mulled that over, swallowed some Scotch and sighed. “Let’s not beat around the bush,” he said, and Ned braced himself for the possibility that Harry would start wielding his own metaphorical hammer. “Libby can barely afford the damn apartment. She certainly can’t afford paying people to renovate the place. I have some idea what handymen cost in this city, and let me tell you, it’s made me wonder whether I made the right choice when I went to law school.”

Yeah, sure. Handymen made more than corporate lawyers.

“I know Libby can’t afford you,” Harry continued, “so I put two and two together. You do something for her, and she does something for you. And I don’t like it.”

So that was Harry’s swing of the hammer—and as far as Ned was concerned, Harry had seriously toed the nail. “You think she’s sleeping with me in payment for my work on the fireplace,” he said, not sure whether to laugh or to punch Harry’s lights out.

“Women have done more for less,” Harry said, as if he were some kind of expert. “And with my daughter living under Libby’s roof, I—”

“Whoa.” Ned held up his hand to stop him. “I’m not sure which I love more, Libby or her fireplace. Probably Libby—but I fell in love with the fireplace first. One thing has nothing to do with another.”

“I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Not only are you supposed to believe it, but you’re supposed to let Libby hang on to that fireplace once I’m done with it.”

Harry mulled this over, then decided he needed more Scotch. He crossed to the bar and brought back the bottle so he could add a little to Ned’s glass. Ned didn’t object.

“My real concern is Reva, of course,” Harry said.

“Of course,” Ned echoed.

“Bonnie and I are married. You and Libby are not.”

“And all Reva ever sees of me is when I’ve got my head stuck up the chimney, trying to bring that fireplace back to life. What, do you think that if you force Libby to move to Queens she’s never going to date? She’s a smart, beautiful woman. If she lived in Queens, I’d travel to Queens to see her. Kicking her out of her apartment isn’t going to turn her into a nun.”

“She’s Jewish,” Harry muttered. “Nunhood is out of the question.”

Given what she’d told Ned about her sex life—or lack thereof—he didn’t believe nunhood was out of the question at all. “What she is is a terrific lady,” he said. “And you and she have a terrific daughter. And you’re a good man. So let her and her daughter stay in their apartment. Help them out on the finances. Save the fireplace.”

Harry drank. He stared at his glass. He stared at Ned. He drank again. But he didn’t argue.

By the time they were on their third round, Ned had told him about Deborah, about his moving to New York and joining Greater Manhattan Design Associates, and about his love of old architecture—which was why he was so taken with Libby’s prewar building. Harry had admitted that Libby was a fine woman, just not the woman for him—which Ned had no trouble believing, if the chic, skeletal woman who occasionally wandered into the room and made comments about a reception at a gallery in Westbeth was his type. Whenever she appeared, Harry would dutifully glance at his watch, tell her he was noting the time and remind her
it never paid to arrive at these events early. Then he’d launch into another story about how often Libby had vomited during her pregnancy, or how bad her taste in home decor was. Ned would concede that she hadn’t done much with her apartment—but then, she lacked the money. Harry and his wife apparently had plenty of money, and their home decor put him in mind of a bad science-fiction movie.

He kept his eye on the time, too. He’d given Mrs. Karpinsky the number of Mitch’s cell phone, which remained clipped to his belt, and she hadn’t phoned to ask him where he was and when he’d be home, so he let Harry run on. Somewhere between his second and third drink, Harry agreed once again to help Libby with the financing for her apartment. Somewhere well into his third, he mentioned that his law firm had done work for a local music promoter. “Your opinion is this street kid with the Buckwheat braids is good?” he asked. “I wouldn’t know. I listen to bass koto and shakuhachi music. Japanese stuff. Don’t ask. It’s Bonnie’s idea.”

When Harry’s wife reentered the room to harangue him about the reception, Ned was feeling no pain. “I really ought to get home,” he said. “My son will be worried I fell down a manhole or something.”

“And I’ve got to go look at ugly modern art.” Harry stood, walked him to the door and shook his hand. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said, clapping a hand on Ned’s shoulder as he sent him off.

Ned struggled to clear his head as the gray elevator carried him down to the ground floor. He’d accomplished his mission, and even gotten Harry interested in setting Reva’s musician up with his partner’s client in the music business. That his tongue felt slightly numb was irrelevant. Right now, he was thinking that if Harry was a
putz
, a
putz
wasn’t such a bad thing to be.

