Some Like It Perfect (It's Only Temporary, Book 3) [Ebook]

Delia Woodson was desperate. That’s why she’d agreed to it.

Because she was a painter, no one was buying her paintings, and she was desperate.

She had bills to pay, food to buy. Someday she might actually want to live in her own apartment instead of on her friend’s couch.

Crashing on a friend’s couch when you were all young and stupid was one thing. Crashing on a couch when you were most definitely not young and the only one still stupid was something else entirely.

Delia’s friends had stayed in college, and she’d painted. Delia’s friends had gotten jobs and moved away, and she’d painted. Delia’s friends had bought houses, taken out mortgages, and Delia…crashed on their couches.

She’d followed Justine from San Francisco to Boston when Justine had gotten a great new job with a great new paycheck. Delia had followed because a free spirit who painted was a dime a dozen in San Francisco. And maybe a free spirit who painted in Boston was just different enough to be successful. Right now, she was just hungry.

Justine propped her hip against the kitchen counter and said, “Are you going?”

“I’m going.”

“Painting a ceiling is not beneath you.”

Delia had heard this before. Michelangelo, yada yada yada. Sistine chapel, blah blah blah.

Delia said, “I’m painting clouds and baby-faced angels on an executive’s ceiling. I’m happy for the work. I’ll be happy for the money. It is beneath me.”

“You could go get a real job.”

“I said I’m going. You don’t need to be mean.”

Delia stared at the ceiling. If she was going, and despite what she’d just said she hadn’t quite talked herself into it yet, she probably needed to get up. Get dressed.

Delia said, “How do you get up and put on a suit and go to the office every morning? I don’t know how to make myself do it.”

“I get roaring drunk every evening. That’s how I do it.”

Delia looked over at her. “Tonight?”

“Of course. We’ll have to celebrate your first paying job in Boston.”

“I guess drinks are on me, then.”

“Which means you’d better get up so you can pay for it.”

Delia stared at the ceiling some more. A ceiling she wasn’t going to paint. “Rip-roaring drunk?”

“The rip-roaringest drunk two thirty-six-year-olds can get without feeling like losers.”

Delia slid one leg off the couch and let her whole body follow bonelessly to the floor. “Too late. I feel like a loser and I’m not drunk at all.”

She crawled to the bathroom, her head hanging, every movement slow and tortured.

Her friend said, “You’re thirty-six, not sixteen. Go put on your big-girl panties and pretend you’re an adult.”

Delia stood. She straightened her shoulders. She didn’t sigh again, she didn’t slam the bathroom door. She would be an adult. Because doing crap you didn’t want to do was what being an adult was all about.

Delia would go paint an indecently rich, corporate shill’s ceiling. Because he couldn’t think of any other way to spend his money, and she couldn’t think of any other way to make it.

And hey, maybe she’d get hit by a bus on the way.

She could always hope.

By the time Delia made it downtown, her mood had improved. She loved this city. Loved the accent, loved the history. Loved the cobbled streets.

She’d even enjoyed the commute. Enjoyed getting pulled along with busy people late for work.

Granted, it was fall. The gorgeous yellow and red leaves crunched satisfyingly under her boots, and the air was chilly but not miserable.

She’d yet to experience a New England winter, and maybe she’d change her mind about this whole Boston thing come the middle of February, but for now it was fun. It was different.

She got pulled up the subway stairs and she went with the flow until fresh air hit her face again. She stared up at a tall, new building with gleaming glass windows and her shoulders sunk.

No history here.

But there was money. And uptight business execs.

Delia rode the elevator to the top. She stopped to look out the full-length window and wondered why those who had these kinds of views didn’t stop to look. Too busy making money to enjoy what it brought them, she guessed.

And, she knew, repetition dulled the splendor. Beautiful and awe-inspiring turned to normal turned to invisible.

It was why she hid things in her paintings. Why someone would see one thing when they looked at it one way and see something else when they looked at it another. Why they could look for years and still find something new, something fresh.

At least, that was her hope. For someday. You know, when people bought her paintings.

Mr. Cabot’s scary-efficient secretary nodded when she saw Delia. The secretary rose, motioning Delia to follow her into the double-doored office.

