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These were not idle weeks by any means. Most days were consumed with the shifting of her father’s remaining clients into a reasonable, and profitable, work schedule along with her own. Closing the books to-date for those she had to part with, designing several new client organizers and updating their methods of accounting to systems that were more efficient for them… and her.
She got new business cards and stationary, changing the company name from Gibson & Gibson Financial Associates, Inc. to Gibson Financial Services, Inc. in standout Money Green ink, not the standard Profit Black.
The only thing Mel insisted on, other than waiting for Shamus – the famed hairdresser in Bellevue – was that she join the gym a few blocks south near Garfield Street. „Not just for your body, but also for your soul,“ he said, holding the tips of his fingers together like an Italian fresh off the boat.
She couldn’t say that her soul enjoyed the exercise any more than her body did, but she was surprised at how quickly it became a part of her daily routine. The more energy she exerted, the more she seemed to have.
Late afternoons and early evenings were set aside for the evacuation of most things old. Her parents’ old clothes. Her old clothes. Old books she didn’t want to keep. Old adding machines three hundred times bigger than last year’s model. Old kitchen utensils and furniture. And more of her old clothes that she couldn’t part with the first time.
Mel was doggedly determined to wipe out her wardrobe completely.
„Ooh. Now we’re talkin’.“ His voice echoed the admiration in his expression as she stepped out of the dressing room to look at the new jeans he talked her into trying on. He sat in a chair beside the mirror, nodding. „Look at this. We’ve found curves. And those are not so low on your hips that you’re embarrassed every time you sit down, but they don’t cut you off at the armpits either. Perfect. You’ve got a sweet little waist there and it’s time to show it off.“ He did hesitate a moment. „We’ll wait on the naval piercing. One thing at a time, right?“
„Right.“ Admiring the flattering fit of the jeans in the mirror, she didn’t bother to scowl at him. She was used to his pushing the line of change to extremes with ideas like tattoos, thong underwear and lightweight Scandinavian furniture. These things were all fine and interesting to think about, but they were so not her, and he knew it. Still, he said he felt compelled to bring them to mind, just in case.
„The T-shirt could be a little shorter. You’ve got the belly for it, hun. No, hun, huh? Okay. Well, at least that one’s tight enough to hug your curves, not just hang there like your body was a tree trunk.“
She wished he’d stop talking about her curves. Stop looking at them with the warm approval that made her feel uneasy in a truly wonderful way. It was moments like this that she consciously fought to cling to reality, like a climber on the sheer face of a mountain, by the tips of her fingers and a prayer. He wasn’t real. No matter how much or how hard she wished he was, he wasn’t real.
„Let’s burn the old ones.“
„Pyromaniac.“
„Obsessive-compulsive-frumpy-clothes-hoarder.“
She bit her lower lip to keep her smile small.
„At least wear these home,“ he suggested, reaching out to pull the sizing tape off the back of her thigh, then the price tag. She reached up and yanked one from under her arm, then looked in the mirror again.
There was a distinctive… exposed sensation in wearing clothes that exhibited the exact shape of her body, the true size of her breasts and the tone of her bottom. Like being naked, but not. Exciting and disturbing and… sexual in a way she never dreamed she could be. Seductive. Soft and feminine. Not like a tree trunk. Like a woman. And it was potent.
Those weeks with Mel were special. As they cleaned and sorted, they made piles for consignment shops, another for charity and one more for a pla
When first Sidney and then Sue called with their bia
Late in the evenings they would curl up, exhausted, on opposite ends of the sofa and share a blanket between them. Sometimes Mel rubbed her feet, sometimes she tickled his, and at all times she was content and happy in his company.
„I like Tony Soprano,“ Mel mumbled late one Sunday night.
„He’s a cold-blooded gangster.“
„He loves his children.“
„He kills people. With his hands.“
„He’s always sorry afterward.“
„He cheats on his wife.“
„Lots of men do.“
„Why?“
„I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s always because of the wife. I don’t think it is most of the time. And I know for a fact that it wasn’t your fault when Eddie Boise cheated on you.“
„You do?“
„Of course. You jumped through hoops trying to make that guy happy, but it was the challenge he loved. He cheated on everyone once he got what he wanted from them. It wasn’t you, it was him playing games.“
„How can you tell if someone’s playing games?“
„You can’t always. Eddie fooled me too, or I’d have voiced my suspicions earlier, but… it doesn’t really matter. That’s not what’s important. Having your heart broken sucks, but it beats the alternative.“
„Feeling nothing at all.“
„Mmm,“ he agreed, his gaze glued to the television as the mob boss talked to a topless waitress in his bar.
„It’s better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all, huh?“
He glanced at her, looked away and then met her eye to eye. „Don’t you think so? I mean, when all is said and done, it’s never the number of people who loved you that counts, is it? It’s the love you fill your heart with for others that matters. So, if you don’t love, your heart stays empty, and so does your life.“
That’s what made those busy weeks with Mel so special, she supposed. His healing outlook on life; his simple, sensible answers to die most profound complexities of her life. His complete honesty about the mistakes she’d made and his total support when die fault wasn’t hers. He helped her make subtle changes to her self-image, patch some of the holes in her confidence, led her to windows into her personality she never knew existed.
Seven
The doorbell rang one afternoon and she climbed over stacked boxes and bulging garbage bags to answer it. Mrs. Kludinski stood in the hall holding a CD case in both hands.
„Try this one it’s… Good heavens! Your hair!“
The old lady’s eyes grew round with wonder and Charlotte reached with both hands to be sure what hair she had left was still there. Soft and airy and shorter than she’d ever worn it before, she combed her hair forward with her finger tips and stated the obvious. „I had it cut.“
„It’s fabulous.“
„Really? You like it?“
„I do. It’s perfect for you. It shows off your long graceful neck, and your eyes look enormous. You look so young and fresh.“
She gri
„Changing your music, too?“
„What?“
She tried to look around Charlotte into the apartment, her curiosity large. „I heard blues last night and country this morning, but I didn’t hear any classical. This is Debussy. Piano mostly. You might like it.“
„Is this your very sweet way of telling me I’m playing my music too loud?“