Be My Neat-Heart (10 page)

W
e are nearing the finish line and not a moment too soon.

My affection for Molly is growing in an inverse relationship to my dislike for her brother. He set up camp at her house again when we moved to Molly's home office, and demanded to see every scrap of paper or envelope we ran across.

“Molly, I can't believe the unmitigated, unimaginable mess you've got here! How you cope is beyond me.” He threw the papers he'd been looking at onto the floor and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, a gesture I'd become far too familiar with lately. “What am I going to do with you?”

Molly froze for a moment to stare at him. “What
are
you going to do with me, Jared? I need to know.”

The sparks between them flew so hot and bright that I found myself backing away. This was a mostly invisible conversation, the kind only siblings or mates can have with one another.

Then Jared remembered that I was there, sighed, rose to his feet and walked out the door without saying a word or looking back.

When I turned to Molly, I was surprised to see the expression on her face. She looked concerned. Not for herself but
for
me.
“Don't worry about that, Sammi, he's just having a bad day. He'll be fine tomorrow.”

“Why do you keep protecting him, Molly? I don't get it. Your job is on the line and all you care about is whether
I
like him or not?”

She looked at me as though I were a very slow child who couldn't comprehend the ramifications of what had just happened. “It's
okay,
Sammi. It really is. You don't have to take on my battle with my brother. Really.”

But I had. I'd stepped across a line and I knew it. I'd become Molly's friend, not merely her consultant. It was time for me to quit.

 

She didn't take the news of my resignation well.

“Are you sure I can do this alone?” Molly fussed unhappily. “Can I call you if I need help?”

“Call me as a friend anytime. If you need professional services, I have the names of some great people you can use. I wrote Jared a note to let him know what I've decided. He'll get back to me when he returns from his business trip so you don't have to tell him, okay?” I put my hand on her arm because she looked as though she was about to burst into tears.

“I don't see why…”

“I've become too close to this situation, Molly. I'm no longer objective about you and your brother. I should have kept my distance and not become so involved with you. It's a policy I have. It wasn't professional.” I felt myself tear up. “I'm sorry.”

“You mean you can either be a coach or a friend but not both?”

“It's my policy, Molly.” I took her hand. “But I am still your friend.”

“I know how protective you've been of me, but it's not necessary. Really.”

“There you go again, defending Jared.”

Molly looked as though there were something she desperately wanted to tell me. She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again.

“I won't go away mad,” I said with more lightness than I felt. “I'll just go away.”

She leaned to give me a hug. Her smile returned. “I wish you'd met us in different circumstances. Jared and I are really cool people, you know.”

“I know.”
About you, at least.

As I drove away from Molly's house, I took a peek in my rearview mirror. She was waving. And the mystery of her obstinate brother was no closer to being cleared up than the day I'd met him in Ethan Carver's office almost a month ago.

 

“Your mail is here,” Ben announced. He's come twice this week to work on my furnace. It scares me a little, but he's promised he isn't hooking it up to anything else in the basement—especially not the water heater, the freezer or propane tank.

“Thanks, sweetie.” I gave him a hug. I'm more grateful than ever for Ben these days. He never has a dark moment or a flash of annoyance. I appreciate him more after having spent time with Jared.

“No problem.” He held up a large, impressive looking envelope. “What's this? Looks important.”

“Probably more expensive junk mail. Here, let me have it.” I reached for the piece and noticed Molly's return address in the left-hand corner. “What on earth…”

I tore into the envelope, which looked very much like an oversize wedding invitation. The inside envelope was addressed simply “Sammi.” Inside that was a formal-looking gift certificate.

A note had been added to the printed invitation.

And there was Molly's signature, scrawled on the bottom line with a little smiley face and a series of exclamation points.

“What is it?” Ben peered curiously over my shoulder. He was holding Imelda, who thinks she is a lap dog, even though she's the size of a full-grown lab or standard poodle. She panted and her hot, doggie breath warmed my neck.

“A certificate for a weekend at a spa.”

“Cool. Who from?”

“A former client of mine.”

“Wow. She must really like you.” Ben moved Imelda so that she draped over his arm and shoulder. She managed to hang there, happily imitating a bad fur boa.

Anytime Imelda is picked up and Zelda is left on the floor, Imelda is pleased. She has issues with Zelda being able to leap her way from floor to chair to kitchen counter to the top of the refrigerator. I don't really blame her since Zelda then sits hissing and taunting poor earthbound Imelda. And that's only
one of the antics I see those two perform. I shudder to think what happens when I'm not home and they have the run of the place. I have never quite decided how the two of them managed to empty all my bottom cupboards while I was out on a date. I found tortilla chips in the bathroom, a scrub brush in my closet and an entire bag of navy beans chewed open and spread across my bed.

Neither pet approved of that guy from the get-go. When, on our second date, Zelda snagged his trousers and Imelda ate the wallet that had fallen into the cushions of my couch, I knew that he did not have their stamp of approval. Interestingly enough, Jared, who doesn't have
my
stamp of approval, has received theirs. Maybe their instincts are dulling.

“She shouldn't have done that,” I murmured, gazing at the beautiful invitation. It was a wonderful thank-you gift. I can't accept it, of course, but I appreciate the thought.

 

“But you have to do it!” Molly said the next day when she called. “Don't refuse. You've helped me so much that I'll never be able to repay you. Take this weekend for yourself. Please?”

I glanced at the calendar. The weekend of the 23rd was open.