Ms. Charles said, “The scaffolding was delivered and set up yesterday; the paint is here as well. Mr. Cabot is in a meeting this morning; now would be the time to organize.”

They’d already argued about this. Delia had lost.

Mr. Cabot didn’t want to vacate his office; had in fact, wanted her to paint at night when he wasn’t there.

Delia had only won that argument because she couldn’t paint at night. She needed natural light. She needed to paint in the light her work would be seen in. Call her a prickly artiste all you want, it didn’t change that fact.

And that was only what the secretary had called her. Delia didn’t want to know what the man in charge had called her.

She was hoping he’d decide to move on out once he got a whiff of the paints.

Delia surveyed the office. It was as big as Justine’s one-bedroom apartment, half of it cleared of furniture and covered in painter’s cloth. The large desk was still sitting in front of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the other side.

The secretary handed her a check and said, “Please don’t bother Mr. Cabot. If you need anything, come to me.”

Oh, Delia was going to bother Mr. Cabot. She wouldn’t be able to help it.

She’d never met the man and he already bothered her. You didn’t get to sit in this office unless you worshiped at the altar of efficiency and liked squeezing blood out of stone.

But Delia nodded at the secretary and watched her leave. She looked down at the check and decided she wasn’t selling her soul. She was doing what had to be done. There could be pride in that.

Then she took off her coat, rolled up her sleeves, pulled booties on over her boots, and started opening paint cans.

Delia organized, tested colors on the ceiling, and finally began to see in her mind what the ceiling would look like. By the time she had started rolling out the base coat, she thought she could make this ceiling something decent. Instead of a clichéd nod to the master.

The door opened behind her and a deep, annoyed voice said, “What are you doing?”

She didn’t turn around, just kept painting. “Base coat. I hope the fumes don’t bother you.”

She didn’t smile but it took effort.

Mr. Cabot didn’t say anything, just went and opened the windows.

She turned then and said, “They open?”

And then her stomach clenched and she forgot how to think.

He was beautiful. Put together by a master, his light brown hair streaked with gold, his brown eyes framed by long lashes. His nose was straight, his jaw strong and sculpted.

His body was toned beneath his dark suit. Not too musclebound, not too skinny. Just right.

But he wore an expression of disdain as if everything he saw did not meet with expectations, and since he was looking right at Delia, she could guess what she looked like.

Red corkscrews would be waving wildly around her head. Her hair could be tamed but it took a long time and a lot of effort and she’d made peace with it years ago. Paint-spattered clothes that even without the paint wouldn’t have looked like much. It was hard to get into fashion when you didn’t have much money and everything you owned eventually got paint on it anyway.

Delia didn’t care much what she looked like, her paintings showed the world who she was, but next to him she felt unkempt.

Next to him, Martha Stewart would feel unkempt, so Delia laid the blame where it was due. At his feet.

He said, “How long will this take?”

She’d only ever met with the scary-efficient secretary before and suddenly Delia was missing her.

She said, “It will take less time if I don’t have to work around you.”

He sat down at his desk and waved behind him at the bookcase. “This bookcase was built in this room, it doesn’t fit through the doors. And every time my mother redecorates my office, I move out. Every time I move the contents of this bookcase, something goes missing. I’m not moving it again.”

Delia stared at him, her eyebrows knitted together. “Why does your mother redecorate your office?”

“It used to be hers.”

“Huh.”

“So, again, how long will this take?”

Delia looked up at the ceiling. “I was hired to paint the whole thing. It’s going to take a while.”

When she looked back at him, his eyes were closed, his face pained.

Delia said, “Does your mother redecorate your office just to get you out of it?”

He opened his eyes and said, “The ceiling will take less time if you actually start.”

She turned back to the roller, filling it with light ochre, and muttered, “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?”

“The ceiling will take less time if you don’t speak.”

She said over her shoulder, “Do you think so? I’ll have to try that.”

Delia rolled the base coat across the ceiling, finishing half of her half before she couldn’t stand it anymore and turned back to him.

“You don’t care at all what I paint on your ceiling, do you?”

He didn’t look up from his work. “No.”

