He Will be My Ruin
Page 21
“Venture to the LES again?” He heaves a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I could.”
I decide that I both like and trust Hans. He’s unlike anyone in my world and he genuinely seems to want to help me, with no benefit other than for Celine. If he were straight, I’d think he were in love with her.
“Hey, Hans?”
“Yes?”
“Is your name really Hans?”
There’s a long pause. “It’s Francis,” he admits sullenly. “But Hans sounds way more cool and artsy. Don’t ever call me by my real name in front of anyone.”
“No one is as they seem, are they?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He laughs. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this packed up so you can go back to saving the jungle, or whatever it is you do.”
“You want to come with me when I go?”
“Oh, hells no.”
“Come on. I’m sure there are some unique finds down there.” I use my best singsong voice to entice him.
“You can mail them to me.”
I chuckle. “That’s okay. You wouldn’t survive a day there anyway.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t last ten minutes there, and I’m okay with that.”
We hang up, my heart temporarily lightened. Talking to Hans was a hundred times more pleasant than the phone call I had with my financial advisor, Clifton, an hour ago, in which he berated me for the forms he received via fax today. Forms from an investment manager in New York, requesting the release of a significant amount of money. Forms that I’d already signed. I’m supposed to discuss all of these decisions with him before I go signing any papers.
I told him not to file anything through the bank yet. That I haven’t decided what I’m going to do. I’m on the fence, between backing out or letting Jace invest my money, mainly because I feel guilty for wasting his time earlier today on my wild goose chase. The problem is, if I invest with him, I’ll just be dragging out the aftermath of Celine’s death. Keeping a tie to a part of her.
And I need to just get this over with.
I drop a box in front of a shelf. I fully intend on filling it today. But first, I promised my accountant that I’d courier Celine’s paperwork to him so he could begin to prepare her taxes. Even the dead have to file, he had assured me.
Celine already had a folder in the back of her desk marked “2015 taxes.” I begin flipping through it, expecting that this is going to be pretty straightforward. And it is, at first. Right down to photocopies of rent checks and interest on student loans and her meager pay stubs, neatly organized by month.
Then I come across several folders’ worth of blue notebooks—like the ones they use in primary schools, and the ones I supply to the missionaries to distribute to village children. The first one is marked “Antiques.” In it, Celine has catalogued each and every item she has picked up and from where, as well as pictures that she has printed, cut out, and pasted in.
The folder is filled with books like this, itemizing every last antiques purchase she made through the years. I can already hear Hans’s squeal when he sees these. I set them aside and continue on.
The next folder isn’t a catalogue of purchases. I frown, trying to decipher the columns of numbers in the little blue book.
Dates beginning back in 2012, followed by dollar amounts and an “hours worked” column, and 2013 has its own pages, as does 2014, and 2015.
Did Celine have another job? It would appear so, and I assume it paid cash. I calculate the hourly rate and my eyebrows jump. That’s a lot of money. It must have something to do with antiques, perhaps? An envelope sits tucked in the back of the book. Inside is a stack of receipts. I begin flipping through them.
And my mouth drops open.
Apparently Celine has purchased a lot of condoms. And lube. And lingerie. She’s racked up waxing bills from an aesthetician. She’s also rented several costumes from some place in Chelsea. There are drink receipts in here, too, from three hotel bars. High-end hotel bars, which she seemed to frequent mainly on Friday and Saturday nights, based on her handwritten notes next to the recorded dates.
Next to the names of men.
A sinking suspicion has me racing to her closet, the tears burning my eyes, making my vision blurry. I had only leafed through her clothing before, grabbing the bold striped dress because it made such a statement. But now I focus more closely. The deeper I go, the shorter, the tighter, the more risqué the dresses become.
My stomach churns as I throw her dresser drawer open and begin rifling through her private things. Basic cotton and white lace panties and bras spill out onto the floor as I dig down. It isn’t until the second drawer that I find the black and red lace, the G-strings and garters, adorned with bows and tassels.
Celine wouldn’t step inside a church without pulling a cardigan on to cover her bare arms, even in ninety-degree heat; and while her curvy figure always made it hard for her to dress modestly, I never saw her in a skirt that didn’t reach at least halfway to her knees. I just can’t imagine her buying these for herself.
It’s when I rummage through the bottom drawers and find her collection of condoms, varying in size and brand, that my dread begins to mount.
I open a metal case sitting on the right-hand side. “Oh my God . . . ,” I groan, slamming it shut to hide all the sex toys that I don’t want to see—or even think about touching.
These are Celine’s most private things. No one was ever supposed to find them.
With slightly shaky hands, I shift my focus to the bottom of the closet, where shoe boxes and storage containers are stacked in tidy piles. I toss them about, rooting through the contents, anxious over what I might find.
Until I come to a decorative box of dangly necklaces and bracelets, made from giant stones. An uneducated person might mistake them for costume jewelry, but I know that the diamonds are real. I can tell by their sparkle. Several receipts sit at the bottom of the box, indicating a pawnshop where it looks like Celine had already sold some pieces.
I crawl on my hands and knees to check under the bed. Nothing but a single dust bunny—the soul survivor of Celine’s excessive cleaning regimen—hides there.
I toss the lamp onto the recently delivered and freshly made bed—the silk white shade bends but I don’t care—and pull apart the makeshift end table, yanking the long and narrow crates apart to hit the hardwood in a loud clatter.