L
uke Rodelle had settled in with the divas two tables over from where Reva sat with Kim and Ashleigh. Announcing that she was no longer a vegetarian, Ashleigh had purchased a hot lunch, some kind of mystery meat with gummy brown gravy slathered over it. It smelled greasy. Or maybe the greasy smell came from Kim’s teriyaki beef.

Despite her hunger, the aromas were getting to Reva. Only by holding her tuna-salad sandwich close to her face could she block the greasy smell from her nose.

She should be in a good mood. Her dad had acted like a dickhead on Thursday, and he’d put her mother in a majorly foul state, but Friday night Mr. Donovan had phoned her mother and cheered her right up. Aunt Vivienne had left Saturday morning after Leonard called to say he’d meet her at synagogue. She’d lectured him about how he wasn’t supposed to use the telephone on Shabbat, but all in all she’d
seemed in high spirits when she’d left, dragging her suitcase behind her.

Mr. Donovan and Eric had spent Saturday afternoon with Reva and her mother. They’d walked over to Riverside Park and hung out, which had been pretty boring. Maybe Eric and his dad got excited about viewing trees because they were from Vermont. But if Reva was going to hang out in a park, she’d much rather hang out in Central Park, which was full of people and musicians.

After staring at the trees and tossing bread crumbs to the pigeons for an eternity, Mr. Donovan had taken them all out for dinner at a local Italian place. Afterward, they’d gone back to the apartment, where her mother and Mr. Donovan had vanished into her mother’s bedroom to watch TV on the small set. Reva would have suspected them of doing something private in there, but they’d left the door open and the TV on, and when Reva had peeked through the doorway she’d seen the two of them fully dressed, sitting side by side on the bed, with pillows propped up against the headboard, Mr. Donovan holding a bottle of beer and Reva’s mother a glass of wine. They’d been laughing over some show about UFOs on the Discovery Channel.

Whatever was going on between them existed even when they were wearing their clothes. For what that was worth.

Mr. Donovan was a nice guy. Eric was okay, too. Both of them had been indispensable in setting up Darryl J’s Web site. Reva should be happy her mother was dating someone who wasn’t a dork or an asshole.

And she was, really. Her melancholy had nothing to do with her mother, or with Mr. Donovan, or with Eric, who even though he was okay was only ten years old. It had to do with herself. And with Darryl J.

She’d expected something more. Something magic. When the sound clip had been added to Darryl J’s Web site,
and everyone had been so excited, and Darryl J had expressed his gratitude…Reva had expected
something.
She wasn’t sure what, but something more than, “Thanks. This is real cool. I appreciate it.”

Okay, so Darryl J wasn’t about to declare his love for her, especially in her mother’s apartment with her father going ballistic and her aunt Vivienne acting flaky and Ashleigh and Kim and the Donovans all there to witness the moment. But Darryl J had her e-mail address, and he could have sent her a message. He wouldn’t have to use the word
love,
but he should have communicated
something.
Like: “We make a good team, don’t we?” or “This was so much fun we ought to work on some more projects together,” or “I could use a backup singer—can you carry a tune?”

After everything Reva had done for him, the least he owed her was…
something.
Something more than silence.

Her stomach felt queasy, like just before her period. The aromas from Ashleigh’s and Kim’s lunches didn’t help. Reva bit into her sandwich and chewed, willing the wet, salty flavor of fish and mayonnaise to soothe her digestive system.

“It looks like I’m going to trick-or-treat this year,” Ashleigh said.

God knew, with her weird Goth outfits and her black nail polish, she hardly needed a costume. Reva didn’t say that, though. Just because she was in a foul mood didn’t mean she should be bitchy to her friends.

“Eighth graders don’t trick-or-treat,” Kim argued.

“They do if they’re spoofing. My folks told me I have to take my sister around the building. If I’m going trick-or-treating with her, I may as well get myself up a little, you know? And collect lots of candy.”

Maybe if Reva ate more candy, she’d grow a bigger bosom. Ashleigh had to be somewhere between a B and a
C cup. If trick-or-treating could produce that kind of result, Reva might do it. Then she remembered that bosom size was genetic, and Ashleigh’s mother had such big boobs she’d had them surgically reduced. Ashleigh had inherited her figure. Candy had nothing to do with it.