“So I could paint Lucifer’s brothel up here and you wouldn’t say a peep?”

“Don’t paint Lucifer’s brothel on my ceiling.”

“You just said…” She trailed off when he raised his head to look at her. It wasn’t a mean look, a mad look. It was just his attention was focused on her.

He stared at her and she stared back, not thinking, until he finally said, “Just what exactly does Lucifer’s brothel look like?”

Delia shook her hair and turned back to the roller. “Now you’ll never know.”

“And that truly is a shame.”

She finished the half of his ceiling she had access to without talking to him again and started cleaning up for the day. When her paints were stored, when she’d cleaned her roller in the bathroom down the hall because she wasn’t allowed to use his, she turned to find him watching her.

He said, “Done already?”

“It needs to dry. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

He nodded. “You’ve signed the confidentiality agreement? You know anything you see or hear doesn’t leave this room.”

She’d signed the confidentiality agreement. She wasn’t a lawyer, hadn’t even had it checked by one, but she was pretty sure it had said that if she blabbed about anything regarding Mr. Cabot or his company that he would own her. Her, her children, her children’s children.

She said, “Would I be here if I hadn’t?”

His eyes sharpened as he looked at her and she said, “Believe me, I don’t care what it is you do here.”

His eyes ran up to her hair, then down to her bootie-covered boots. “I believe you. Do you even know what we make?”

Her face blanked as she thought about it. She said slowly, “You make something? Here?”

His lips twitched. “We don’t make it here, we just run the business from here.”

“What is it you make?”

“Paper.”

She turned away. “Yeah, I don’t care.”

She took her booties off, checking her boots for paint carefully.

When she turned back around, his lips were still twitching.

She shoved her arms through her coat and waved at him like a demented cheerleader. “See you tomorrow!”

He said, “I. Can’t. Wait.”

Delia went straight to the bank, opened a new bank account and deposited her check. Three months’ salary that needed to last six.

Not the worst place she’d ever been, actually.

And, okay, she was going to have to work adjacent to Mr. Chipper there but the money was going to come in handy when Justine finally kicked her out.

And, okay, he was at least a little bit funny. If you thought perfect assholes were funny.

And, okay, she’d never seen a man as beautiful as him in real life. She might have to do a few sketches of him.

She actually was feeling better and better about painting this ceiling.

Or, at least she didn’t want to jump in front of a bus anymore.

Progress.

She met Justine at the bar after work. They sat on bar stools and drank light beer and ate peanuts.

Justine raised her glass. “To a paying job.”

Delia clinked her glass. “To money in the bank.”

“To clients with money.”

Delia took a drink, holding it her mouth and tasting it, then saying, “You have gone too far, sir. Too far.”

“You are going to have to get over this aversion you have to money. Money pays for beer.”

“Eh. I could live without light beer.”

Justine said, “Money pays for paint.”

“I know I have a thing about money. But isn’t there a point where more money is just pointless?”

“I don’t think you’ve reached that point yet.”

Delia laughed and took another slow taste of beer. “I know. And I know that most people don’t start buying paintings, or want to paint their ceilings in bad taste, until money is pointless. I should get over it.”

“A painted ceiling is not necessarily in bad taste.”

“I think I can do something with it. I’ve decided I’ve been given carte blanche since Mr. Chipper doesn’t care. I’ll just paint whatever I want.”

Justine said, “You would have done that anyway. You just would have hidden it. And Mr. Chipper?”

Delia laughed and closed her eyes, picturing him sitting at his desk. Typing with no expression on his face, no emotion. Except maybe disgust that his ceiling was getting painted. Disgust and resignation.

“He’s beautiful, Justine. You’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as he is. Way beyond pretty. Beyond good-looking or even hot. Beautiful. I stopped thinking when I saw him.”

Justine said, “I know what’s coming next.”

They nodded in unison and said, “An asshole.”

Delia said, “You can’t be that beautiful and not be an asshole. It messes with you.”

“And he has money.”

“I know! If you’re rich, you should be butt-ugly. Even things out.”

“Just don’t get fired, okay? Ignore his beauty, get over his money, don’t taunt him. Don’t get fired.”

