Chapter Three
Flick Dalgetty played dirty pool. Of course, if Tom had spent more than half a second thinking about her, he’d have known that. He could’ve said no to her moving in. Instead he wrote his address on the back of the strip-club discount coupon and figured he’d grit his teeth and get through it because it was a fiscally sensible thing to do.
But since Flick moved in nearly a week ago, he’d barely been aware of her presence, and they’d not had a single conversation that wasn’t about bank transfers, access codes, key passes and the best times to use the condo’s top-floor gym.
And that was utterly mystifying.
He’d resigned himself to coping with a wrecking ball and he’d found himself living with a ghost.
Not that he was complaining. Flick had paid three months’ rent in advance. She didn’t appear to eat, or watch TV, or talk on the phone, or own anything that didn’t fit inside her bedroom. She’d arrived with two suitcases and an overnight bag stuffed with tech.
He was only aware of her because he heard the front door open and close and water running in the bathroom. She left for work well before him and slipped home before him, her closed bedroom door signaling she’d retired for the night.
It was fine. Great, even. He was too busy to spare any time puzzling over it. He could simply get on with his routine without interruptions.
It was unexpected, eerie and unnatural.
But so was naming an Alzheimer’s drug Improcog. It was a combination of two words, “improved” and “cognition,” and of the legally registerable names it had tested better than Cogimpro, Memcog, Memeffect and twelve other made-up words that made the short list.
Musing about being ghosted was interrupted when Wren put a copy of the Courier on his desk, folded open to the story that’d come from the press briefing they’d held yesterday.
“Long week,” she said, sitting opposite.
“We kicked its ass.”
“My brain has reached the glazed-over stage.”
“We’re both bunking out early. Everything else can wait till Monday.” Which would make Monday crazy, but they both needed the break. Without it, mistakes would be made, and unfucking things took longer than doing them right the first time.
“I heard ‘wait till Monday’ and I can’t quite process that. I’ve forgotten what I do when I’m not working or sleeping.”
“You buy shoes.”
Wren’s shoes today had heels that looked like Roman columns. For the press briefing, she’d worn shoes that were covered with a newsprint pattern. He wondered what kind of shoes Flick wore. Flippers, for all the attention he’d paid. He needed to pay more attention. Behind that motor mouth and the fuel-injected eyes there was a formidable opponent.
“How is your roommate?”
Speaking of which. “Suspect she wants to kill me in my sleep.”
Wren laughed and segued that into a yawn. “Sounds positive.”
“She’s quiet. Suspiciously stealthy.”
“Maybe she’s not well.”
Would he know if he was living with a person who was unwell? What did unwell sound like? He was never unwell and neither was Josh. Iron constitutions, both of them.
“Maybe you intimidated her.”
He made a sound of disbelief. “Not likely. We’re talking pro cat herder Flick Dalgetty.”
“She certainly rounded you up.”
He shrugged. “It’s a useful arrangement for us both.” She had stampeded, steamrolled, herded, corralled and roped him. He’d let her do it, a solution fallen in his lap, but he still resented it and was struggling to be gracious about it, which was redundant, because instead of crowing about her victory, she’d abandoned all signs of life. It was unnerving.
“If you’re doing that broody, pissed-off and suffering-the-weight-of-the-world thing you do, you might’ve intimidated her.”
“If I was doing it, she’s not been around to see it.”
“Gold star for not denying you do broody, pissed-off and distinctly martyred.”
“I prefer to think of it as thoughtful, with barely contained menace and the potential for decisive action rising.”
“That’s the part when your hands go in your pockets.”
“Yes, so I don’t accidentally throttle someone.”
“And you’re worried about Flick strangling you in your sleep.”
“She’s smart enough to know that’s the only way she’s going to get a jump on me.” Again.
“Roommates made in heaven.” Wren rubbed the back of her neck. “I can’t think straight anymore. I could make the mistake of buying fugly shoes if I go shopping now. I’m going home to wander around aimlessly until I can sleep the entire weekend.”
