The Fixer
Page 4
“You’re a good girl, Tess,” he said gruffly. He met my sister’s eyes and something passed unspoken between them. After a long moment, Ivy turned back to me.
“Until we get things settled, I want you to come back with me.” She held up a hand to cut off my objections. “I’ve talked to a school in DC. You start on Monday.”
CHAPTER 4
“I’d tell you that you can’t stay mad forever,” Ivy commented, “but I’m pretty sure you’d take that as a challenge.”
I hadn’t spoken to my sister once since we’d checked my grandfather into the facility in Boston. She kept telling me how nice it was, how highly thought of the specialists were, how often we could go to visit. None of that changed the fact that we left him there. I left him. He would wake up in the middle of the night, disoriented, and I wouldn’t be there. He would frantically start looking for the grandmother who’d died before I was even born, and I wouldn’t be there.
He would have good days, and I wouldn’t be there.
If the silent treatment was getting to Ivy, she showed no sign of it as we navigated the DC airport. Her heels clicked against the tile as she stepped off the escalator and glided into the kind of graceful power walk that made everyone else in the airport look twice and get out of her way. She paused for an instant when we came to a row of men in black suits holding carefully lettered signs. Chauffeurs. At the very end of the line was a man wearing a navy blue T-shirt and ripped jeans.
There was a hint of stubble on his suntanned face and a pack of cigarettes in his left hand. In his right hand he, too, held a carefully lettered sign. But instead of writing his client’s last name, he’d opted for: PAIN IN THE *%$&@.
Ivy stalked up to him and handed him her carry-on. “Cute.”
He smirked. “I thought so.”
She rolled her eyes. “Tess, meet Bodie. He was my driver and personal assistant, but as of five seconds ago, he’s fired.”
“I prefer ‘Jack-of-All-Trades,’ ” Bodie interjected. “And I’m only fired until there’s a female you can’t sweet-talk or a law you won’t br—”
Ivy cut him off with an all-powerful glare. I mentally finished his sentence: I’m only fired until there’s a female you can’t sweet-talk or a law you won’t break. I darted a glance at Ivy, my eyebrows shooting up. What exactly did my sister do that she needed a chauffeur willing to break laws on her behalf?
Ivy ignored my raised brows and plowed on, unperturbed. “Now would be a good time to get our bags,” she told Bodie.
“You can get your own bags, princess,” Bodie retorted. “I’m fired.” He rocked back on his heels. “I will, however, help Tess here with hers out of the goodness of my heart.” Bodie didn’t wink at me or smirk, but somehow, I felt as if he’d done both. “I’m very philanthropic,” he added.
I didn’t reply, but I did let him help me with my bags. The cigarettes disappeared into his back pocket the moment my duffels came into view. Muscles bulged under his T-shirt as he grabbed a bag in each hand.
He didn’t look like anyone’s chauffeur.
Ivy’s house loomed over the pavement, boxy and tall, with twin chimneys on either side. It seemed too big for one person.
“I live on the second floor,” Ivy clarified as she, Bodie, and I made our way into the house. “I work on the first.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask Ivy what work entailed, but I didn’t. My sister had always been mysteriously close-lipped about her life in Washington. Asking for details now would be taken as a sign of interest.
I’m not interested.
Stepping into an enormous foyer, I concentrated on the sight in front of me: dark wood floors and massive columns gave the expanse the look of a ballroom. To my left, there was an alcove lined with bay windows, and behind that, a hallway lined with doors.
“The closed doors go to the conference room and my office. Both are off-limits. The main kitchen is through there, but we mostly use it for entertaining.”
We? I wondered. I didn’t let myself get further than that as I followed Ivy up a spiral staircase to what appeared to be a sparsely decorated apartment. “The kitchen up here is more of a kitchenette,” she told me. “I don’t cook much. We mostly order in.”
Bodie cleared his throat and when she didn’t respond the first time, he repeated the action, only louder.
“We mostly order in, and sometimes Bodie makes pancakes downstairs,” Ivy amended. I took that to mean that Bodie was definitely part of Ivy’s we.
“Do you live here, Bodie?” I asked, darting a sideways glance at Ivy’s “driver.”
He choked on his own spit. “Ahh . . . no,” he said, once he’d recovered. “I don’t live here.” I must have looked skeptical, because he elaborated. “Kid, I worked for your sister for a year and a half before she even invited me up here, and that was only because she broke the plumbing.”
“I did not break the plumbing,” Ivy replied testily. “It broke itself.” She turned back to me. “Your room is through here.”
My room? I thought. She spoke so casually, I could almost believe that I wasn’t just some unpleasant surprise that fate and Alzheimer’s had dropped in her lap.
“Don’t you mean the guest room?” I asked.
Ivy opened the bedroom door, and I realized that the room was completely empty—no furniture. Nothing.
Not a guest room.
The room was mostly square, with a nook by the window and a ceiling that sloped on either side. The floors were a dark mahogany wood. A series of mirrors doubled as sliding doors to the closet.
“I thought you might like to decorate it yourself.” Ivy stepped into the room. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said she looked almost nervous. “I know it’s a little on the small side, but it’s my favorite room in the house. And you’ve got your own bathroom.”
The room was beautiful, but even thinking that felt disloyal. “Where am I going to sleep?” I asked.
“Wherever you put the bed.” Ivy’s reply was brusque, like she’d caught herself caring and managed to put a cork in it.
“Where am I going to sleep until I get a bed?” I asked, checking the impulse to roll my eyes.