Delia sighed. It was long and heartfelt and she said, “I could have a lot of fun with him.”

Justine shook her head, draining her glass.

Delia said, “He wants his ceiling painted as much as I want to do it. I don’t think he could fire me.” She thought about it a little more. “He could probably fire me. There are probably other starving artists who would paint a ceiling in return for signing a confidentiality agreement and not using his bathroom.”

“Probably. Why does he want/not want his ceiling painted?”

“Apparently Mother wanted his ceiling painted. He looked like Mother frequently wants things that annoy and inconvenience him. And of course he does it.”

Justine ate one peanut, brushing the shell carefully onto a napkin. “Don’t knock keeping mother happy too hard. It’s paying for this beer.”

“Yeah. But don’t make me pay for Paul’s when he gets here. He can afford his own.”

“Paul’s not coming.”

“Why? He loves to drink expensive microbrews that cost three times as much as a regular ol’ Bud.”

When Justine shrugged unhappily, Delia said, “Are you fighting?”

Justine wobbled her head. “No, but he’s being weird. I know he’s busy but…”

“Is it weird like let’s take a step back or weird like this just isn’t going to work? Or weird like he’s just tired and working too hard?”

“It’s weird like…weird. Like things were going so well and now they’re not.” Justine’s head hit the bar softly and she mumbled, “I’m thirty-six. I don’t have time for weirdness.”

Delia nodded. Thirty-six. The big 4-0 was staring them in the face. That big bitch of a 4-0 with one front tooth missing, a homemade shank in her left hand, her right hand beckoning you into the utilitarian shower behind her.

The thing was you couldn’t get away from her. She was coming. She was coming and she was going to enjoy it.

And maybe it was possible for you to enjoy it as well but from here it didn’t seem likely. Or even healthy.

Justine’s head came back up and she flung her arms into the air. “I only have four years left! Four years to find someone I like enough, who likes me enough, then to move in together, then get married, then pop two kids out. Four years.”

Delia motioned to the bartender. “We’re going to need another one over here.” She pulled Justine’s arms back down and rubbed soothingly. “Do you like him enough?”

“I don’t know! Do I? Or am I settling? Am I getting desperate? Oh, god. He can smell it. I’m getting desperate and he can smell it and it’s freaking him out.”

Justine was freaking Delia out so that was entirely possible.

But friends did not say that out loud. Ever.

Friends said, “Oh, please. Like any man is sophisticated enough for that. All they think about is food and sex. Maybe he was hungry. Maybe that was the weirdness.”

Delia glared at the man sitting two stools down staring wide-eyed at Justine and flicked her fingers at him to look away.

Justine turned in her seat toward Delia. “You think the weirdness is he’s hungry? That’s the best you can come up with?”

“I’m just saying. You have no idea what the weirdness is. But he’s a man. My guess is low blood sugar. Or blue balls. You know how grumpy they get when they’re backed up.”

That finally made Justine laugh and she closed her eyes.

Delia said, “He’s been busy, right? Too busy to make some snuggly time with you?”

Justine sighed. “Yes.”

“So either he’s cheating on you–”

Justine’s eyes popped open and Delia said, “In which case I will hold him down and you will wield the knife. Or he’s just busy and cranky. In which case you will bring him an extra-large pizza and make sure you’re not wearing underwear when you do it.”

Justine thought about it while she gulped down her second beer.

Delia ate the peanuts. They were free.

Justine put her glass down and nodded. “Yes. That sounds like a plan.” She slid off the stool and nodded again. “That sounds like a pretty good plan. I’ll take a pizza to his office, and he’d better be there alone and hungry.”

Delia said, “Right now?”

Justine nodded and Delia eyed her, mentally calculating how drunk she could be after two beers.

Seemed like just drunk enough. “Want me to come with you?”

“No. You okay to get back home?”

“I know the way. Call me if you need to make bail. I can actually pay it now.”

Justine gripped Delia’s hands. “Do you think he’s cheating on me?”

“I have no idea. Do you think he is?”

Justine closed her eyes, holding tight. She finally shook her head. “No. He’s just being weird.”

“Ask him about it. After the pizza.”

Justine sighed. “That’s a good plan, too.”