I decide that I both like and trust Hans. He’s unlike anyone in my world and he genuinely seems to want to help me, with no benefit other than for Celine. If he were straight, I’d think he were in love with her.
“Hey, Hans?”
“Yes?”
“Is your name really Hans?”
There’s a long pause. “It’s Francis,” he admits sullenly. “But Hans sounds way more cool and artsy. Don’t ever call me by my real name in front of anyone.”
“No one is as they seem, are they?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He laughs. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this packed up so you can go back to saving the jungle, or whatever it is you do.”
“You want to come with me when I go?”
“Oh, hells no.”
“Come on. I’m sure there are some unique finds down there.” I use my best singsong voice to entice him.
“You can mail them to me.”
I chuckle. “That’s okay. You wouldn’t survive a day there anyway.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t last ten minutes there, and I’m okay with that.”
We hang up, my heart temporarily lightened. Talking to Hans was a hundred times more pleasant than the phone call I had with my financial advisor, Clifton, an hour ago, in which he berated me for the forms he received via fax today. Forms from an investment manager in New York, requesting the release of a significant amount of money. Forms that I’d already signed. I’m supposed to discuss all of these decisions with him before I go signing any papers.
I told him not to file anything through the bank yet. That I haven’t decided what I’m going to do. I’m on the fence, between backing out or letting Jace invest my money, mainly because I feel guilty for wasting his time earlier today on my wild goose chase. The problem is, if I invest with him, I’ll just be dragging out the aftermath of Celine’s death. Keeping a tie to a part of her.
And I need to just get this over with.
I drop a box in front of a shelf. I fully intend on filling it today. But first, I promised my accountant that I’d courier Celine’s paperwork to him so he could begin to prepare her taxes. Even the dead have to file, he had assured me.
Celine already had a folder in the back of her desk marked “2015 taxes.” I begin flipping through it, expecting that this is going to be pretty straightforward. And it is, at first. Right down to photocopies of rent checks and interest on student loans and her meager pay stubs, neatly organized by month.
Then I come across several folders’ worth of blue notebooks—like the ones they use in primary schools, and the ones I supply to the missionaries to distribute to village children. The first one is marked “Antiques.” In it, Celine has catalogued each and every item she has picked up and from where, as well as pictures that she has printed, cut out, and pasted in.
The folder is filled with books like this, itemizing every last antiques purchase she made through the years. I can already hear Hans’s squeal when he sees these. I set them aside and continue on.
The next folder isn’t a catalogue of purchases. I frown, trying to decipher the columns of numbers in the little blue book.
Dates beginning back in 2012, followed by dollar amounts and an “hours worked” column, and 2013 has its own pages, as does 2014, and 2015.
Did Celine have another job? It would appear so, and I assume it paid cash. I calculate the hourly rate and my eyebrows jump. That’s a lot of money. It must have something to do with antiques, perhaps? An envelope sits tucked in the back of the book. Inside is a stack of receipts. I begin flipping through them.
And my mouth drops open.
Apparently Celine has purchased a lot of condoms. And lube. And lingerie. She’s racked up waxing bills from an aesthetician. She’s also rented several costumes from some place in Chelsea. There are drink receipts in here, too, from three hotel bars. High-end hotel bars, which she seemed to frequent mainly on Friday and Saturday nights, based on her handwritten notes next to the recorded dates.
Next to the names of men.
A sinking suspicion has me racing to her closet, the tears burning my eyes, making my vision blurry. I had only leafed through her clothing before, grabbing the bold striped dress because it made such a statement. But now I focus more closely. The deeper I go, the shorter, the tighter, the more risqué the dresses become.
My stomach churns as I throw her dresser drawer open and begin rifling through her private things. Basic cotton and white lace panties and bras spill out onto the floor as I dig down. It isn’t until the second drawer that I find the black and red lace, the G-strings and garters, adorned with bows and tassels.
Celine wouldn’t step inside a church without pulling a cardigan on to cover her bare arms, even in ninety-degree heat; and while her curvy figure always made it hard for her to dress modestly, I never saw her in a skirt that didn’t reach at least halfway to her knees. I just can’t imagine her buying these for herself.
It’s when I rummage through the bottom drawers and find her collection of condoms, varying in size and brand, that my dread begins to mount.
I open a metal case sitting on the right-hand side. “Oh my God . . . ,” I groan, slamming it shut to hide all the sex toys that I don’t want to see—or even think about touching.
These are Celine’s most private things. No one was ever supposed to find them.
With slightly shaky hands, I shift my focus to the bottom of the closet, where shoe boxes and storage containers are stacked in tidy piles. I toss them about, rooting through the contents, anxious over what I might find.
Until I come to a decorative box of dangly necklaces and bracelets, made from giant stones. An uneducated person might mistake them for costume jewelry, but I know that the diamonds are real. I can tell by their sparkle. Several receipts sit at the bottom of the box, indicating a pawnshop where it looks like Celine had already sold some pieces.
I crawl on my hands and knees to check under the bed. Nothing but a single dust bunny—the soul survivor of Celine’s excessive cleaning regimen—hides there.
I toss the lamp onto the recently delivered and freshly made bed—the silk white shade bends but I don’t care—and pull apart the makeshift end table, yanking the long and narrow crates apart to hit the hardwood in a loud clatter.
