“Give that to the insurance company. I did you a solid and didn’t mention the candles,” he said, lowering his voice, “even though my boys smell like a potpourri shop.”
“Thanks.”
“We’re condemning the building though, so you need to find somewhere else to live for the next year or so until your landlord hashes everything out and repairs the building.” He wiped his kerchief over his brow. “Major structural damage.”
“Whatd’ya mean? I can’t get my stuff?” Gran exclaimed. “I have hundreds of very expensive candles up there that smell like my vagina!”
“Is that what those were?” one of the younger firefighters said. “I thought someone had died up there. I called the cops.”
The fire captain muttered a curse and shook his head, wandering off.
“This is outrageous!” Gran declared, stamping her foot.
“Outrage!” the parrot repeated.
“I’m calling my city council person.”
“I told you not to make candles in the apartment,” I reminded her.
“Ma’am,” the mover repeated. “Your stuff?”
I looked around at the chaos.
“We’re homeless!” Gran wailed.
“Alone!” the parrot shrieked in my ear. I winced.
Where would we go? I was sure Ivy would let us move into the office—it did have multiple levels—but the Weddings in the City office was my safe space. Also, we brought high-end clients there. I shuddered at the thought of one of our brides arriving at our office and finding Gran making candles in her underwear.
No, that was a last resort. Maybe a never-in-a-million-years resort.
“We’ll have to move in with her husband,” Gran told the mover. “Take everything back to the penthouse.”
“Absolutely not.”
“That’s what marriage is for, dear,” Gran said, adjusting her bra then fixing Zeus’s vest. “Besides, I want to spend some quality time with my new grandson-in-law.”
18
Chris
The cleaner had been through the penthouse by the time I returned from my meeting with the Svensson brothers. Normally I enjoyed coming home to a freshly cleaned house. But now? I walked into the master bedroom and lay on the bed. It had lost Grace’s scent.
“That’s the point of a clean house,” I reminded myself. “I’m enjoying my solitude. I am enjoying having my space back.”
I buried my face in the pillow, almost finding a whiff of her scent.
“You’ll see her tonight,” I reminded myself.
We had another Marriage in a Minute event, some guys and girls group therapy thing. It was a complete waste of time. Especially since I needed to focus on my sales pitches to Horace at the upcoming TechBiz gala.
I sat at the large mahogany desk in my study. It had been my grandfather’s. My father hadn’t been all that involved in my childhood, only popping in every once in a while to remind me how my mom had screwed him over, trapping him by pretending to be on birth control then saddling him with unfair and astronomical child support payments. My grandfather had kept me during my father’s allotted visitation time. He was the one who had taught me about business and finance. I missed him every day.
“Convince Horace to invest in my hedge fund,” I wrote on the top of personalized stationary I had imported from Italy.
“Appeal to his friendship with my grandfather.”
I wasn’t sure what to do after that. That wasn’t a real business pitch. Besides, Granddad always hated nepotism. He said you needed to stand on your own merits.
The doorbell rang. I hoped it was my personal chef with my meals for the next few days. I was starving.
“I need to hire a butler,” I decided as I walked to the front door. I peered in the viewfinder of the tablet I had hooked to the camera that watched the private elevator lobby.
“Grace?”
I swung the door open.
She gave me a wan smile and fidgeted with the strap of one of the many camera bags hanging around her.
“Hey, Chris.”
I crossed my arms. “Did you forget one of your giant onion-ring pillows?”
“Er…” More fidgeting. She shoved her glasses back up her nose. “I actually wanted to talk to you.”
I narrowed my eyes at her, suspicious. “About what?”
Was this it? Was she going to give me some sob story about a sick dog and her needing money? Women were all the same.
The elevator door dinged then opened, and a half-naked senior citizen with a giant parrot stumbled out in a cloud of gardenia scent.
I sneezed.
“Bless you, asshole!” the cockatoo squawked.
“Gran, I told you to wait,” Grace said, exasperated.
“I’m getting a yeast infection from the wax spill,” the old woman insisted. “I can feel it setting in. Besides, the doorman said I was scaring the building