“Why is it good plans are never fun?”

“Good plans are usually work.”

Delia said, “That’s why I’ve never had one. Going with the flow is a lot less work.”

Delia watched Justine leave and grabbed another handful of peanuts. She nursed her beer until the bar filled up and the bartender started sending her dirty looks, and then she left, huddling in her coat against the light wind, and hoping Justine was warm inside with Paul. Hoping the weirdness wasn’t the end.

Justine wanted it all. She always had. Wanted a house, with two kids playing in the front yard and a husband mowing the lawn. Wanted to be inside, typing with one hand and baking cookies with the other.

Delia wished with all her heart that Justine would get it. Delia just wasn’t sure it existed, that it could exist. But if it did, Justine would get it. Hopefully.

Delia didn’t want a lawn and she’d already had a husband.

She hated typing and couldn’t bake.

But she knew what she wanted now. She wanted enough.

Her mom and G.K. Chesterton would say there were two ways to get enough. Make more or want less.

Delia had wanted less for a long time now. She was starting to think it was time to make more.

And that’s why she would paint Mr. Chipper’s ceiling and not get fired.

She would not get fired.

The scary-efficient secretary held her hand up when she saw Delia the next day and said, “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Delia sat and twiddled her thumbs. She watched people walking back and forth, talking on their phones, tapping on their tablets. She was just starting to think about picking up the Harvard Business Review- she was that bored- when the woman finally nodded at her.

“You can go in now.”

Delia breathed in and told herself she would not get fired. She was thinking about making a plan sometime in the near future and getting fired wouldn’t help with that. She’d never made a plan before but she was pretty sure getting fired was never on it.

Mr. Chipper was sitting behind his desk, typing, and she went straight for her booties, pulling them on and looking at the ceiling for wet spots.

He said, “Er, painter?”

She turned her head. “Excuse me?”

“Your name, please.”

“Delia.”

He didn’t say anything and she said, “Woodson?”

“Ms. Woodson, these are for you.”

He held out a small plastic box to her and she looked at it. He’d gotten her something?

She started smiling a little stupidly and she walked over, reaching for them. “What is this?”

“Earplugs. For when I need to make a call I don’t want you to hear.”

The warm feeling that had begun to spread through her body turned to ice. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I think these will make both of us more comfortable.”

She stared at him, dead-eyed. “Yes, I feel much more comfortable now. Thank you ever so much.”

He raised one perfectly curved eyebrow. “Sarcasm?”

She raised one bright red eyebrow in reply and turned away. She shoved the little box into her pocket.

She would use the earplugs.

Because his voice made her think of crackling fires, hot cocoa, and snuggling under the blankets. Everything warm and good when the world was cold and harsh.

And his words made her want to stab him with a dull knife.

She pushed him out of her mind, trying to pretend he didn’t exist, wasn’t sitting over there typing and being beautiful.

She dragged one end of the scaffolding a foot towards the eastern window, then grabbed the other end and dragged it a foot. Back and forth, back and forth. It would take a few minutes until it was positioned where she wanted it.

Mr. Chipper watched her with wide eyes and she said, “I’m stronger than I look.”

“Should I call someone to help you?”

That made her laugh and she shook her head. “No. Don’t call someone.”

Oh, what it must be like to be rich. To have so much done for you that your first thought was to call someone.

He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. She held up her hand to stop him. “I can do it.”

“Obviously. Will it get done faster if I help?”

She didn’t want to agree with him so she didn’t say anything, just moved one end as far as she could. He grabbed the other side and moved it.

Her side, his side, her side, his side.

They got it positioned just right and Delia pushed out a thank you between tight lips.

He nodded and walked back to his desk.

She spread out another cloth to protect the carpet from paint, filled her palette, and climbed up the ladder to the top of the scaffolding. It was positioned as close to the ceiling as they could get it and she crawled in, flipping to her back carefully.

She lay there, pushing herself into the boards, waiting for her stomach to stop rolling.

She wiggled a little bit, seeing how sturdy and balanced the scaffolding was. When it didn’t budge, she let out a long breath.

She would get used to being this high. She would. In a week it wouldn’t even faze her to be up here.