Different plan, same intention. Instead of the aimless wandering, Tom was going to cook fried chicken and open a bottle of wine, crash in his bunk before midnight and spend Saturday hiking. In other words, not think about Alzheimer’s drugs or political maneuvering for the whole weekend.
“So go.” He had a few things to finish up.
“I’m too tired to move.”
She did eventually, because watching him edit a report and answer a dozen emails was enough to put anyone to sleep.
He shut down and left the office about the same time as everyone else was leaving, but that still put him about four hours ahead of his regular departure time for this week. A quick trip to the market, where it took too long to find what he needed, and he was home by six and had started preparing the chicken.
There was no sign of Flick, her bedroom door slightly ajar.
He changed into sweats and a long-sleeved Henley, pushed the sleeves up and opened a bottle of wine. He hit play on his Eclectic Classics Spotify list and got the opening guitar riff to Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition.” Made him want to go fling open the door to Flick’s room to check if she had really moved in and to see if she lived like the fairground before the cleanup crew arrived.
He was about to plate up when the door burst open and banged closed. He stared at Flick. She stared at him. The song changed over.
“Hi,” she said. She wore sneakers with a severe black suit, much like the ones Wren wore. Fitted skirt, tailored jacket. She pulled a gaudy red-and-purple scarf from around her neck, nothing like Wren would wear, and scrunched it in her hand.
Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” started up. There was a line about trading heroes for ghosts in that song.
“Hi.” He followed that up with the blazingly obvious “You’re home.”
“You’re home. I’m just passing through.” She looked off toward her room and then back. “I smell fried chicken. You made fried chicken.”
He’d made enough to eat now and to pack for lunch on the trail tomorrow. “I like to cook. It relaxes me.”
“It smells amazing.”
No denying that, or the expression on Flick’s face. Hunger.
She flapped her scarf at him. “This is weird. And we can’t be weird. I resigned on Monday and things got tricky. I got a counteroffer and it was good. Flattering, but this job I’m going to is everything to me. But that’s why I’ve been, well, not here.” She flapped the scarf again and laughed. “Oh, your face. Don’t have a coronary, I’m still going to Washington, but I want to leave without scorching the earth behind me, so it was a difficult week.”
Whatever he’d done with his face, he masked it by glancing down at the countertop.
“What I’m saying is I’ll keep out of your hair while I’m here, but it can’t be as weird as it was this week. We’ll have to see each other occasionally. Talk, even.”
“Right.” Getting to know his temporary roommate was probably a safety feature.
“I’ll get out of your way.” She didn’t move.
“That’s not what you wanted to say.”
“No. I wanted to say I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“You wanted to be pathetic so I’d feed you.”
She shifted her weight onto one foot, brought her shoulders forward and hung her head, her scarf slithering to the floor. Picture of a sad, overworked executive ready to collapse from starvation. She looked over at him from under the exaggerated flutter of her lashes. “Will it work?”
“I’m not an antisocial ogre.”
She snapped to attention. “You’re not?”
He waved her over, while he piled chicken and fried green tomatoes with butter beans on another plate. He still had enough to pack for lunch tomorrow.
“I didn’t expect you to be home.” She tossed her satchel and the scarf on the sectional and unbuttoned her jacket, sliding onto a stool. He resisted saying Don’t leave your stuff there. “I wouldn’t have banged the door otherwise. I’ve been careful not to bang about. It nearly kills me.”
“You don’t have to treat me like I’ll break if I should happen to hear a door bang or find you in the living room in pajamas.” He pushed the plate in front of her and went to the drawer for silverware. I can be an antisocial ogre, and keep banging the door like that and there will be words.
“I don’t wear PJs.”
A less careful man might’ve shut that drawer on his thumb.
“I bullied you into having me stay here. I only have so much luck to push and I agreed to respect your rules.”
“You don’t have to be a ghost.”
“No smoking, no drinking, no drugs.” He poured her a glass of wine, with a somewhat defiant flourish, but it didn’t stop her reciting all the ways in which he’d established the weirdness. “No obvious possessions. No messing the kitchen. Only sounds of silence. No coming and going all times of the day and night. No fun. No bringing my stripper friends around. Act like a nun.” She took a sip of the wine. “Calling me a ghost makes me sound a lot more interesting.”