Katie Staver approached, carrying an insulated lunch bag and smiling. “Hey, Reva,” she said, flopping into the chair next to her. She flashed her even white teeth at Kim and Ashleigh. “Hey, Ash. Hey, Kim. Mind if I join you?”

She’d already joined them, but Reva nodded to inform her she was welcome, and shifted her chair to make more room for Katie at the table. “Thanks again for letting us borrow your recorder last week,” she said.

“I checked the Web site. It’s great.” Katie meticulously unwrapped her sandwich and took a delicate bite. “Any chance we can get Darryl J to play at the dance?”

“I don’t know.” Since Reva hadn’t heard from him since Thursday, she had no idea what Darryl J would or wouldn’t do.

Katie seemed unconcerned. “Well, if we have to go with a deejay, we can hire the guy last year’s eighth-grade class used. I heard he was pretty good.” She leaned toward Reva and murmured, “Matt told me Luke likes you.”

Reva scowled so hard the bridge of her nose ached. “He’s over there with Larissa LeMoyne. That’s who he likes.” She waved her sandwich toward the diva table. A glob of tuna slipped out from between the slices of rye bread and landed on her napkin. Great. At least it hadn’t landed on her jeans, she thought grimly.

“He can’t stand Larissa,” Katie told her. “He’s probably just explaining the algebra homework to her. She’s so dense. How did she get into honors math?”

“I can guess,” Ashleigh said, winking slyly.

Reva could imagine Larissa using her body to get things,
but she doubted honors math would be her goal. In any case, Luke appeared to be having a mighty fine a time explaining the homework to her. They were probably talking about hubcaps. Larissa was probably telling him how much she admired his taste in auto accessories—and then, the instant he left the table, she’d giggle with the other divas and come up with insulting names for him behind his back.

Which would serve him right for spending time at that table. Anyone who flirted with the divas got what he deserved.

“The thing is,” Katie said with great authority, “Micah Schlutt heard Luke say he liked you, and you know Micah. He couldn’t keep it to himself.”

“Oh, God.” Reva’s stomach clenched. “Who did he tell?”

“Just Matt, I think. And Matt told me. And I’m telling you. You could do worse, Reva.”

She could do better, too. She could hook up with a brilliantly talented musician who could be a superstar if only someone paid attention. Someone besides Reva. Someone with power.

Except Darryl J hadn’t been in touch with her for four whole days now. And Luke had apparently said he liked her, loud enough for Micah Schlutt to overhear. Assuming Micah wasn’t lying, which was also a possibility.

For some reason, Reva’s stomach settled. Maybe she’d gotten used to the fumes emanating from Kim’s and Ashleigh’s meals. Maybe she was getting used to the idea that Darryl J wasn’t going to thank her by falling in love with her. She flicked a discreet glance toward the diva table and saw Luke writing something on a page of Larissa’s notebook, and decided he actually could be going over the math homework.

Maybe he did like Reva. Stranger things had been known to happen.

Tara bounced into the office just as Libby lowered the phone to its cradle. A picture of blond effervescence, Tara wore a dress so short Libby initially thought it was just a big shirt. Around Tara’s left wrist was a noisy charm bracelet that jingled whenever she moved her hand. “Just one more week,” she said cheerfully as she placed three more files onto one of the piles circling Libby’s desk. The stacks of folders rose along the perimeter, leaving her blotter clear at the center. It reminded Libby of the ice-skating rink at the heart of Rockefeller Center, a flat ground-level oasis surrounded by towers.

She leaned back in her chair and smiled up at Tara. Thinking about the impending application deadline bolstered her. After October 31st, no more applications would be accepted. The Hudson School had been deluged—submissions were up by fifteen percent over last year—but soon the flood would end and Libby could begin to mop up.

“So…that was Ned Donovan on the phone,” Tara said.

Libby’s smile expanded. Ned had called her from his work site to find out if she’d spoken to Harry on Sunday when he’d dropped Reva off after her weekly visit. Just as Ned had predicted, Harry had told her he would fund her down payment after all. He’d also mentioned that he considered his sister a nutcase. “She never should have married Leonard,” Harry had said, as if he were some sort of expert on marriage. “The guy is immature, and he dresses like a schlub—his pants are too long and baggy, and his shirt’s always untucked. I think the fireplace looked better when it was painted white, by the way.”