But right now, her lizard brain was screaming at her that she did not belong up here.

God, ceilings. Stupid, high ceilings.

She loaded her brush, using her right hand. She was left-handed, and while she wasn’t exactly ambidextrous, she could use both hands to paint. Broad strokes with her right hand, details with her left. It lengthened how long she could paint without cramping, although she still needed to take short breaks to rest and stretch.

She turned on the hourly chime of her watch to remind her. When she painted, she lost track of time. Even when she was painting stupid clouds on a stupid ceiling.

Not even half an hour later, Mr. Chipper said, “Ms. Woodson? The earplugs, please.”

He couldn’t see her so she raised her lips in a sneer, growling silently at the cloud she’d just painted.

She rolled the earplugs up, stuffing them into her ears, and when they were set she waved her hand over the side of the scaffolding and yelled, “We’re good to go, Master.”

She smiled and gave the cloud some sharp white teeth.

Ten minutes later, her stomach was roiling and her head was spinning.

She yanked the earplugs out. “Oh, god. I don’t think I can wear these.”

She grabbed the edges of the scaffolding, gripping tight, and swallowed hard.

“Ms. Woodson?”

“I can’t hear with them in. I don’t feel like I’m balanced. This room’s not moving, is it?”

“No.”

“Oh, good.”

She closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth until the room stopped spinning.

She opened her eyes gingerly, and when the clouds stayed where she’d painted them, she turned slowly to her stomach and crawled to the ladder.

She resisted the urge to kiss the ground when she made it all the way down.

Mr. Chipper said, “Are you acrophobic?”

“No. Just need to take a little break. Stretch.”

For some reason he didn’t believe her. “You’re afraid of heights and you’re painting a ceiling?”

“No. I’m not afraid of heights, I’m just not used to being up there. I’ll get used to it.”

He rubbed his forehead and she two-timed it out of his office and down to the bathroom.

She splashed cold water on her face and patted the back of her neck with a wet paper towel.

What was her plan again? To paint a ceiling and not get fired?

She was doing a great job so far.

She did a few stretches, shook her hands out, and when she’d stopped fear-sweating she slowly walked back down the hall.

She walked right past his secretary without stopping and opened the door.

He didn’t look up and she walked over to him, dropping the earplugs on his totally empty desk. No clutter, no pictures. Nothing.

She said, “I swear to god, I won’t tell anyone whatever boring thing you talk about in here. If I do, I know you’ll take everything I own, everything I have ever owned, everything I will ever own.”

He looked up. “I will, Ms. Woodson. I will take everything.”

She nodded, and this time she didn’t think good luck when she agreed. She didn’t think she had nothing for him to take in the first place.

She would have enough and it would start in this room. And not him or her mouth or a high ceiling would stop her.

She looked up at the scaffolding. She looked up at the ceiling.

And then, she climbed back up.

Delia picked dinner up, and even if it was frozen dinners and bagged salad, she was at least able to pay for it. Had been happy to pay for it.

Justine looked in the grocery bag and said, “I’ll have to teach you how to boil water.”

“Why? These noodles are already cooked. All I have to do is press start on the microwave.”

“How did you grow up in a commune and never learn to cook?”

Delia pressed start on the microwave. “I was too busy painting. There were lots of people who could cook and did. I never had to learn.”

“Just when I forget how strange you are, I’m reminded. I imagine you wandering between huts, every woman treating you like their own child.”

It wasn’t too far off. She’d had a peaceful, zombie-like childhood. Everyone blissed out, the children running around doing whatever they wanted. As far from Justine’s structured piano-lesson, ballet-class childhood as you could get.

Delia said, “I don’t know how we ever became friends.”

“You learned I could cook and latched on.”

Delia chuckled. “That was probably it.”

Although it was more like Delia had seen someone with passion, with purpose, and had followed the fire. She was like a moth, attracted to the flicker of life. Eighteen years later and she was still flapping around, following Justine’s brightly-lit path.

They sat at the counter, Justine insisting they eat on plates instead of out of the plastic.

Delia ate a mouthful of salad and said, “You came home late last night.”

Justine smiled. “He was hungry.”

“Good. Is the weirdness gone?”

