the door and get in bed fast enough, I’ll miss Cooper’s return. I know Sarah would accuse me of practicing avoidance techniques.
But hey, when it comes to Cooper sometimes avoidance is the only way to go.
23
’Cause when she’s his wife
And not you
She’s not the only one
Who’s playin’ the fool.
“Marriage Song”
Written by Heather Wells
I sneak away the next morning to avoid Cooper. I do this by rising at the ungodly hour of eight, and manage to get bathed and dressed and out the door by eight-thirty. This is so unlike my usual schedule—of not appearing downstairs before eight fifty-five—that I avoid everyone in the house, including my dad, who is still tootling his Indian flute “tribute to the morning” song when I creep by his room, Timberlands in hand so as not to cause the floorboards to creak.
There’s no sign of Cooper—a peek through his partly open bedroom door reveals a neatly made bed—or, more ominously, Jordan. The blankets beneath which Jordan had slept are folded at the end of the couch, and the salad bowl sits on top of them, mercifully empty. It seems clear to me what’s happened: Cooper roused his brother and is currently transporting him in his own vehicle uptown. There’s no way Jordan would have woken so early on his own the morning after a tear like last night’s. I’ve known Jordan to sleep until four in the afternoon the night after a carouse. Our mutual dislike of morning was one of the only traits we had in common—besides an affection for Girl Scout cookies (him: Thin Mints. Me: Do-Si-Does).
Feeling as if I’ve just won the lottery, I let Lucy out to do her business, grab a chocolate-chip protein bar (for energy during the walk to work), let her back in, and take off—only to find a note taped to the front door.
Heather, it reads, in Cooper’s neat, infinitesimally tiny handwriting, which I have been forced to learn to read in my capacity as his bookkeeper,we’ve got to talk.
Heather, we’ve got to talk? Heather, we’ve got to talk?Could there be four more ominous words in the English language than we’ve got to talk? I mean, seriously, who wants to see a note that says THAT taped to their front door?
No one, that’s who.
Which is why I pull it off and crumple it into my pocket on my way out the door.
What could Cooper want to talk to me about? The fact that I dragged his brother home last night, dead drunk, to sleep it off on his couch, when Cooper’s made it more than clear he wants nothing to do with his immediate family? The fact that I snuck out to investigate Lindsay Combs’s murder, without telling anyone where I was going and after I’d sworn that this time I would leave the detecting up to the professionals? Or possibly the fact that I endangered the life of one of my residents while doing so?
Or maybe it didn’t even have anything to do with what happened last night. Maybe Cooper’s decided he’s sick of putting up with the Wellses and all of their quirks—Dad’s Indian flute and my tendency to drag home drunk pop stars and twenty-one-year-old baggy-panted wannabe gangstas. Maybe he’s going to toss us all out on our ears. Some of us would certainly deserve that kind of treatment.
And I’m not talking about Lucy or my dad.
My walk to work is reflective and sad. Even the protein bar tastes a lot more like cardboard and a lot less like a Kit Kat bar than usual. I don’t want to get kicked out of Cooper’s house. It’s the only home I’ve ever known, really, not counting the apartment Jordan and I lived in together, now forever tainted by the memory of seeing him with Tania Trace’s lips locked around his—
“Heather!” Reggie, back on his usual corner, seems surprised to see me out and about so early.I’m surprised to see him back at work. Though the snow has stopped and the plows have made some headway, the streets are still mere narrow strips between vast mountains of piled-up snow.
“Morning, Reggie,” I say, coming out from behind a six-foot drift covering some unfortunate person’s car. “That was some storm, huh?”
“I wasn’t too happy about it,” Reggie says. He’s bundled up against the cold in a gold Tommy Hilfiger parka. A paper cup of coffee steams in his gloved hands. “Sometimes I think it might be better to return to the islands.”
“But what would you do there?” I ask, genuinely interested.
“My parents have a banana plantation,” Reggie says. “I could help manage it. They have wanted me to come home to do so for a long time. But I make more money here.”
I can’t help but mentally contrast the Winer boys and their family situation with Reggie’s. Doug and Steve Winer’s dad wants them to make their own fortunes, and so the boys have turned to selling drugs. Reggie’s parents want him to take over the family business, but he makes more money selling drugs. The whole thing is just… stupid.
“I think you’d be better off on the banana farm, Reggie,” I say. “For what it’s worth. It’d be a lot less dangerous.”
Reggie seems to consider this. “Except during hurricane season,” he finally concedes. “But if I were back there, I would miss seeing your happy face every morning, Heather.”
“I could come visit,” I say. “I’ve never been to a banana farm.”
“You wouldn’t like it,” Reggie says, with a grin that shows all his gold teeth. “We get up very early there, before light. Because of the roosters.”
“God,” I say, horrified. “That sounds awful. No wonder you prefer it in New York.”
“Plus, if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere,” Reggie says, with a shrug.
“Totally,” I say. “Hey, did you hear anything about that Doug Winer guy I asked you about?”
Reggie’s smile fades. “I did not,” he says. “Although I did hear there was a bit of a ruckus in one of the fraternities last night.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Really? Wow. What kind of ruckus?”
“One that apparently involved your ex, Jordan Cartwright,” Reggie says. “But that must be just a rumor, because what would the famous Jordan Cartwright be doing at a fraternity party two nights before his wedding?”
“You’re right,” I say. “That must be just a rumor. Well, I better go. Don’t want to be late!”
“No,” Reggie agrees gravely. “Not you.”
“See you later! Stay warm!” I wave cheerfully, then duck around the corner onto Washington Square West. Phew! That was close. I can’t believe word about what happened last night has already reached the drug dealers. I wonder if it will make Page Six. Thank God the Greeks don’t have a sign-in policy. I’d be in so much trouble at work if it got out I’d been there… .
When I walk through the front door of Fischer Hall at twenty of nine, Pete, who is at the security desk, nearly chokes on his bagel.
“What happened?” he asks, with mock worry. “Is it the end of times?”
“Very funny,” I say to him. “I’ve been here on time before, you know.”
“Yeah,” Pete says. “But never early.”
“Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf,” I say.
“And maybe I’ll get a raise this year,” Pete says. Then laughs heartily at his own joke.
I make a face at him, check in with the student front desk worker to collect the briefing forms from the night before, and head to my office. I see, to my relief, that the outer door is closed and locked. Yes! I’m the first one in! Won’t Tom be surprised when he sees me!