Harry didn’t give a rat’s ass about the fireplace. What he’d given a rat’s ass about was the man renovating the fireplace. Libby knew it, and apparently, so did Ned. Harry had been shocked to discover Libby had her own life—which included
his sister and his daughter’s friends and, yes, a smart, funny, drop-dead gorgeous man with a talent for taking drab old objects—for instance, a fireplace or a woman—and rejuvenating them.

Harry had no right to be threatened by the fact that his ex-wife was seeing someone. He had Bonnie, and Ned wasn’t the first man Libby had dated since the divorce. He was, however, the first man who’d rejuvenated her fireplace.

“So, what’s going on with you and the Hudson Hunk?” Tara asked. Because she answered Libby’s phone and screened her calls, Tara was aware of just how often Ned was in touch with Libby during work hours.

“We’re friends,” Libby said discreetly.

“Yeah, right.” Tara shook her head and giggled. “Like any woman could be
friends
with a guy like that.”

“He’s very friendly,” Libby insisted.

“I’ll bet he is.” Tara tapped her fingernails against the top folder on one of the piles. “So what are you going to do about his kid?”

Adopt him
, Libby almost said, although that was a bit premature. Sure, she and Ned were friends—crazy-about-each-other friends. Well, she was crazy about him. And honestly, would he have schlepped all the way to SoHo to twist Harry’s arm if he wasn’t crazy about her?

But crazy-about-each-other was a long way from marriage, from stepchildren, from adoption. Libby had a much more immediate concern when it came to Eric Donovan, and she suspected that was what Tara was asking her about. She’d already given the matter some thought, and she understood what she had to do. “I’ll recuse myself.”

Tara winced. “You interviewed the kid. How can you not participate in his evaluation?”

“I’ll report honestly on the interview,” Libby said. “He’s
a great kid, and I’ll make sure the committee knows that. If they think he should have another interview with someone more objective, they can set it up.”

“You want him in,” Tara guessed.

“Of course I do. And not because his father and I are…
friends
. Because he’s smart and funny and he isn’t like all the preprogrammed robot kids who apply here. He hasn’t spent the first ten years of his life plotting his ascension to Harvard. He’s a computer whiz and he can actually have a conversation with Reva, which requires a high degree of sophistication, to say nothing of patience. He’s a great kid,” she repeated, aware of how completely biased she sounded. That was why she maintained fierce scruples about the admissions process. Anyone with a personal connection to an applicant had to remove herself from the acceptance decision.

I’m going to be objective.
Her mantra hummed through her brain. She had no objectivity about Eric, so she had to sit out his application process.

He’d probably get in without her influence, anyway. He was definitely a great kid.

Bonnie invited Reva to spend the night with her and Harry downtown that weekend. “I promised I’d buy her a new outfit for her solo,” Bonnie told Libby when she’d called to make arrangements. “It’s about time she started dressing with a little style.”

In other words, Libby was a failure when it came to the sartorial education of her daughter. She couldn’t argue. She’d taught Reva to shop by first searching for the Sale signs, then checking the price tag, and only after the first two steps had been taken assessing whether the article of clothing flattered her. “Style” was generally synonymous with “expensive,” and Harry’s child-support payments extended
only so far. Libby supposed she could feed Reva a diet of potatoes and powdered milk and spend on apparel the money she saved on groceries. But if Reva subsisted on potatoes and powdered milk, she probably wouldn’t look good in any of those high-priced, high-fashion items Libby would be able to afford.

So she fed Reva a healthy, well-balanced diet and taught her to buy clothing at discounted prices. Jeans were jeans, after all. Libby couldn’t see spending fifty extra dollars for the brand patch on the hip pocket.

Bonnie had plans, though. “I’m going to take her around to some of the trendy boutiques down here,” she said. “Let her go wild. She isn’t a child anymore. What size is she now? Eight? Ten?”

“I think she’s a four,” Libby said, resentment sifting into her tone. She couldn’t care less what size Reva wore, but she’d be damned if she’d let Bonnie convince Reva she was bigger than she ought to be.

“A four? Well, we should be able to work with that,” Bonnie said.

“Remember, this outfit is for a school concert. It can’t be risqué. No exposed navel.”