“For now.” Justine sighed down at her plate. “But I’m getting desperate. It will come back. How do I stop it from coming back?”

“Not want it.”

“But I do. I want a home, a family. I want to come home and not be lonely.”

“Then I can’t help you.”

Justine narrowed her eyes. “You want it, too. Why can’t I smell your desperation?”

Delia held out her hands, palm up. “The universe will provide.”

“Don’t give me that crap. You don’t even believe it.”

Delia half-believed it. It was buried so deep that she knew she could never dig it all out. “Maybe I just don’t want it as bad as you do. Maybe I just don’t think I can do anything about getting it.”

“I know you’re wrong. I can do something about it.”

Delia watched Justine attack her noodles, watched with wide eyes. Then she said, “No.”

Delia pointed her finger in Justine’s face. “No. I know what you’re thinking and no. That’s not a plan. That’s a Hail Mary. That’s a last ditch effort. That’s desperate.”

Justine angled her head away and said softly, “It would be easy. So easy.”

“Justine!”

“Haven’t you ever wanted something so bad that you would do anything to get it? Anything?”

“Is he the one?”

Justine closed her eyes, her voice laced with fear and sorrow. “I don’t know!”

“If you do this, he won’t be.”

“I can’t start over, Delia. There’s no time. I’ve been in Boston for nearly a year now and have finally met someone who I might like enough who might like me enough. Another year before we move in together, two years before we get married. If it’s not him, then tack on another year before I find another someone I might like enough who might like me enough.”

“God, Justine. You need to quit planning it out. This is something that you just can’t control. You’re not in charge of it.”

“But it’s my life. I can have anything I want if I can just figure out how to make it work.”

Delia shook her head. “No. You can put yourself out there. You can work toward what you want but you can’t make it happen.”

Justine turned toward her. “I can make it happen. If I’m willing to pay the price.”

“And you’re willing to give up letting it happen on its own? Willing to give up knowing that even if you hadn’t trapped him, he would want everything with you? That would be hard to live with.”

“And when do you think it’s going to happen on its own? I lived in San Francisco for seventeen years and never made it to the move-in stage.”

“Yes, but this is Boston. Maybe the men are different here.” Delia cocked her head and thought about it. “In fact, I can pretty much guarantee that the men are different here. Give Paul a chance. Give yourself a chance at having everything.”

“I can wait as long as there’s no weirdness again.”

“Did you ask him about it?”

When Justine shook her head, Delia said, “I don’t know what it is you want. What you think you’re missing. Marriage is nothing. It means absolutely nothing when you are not with the right person. And if Paul was the right person, you could ask him about it.”

“I don’t want to know what the weirdness was. Because what if it’s something I can’t fix?”

“You can give me a lot of advice that I would take. Because you have a brain on your shoulders and fire inside you to get what you want. But take it from someone who knows. No empty apartment, no solitary Friday night, is anywhere near as lonely as when you are alone when you’re with your husband.”

Justine took her hand and held it. “I don’t want you to be right about this.”

“It does not happen often but in this, I am.” Delia patted her hand. “I think Paul could be the one. The right one, the one you’ll fight to make it work with. Not because you’re running out of time but because you’re better together.”

Justine took her hand back and picked up her fork. “Maybe.”

“Move toward your goal, Justine. Ask him to move in with you. Or give him a key. I’ll move on out and you two can nest together and find out if you’re lovebirds.”

“You can’t move out. Where would you go?”

“I’ll rent a room. Know anybody with an empty bedroom?”

Justine laughed. “No. You can stay here as long as you need.”

“I need a bedroom. You need your couch back.”

Justine shook her head and Delia said, “Yes. Because you’re going to go ask Paul to move in with you. How much do you think… Never mind, I remembered who I was talking about. His apartment probably costs three times as much as it needs to.”

Justine smiled. “I know you like him despite the fact that he’s a yuppie lawyer.”

“Well, I like you despite the fact that you’re a yuppie accountant.”

Justine side-hugged her. “And we like you despite the fact that you’re a hippie artist without a dollar to your name.”

“You know what’s really funny? I actually have a dollar to my name right now. It feels pretty good.”