They needed to start again. “You don’t have to avoid me.”
“I’m an early bird and you prefer to work late. Other than weekends, it’s going to be easy.” She took a bite of chicken and made a good-food groan. “Unless you cook like this all the time. In which case think about getting a restraining order.”
“When your building access code no longer flashes green, you can expect the worst.”
“Noted,” she said.
He came around the counter and sat beside her and they ate through Otis Redding singing “The Dock of the Bay,” Oasis singing “Slide Away,” and during Miles Davis’s “So What,” he snickered.
“What didn’t I say?” she said.
“That’s just it. I didn’t think you knew how to be quiet for this long.”
“Food will make me do it.”
“Noted.”
“But otherwise I figure we live in a world that rewards people who can hold the floor, in an age where being thoughtful and measured is tagged as slow and dull.”
That was something he understood. He was an introvert, but he’d learned early you didn’t get what you wanted unless you asked for it, fought for it, defended it. But that was significantly easier to do at moderate volume with fewer words when you were six-four, took up more than your fair share of space and had a decent baritone than if you were barely scraping five-three, had delicate features, translucent skin, rusty, knowing green eyes and could be considered cute.
Yeah, his housemate was cute. Adorably so, which was at least half the reason he’d laid down the rules. Not that he was attracted to her—she wasn’t his type at all—but he was fascinated by her like you might be with a natural disaster. No, that wasn’t quite it. Having Flick in his condo was like getting a puppy. You knew the destructive phase wasn’t going to last forever, got caught up in the sheer adorableness factor and couldn’t resist playing around, and suddenly the whole day was gone.
He didn’t have time for a puppy who could mess up the furniture or piss on things, or a distracting roommate who could do the same. But still, the whole idea of living with someone who was the opposite of everything he’d normally have chosen was oddly intriguing. It put his inner ogre on his best behavior.
“This is a really great apartment.” She got off the stool and rounded the counter, taking both their empty plates and silverware to the sink and rinsing them off. “I knew it would be when you told me the address. Have you owned it long?”
He watched her stack the dishwasher. “Not long enough to have made too big a dent in the mortgage.”
“Did you use a decorator?”
“Josh. He has a great eye.”
“That would account for why it’s so Better Homes and Gardens, all this tonal gray and beige, not frat house central.”
“Mushroom, that’s what Josh called it.” She started on the pan he’d left in the sink, giving it a scrub. “You don’t have to clean up.”
“You fed me.”
It had been unexpectedly pleasant. Banished the ghost. “We should do it again.”
“Ah, Tom.” She leaned back on the counter, arms outstretched, her suit coat opening out to show a silky gray top that fitted close. “Don’t go bending those tight rails you run on for me. I’m temporary, remember.”
He poured the last of the wine in his glass. Hers was still full. “You think I run on tight rails.”
“You probably have hospital corners, can bounce a coin off your bed.”
He still did the army-style corners. She’d snooped in his bedroom.
“You’re smiling. I’m right.”
Or it was just a good guess. “That’s the way I learned to make a bed.”
“Your dad was military.”
“Army.”
“That explains a lot.”
Much as he loved his dad, he’d spent considerable energy on not being him. “What exactly does it explain?” No more coin bounce, no more high-and-tight haircuts. He’d styled himself on Wall Street, not full battle rattle.
She came around the counter again, marched right up to him and gave him a top-to-toe examination. “The bearing. Even in sweats, you have no slouch. You work out. You appreciate the brain-body connection. The rules. You like order. You like to control your environment. The apartment. You’re a neat freak. The food, hearty favorites. Bet your mom taught you to cook. You don’t like surprises. You believe in hard work, organization and good preparation. You go after what you want. You don’t let things—people—get in your way. But you’re not ruthless, not in an outward way. You’re actually a good guy who runs on tight rails. I could maybe get to like you, Tom O’Connell.”