“Tell me what kind of bed you want,” Ivy replied, “and Bodie will make sure it gets here tonight. I’ve got some furniture catalogs you can look at.”
“Until we get things settled, I want you to come back with me.” She held up a hand to cut off my objections. “I’ve talked to a school in DC. You start on Monday.”
CHAPTER 4
“I’d tell you that you can’t stay mad forever,” Ivy commented, “but I’m pretty sure you’d take that as a challenge.”
I hadn’t spoken to my sister once since we’d checked my grandfather into the facility in Boston. She kept telling me how nice it was, how highly thought of the specialists were, how often we could go to visit. None of that changed the fact that we left him there. I left him. He would wake up in the middle of the night, disoriented, and I wouldn’t be there. He would frantically start looking for the grandmother who’d died before I was even born, and I wouldn’t be there.
He would have good days, and I wouldn’t be there.
If the silent treatment was getting to Ivy, she showed no sign of it as we navigated the DC airport. Her heels clicked against the tile as she stepped off the escalator and glided into the kind of graceful power walk that made everyone else in the airport look twice and get out of her way. She paused for an instant when we came to a row of men in black suits holding carefully lettered signs. Chauffeurs. At the very end of the line was a man wearing a navy blue T-shirt and ripped jeans.
There was a hint of stubble on his suntanned face and a pack of cigarettes in his left hand. In his right hand he, too, held a carefully lettered sign. But instead of writing his client’s last name, he’d opted for: PAIN IN THE *%$&@.
Ivy stalked up to him and handed him her carry-on. “Cute.”
He smirked. “I thought so.”
She rolled her eyes. “Tess, meet Bodie. He was my driver and personal assistant, but as of five seconds ago, he’s fired.”
“I prefer ‘Jack-of-All-Trades,’ ” Bodie interjected. “And I’m only fired until there’s a female you can’t sweet-talk or a law you won’t br—”
Ivy cut him off with an all-powerful glare. I mentally finished his sentence: I’m only fired until there’s a female you can’t sweet-talk or a law you won’t break. I darted a glance at Ivy, my eyebrows shooting up. What exactly did my sister do that she needed a chauffeur willing to break laws on her behalf?
Ivy ignored my raised brows and plowed on, unperturbed. “Now would be a good time to get our bags,” she told Bodie.
“You can get your own bags, princess,” Bodie retorted. “I’m fired.” He rocked back on his heels. “I will, however, help Tess here with hers out of the goodness of my heart.” Bodie didn’t wink at me or smirk, but somehow, I felt as if he’d done both. “I’m very philanthropic,” he added.
I didn’t reply, but I did let him help me with my bags. The cigarettes disappeared into his back pocket the moment my duffels came into view. Muscles bulged under his T-shirt as he grabbed a bag in each hand.
He didn’t look like anyone’s chauffeur.
Ivy’s house loomed over the pavement, boxy and tall, with twin chimneys on either side. It seemed too big for one person.
“I live on the second floor,” Ivy clarified as she, Bodie, and I made our way into the house. “I work on the first.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask Ivy what work entailed, but I didn’t. My sister had always been mysteriously close-lipped about her life in Washington. Asking for details now would be taken as a sign of interest.
I’m not interested.
Stepping into an enormous foyer, I concentrated on the sight in front of me: dark wood floors and massive columns gave the expanse the look of a ballroom. To my left, there was an alcove lined with bay windows, and behind that, a hallway lined with doors.
“The closed doors go to the conference room and my office. Both are off-limits. The main kitchen is through there, but we mostly use it for entertaining.”
We? I wondered. I didn’t let myself get further than that as I followed Ivy up a spiral staircase to what appeared to be a sparsely decorated apartment. “The kitchen up here is more of a kitchenette,” she told me. “I don’t cook much. We mostly order in.”
Bodie cleared his throat and when she didn’t respond the first time, he repeated the action, only louder.
“We mostly order in, and sometimes Bodie makes pancakes downstairs,” Ivy amended. I took that to mean that Bodie was definitely part of Ivy’s we.
“Do you live here, Bodie?” I asked, darting a sideways glance at Ivy’s “driver.”
He choked on his own spit. “Ahh . . . no,” he said, once he’d recovered. “I don’t live here.” I must have looked skeptical, because he elaborated. “Kid, I worked for your sister for a year and a half before she even invited me up here, and that was only because she broke the plumbing.”
“I did not break the plumbing,” Ivy replied testily. “It broke itself.” She turned back to me. “Your room is through here.”
My room? I thought. She spoke so casually, I could almost believe that I wasn’t just some unpleasant surprise that fate and Alzheimer’s had dropped in her lap.
“Don’t you mean the guest room?” I asked.
Ivy opened the bedroom door, and I realized that the room was completely empty—no furniture. Nothing.
Not a guest room.
The room was mostly square, with a nook by the window and a ceiling that sloped on either side. The floors were a dark mahogany wood. A series of mirrors doubled as sliding doors to the closet.
“I thought you might like to decorate it yourself.” Ivy stepped into the room. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said she looked almost nervous. “I know it’s a little on the small side, but it’s my favorite room in the house. And you’ve got your own bathroom.”
The room was beautiful, but even thinking that felt disloyal. “Where am I going to sleep?” I asked.
“Wherever you put the bed.” Ivy’s reply was brusque, like she’d caught herself caring and managed to put a cork in it.
“Where am I going to sleep until I get a bed?” I asked, checking the impulse to roll my eyes.
“Tell me what kind of bed you want,” Ivy replied, “and Bodie will make sure it gets here tonight. I’ve got some furniture catalogs you can look at.”