Mutual like would be a better-than-expected outcome when he’d already rehearsed the “this isn’t working out, you need to leave” conversation. “My gram taught me how to cook. My mom died when I was a kid. Decided we suddenly needed ice cream cake and went out in a rainstorm to get it. Was driving too fast, wrapped her car around a pole and never came home.”
She took a step back and shock lit her face. “Holy shit.”
He closed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to say all that, but Flick seemed to see straight through him, and she had him down, so he’d wanted to kick back with something she couldn’t know. Dumb.
“How old were you?”
“I was eight.” Nothing was the same after that. No surprise was good. “Grandma Bel is still alive.”
“Your dad?”
“Retired. He was engineer corp. He has a home renovation business now. They both live in Florida.” He liked she hadn’t done the sympathy act, but didn’t avoid the whole topic either.
“Okay, do me.” She spread her arms wide, turning in a slow circle.
He waited until she faced him again. “Pardon, ma’am?”
She laughed at his drawl. He didn’t know where it came from, an echo of his father. Her choice of words was like a puppy’s nip and he’d reacted to the unexpected bite.
“I mean, I sliced and diced you. It’s your turn to do me.”
“I see.”
“So go on.”
“I don’t run on tight rails.” That made him sound limited, hemmed in, and now he sounded defensive.
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“It’s being focused, goal-oriented. It’s why I’m here, not in the army or laying roof tiles. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those things, but I wanted something different.” And he’d got it. It was the suits and the condo and the career prospects that meant he’d have choices in the future. And why was he defending his choices to her? How he lived was none of her business.
“And you think I’m not focused. Bring it.”
He got off the stool and stood in front of her, making her tip her head back to look him in the face. She didn’t back up and they both knew he could use his size to intimidate her. The best thing he could do at this point was shut the hell up, but Flick’s eyes double-dared him.
“I think you’re part fun fair, part wrecking ball. I think you have an on switch but no off. I think you’re good at your job. Ambitious. Pushy. You’ll play rough if it gets you what you want, but you’re a politician too, so you’re not above manipulation, razzle-dazzle ’em, move fast so they can’t see you coming and don’t see the trail of destruction you leave behind till it’s too late. I think you’ll burn out hard because you can’t pace yourself. Why don’t you have a significant other? What’s with the sexual desert?”
Her chin bounced higher. “Why don’t you?”
“I’m asking the questions.”
She ripped off a sloppy salute that was sheer smart-ass. “Maybe because I run on rails too.”
Which wasn’t the answer he expected. “Roller-coaster rails.”
“That’s right, and most men can’t stand the pace, don’t like the sharp turns and jolts. They want me to be predictable, safe. And I’m not. I’m the first person in my family to finish school. To go to college. That took hard work and I couldn’t always be sweet. Nice finishes last and that’s not going to be me, and what I want most in my life is to help other people to have the chances I got.”
He took a step back and sat. This got hot quickly. He’d pushed it, and she was stirred up, steaming. He needed to de-escalate things before one of them said something they really regretted and couldn’t take back. “Would you like more wine? I can open another bottle.”
“I would like pie.”
“I don’t have pie.”
“But you can cook pie, right? You have pastry in the freezer and canned peaches in the pantry.”
She had snooped and admitted it. “Yes, I can bake pie.” His entire cooking regime was comfort food he could make half asleep, and pie fitted right in. If he felt like eating clever ingredients, fine food, he ate out.
“You’re being a shit. If you think I’m so awful, why did you let me move in? I can’t be a nun, though the celibacy part is a lock, and I can’t promise not to disturb you, but I’ll do my best to play by your rules. I’ve had a tough week, disappointed a lot of people, and I would like pie.”
He should’ve told her where the market was so she could go buy Sara Lee, but she stood there with her hands on her hips, with hair escaping her clip and curling around her face, with red cheeks and over-bright eyes, and he was being a shit, because Flick Dalgetty made him twitch with irritation.
Which was how he came to be making Grandma Bel’s peach pie on a Friday night, to Talking Heads’s “Psycho Killer,” for the roommate who wasn’t a ghost and wasn’t a nun, who he was unaccountably bothered by.