“It's too much, Molly.”

“I have a friend who is a part owner. I never pay full price. Don't argue with me, Sammi. Just go. I'm not taking ‘no' for an answer. I don't want any more disappointment this week.”

My antennae went up. “‘Disappointment'? What do you mean?”

Molly sighed deeply. “If you must know, Jared and I had a little trouble.”

“What kind of ‘trouble'?” I was suddenly filled with misgiving.

“I made a little mistake and he fired me.”

“Fired you? What was the ‘little' mis—”

Molly cut me short.

“I don't want to talk about it right now. Right now I want to enjoy giving you this gift. The very best thing you can do for me is accept it and go there to enjoy it. You and I will have plenty of time to discuss the other issue when you get back.” Her voice was firm.

“But what about you? Are you okay?”

“I refuse to discuss it,” Molly said firmly.

What Molly lacks in organizational skills, she makes up for in persuasive abilities. Almost before I knew what had happened, I'd promised that I would go to the spa the coming weekend. Molly made it sound as if not doing it would have been a slap in her face.

“It's over-the-top, really,” I told Wendy later. “She wouldn't have had to…”

“But she did, so accept graciously and enjoy it.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“Of course I am,” Wendy said cheerfully. With the promise painfully extracted from me, she added, “The weekend is only four days away. I'll help you plan what to pack.”

 

The Oasis Spa Welcomes You!

I looked at the engraved sign over the door and then back at the taillights of Wendy's car as she drove away.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, me riding with her to the spa and staying there while Wendy went up north to visit her sister and brother-in-law. But now that she was leaving and my only means of escape was vanishing, I began to feel trapped. What if I hated it here? What if the masseuse was Hildegard the Horrible and she pummeled me into a visit to an emergency room? What if spa food meant a sprig of parsley, a wisp of carrot and a gallon of water? What if…

Snap out of it! You're awful-izeing again.

Awful-izeing is my term for someone who can't look at a problem without immediately going to the worst possible scenario or outcome. Many of my clients awful-ize. “I'll never get this mess sorted out,” or “I'm going to have to live like this forever,” or, my favorite, “It's genetic. Everyone in my family does it.”

Still, I felt a flutter of excitement in my belly as I looked around the foyer. There was a lavish marble floor beneath my feet, intricate columns and arches leading toward several long halls, a fountain in which a lovely maiden poured endless water from an ewer into a pool and piped-in music that made my muscles relax just listening to it.

By the time I reached my room—a suite decorated with voluptuous cherubs and every hue of pink—I knew that this was the best gift I'd ever received and if I were smart, I'd take advantage of it.

Wendy had picked out my “spa wardrobe” and included two sleek, body hugging leotards and two dresses to wear for the formal evening meals. One was a clever, long-sleeved knit that covered me neck-to-knee in front, and left my back bare. The other dress was sleeveless and the pale icy-blue of my eyes. In it I look like a Valkyrie, one of those maidens from Norse myth, Amazons with “golden hair and snowy arms.” I could practically hear music from Wagner's libretto
Die Walküre
playing in my mind. Brunhilde-on-the-move, that's me.

There was a tiny knock on the door as I hung my clothing in the closet.

“Come in!”

A willowy, reed-thin woman entered and glided toward me as if she were on wheels. Her hair was pulled so tightly away from her face that her eyes slanted much like Zelda's, sort of a ponytail-cum-facelift. Her skin gleamed—a result, no doubt,
of some of the spa treatments offered here. The list was so long that I'd given up deciding which procedures I should choose.

“I am Olga, manager of the spa.” She drew out her name so it sounded like Ooolgaaaa. She thrust a list into my hand. “Ms. Molly Hamilton has chosen these treatments as part of your spa package. Are they acceptable to you?”

Molly had thought of everything—including the treatments my invitation had called “optional.” I barely glanced at the list. “Whatever Molly thinks is fine with me.” Frankly, after viewing the spa menu, I didn't care. It all sounded wonderful.

“Good.” Ooolgaaaa referred to her wristwatch. “You are scheduled for a light lunch at one, after which you report to the spa area. They also have your schedule there and will move you from treatment room to treatment room. Please bring your bathing suit as you will have time to sit in our whirlpool during the afternoon.” She pointed to a fluffy pink robe hanging in the closet and then to a pair of matching slides. “Please wear these. And have a wonderful stay.” Her “wonderful” sounded like voooderfuuul, but I got the drift.

“Right. Lunch first.” I checked the schedule she'd given me. “Table twenty-eight in the green dining room. Then the spa rooms.”

She gave me an approving smile, as if I'd passed some undisclosed test. “Good. Please do not be late for or miss any of your appointments. We are tightly booked this weekend.” And she rolled out of my room on those ball-bearing feet of hers.

I looked down at my legs. Trying to get into the part of vacationer, I'd worn white caprilike pants and a splashy multi-colored tunic. It was a little loud, but Wendy had tie-dyed it for me and I wanted to wear it somewhere.

Feeling more festive than I had in weeks, I headed toward the first meal of the rest of my weekend.

T
he dining room of the Oasis is as lush and opulent as the rest of the facility. The tables were decorated in white linen with sterling silver accents. Crystal goblets filled with iced lemon water dotted every table, most of which were already filled with diners.

A waitress led me toward the far end of the room. A chatty little thing, she informed me of the prime real estate on which my table was located.

“Next to a window overlooking the grounds and one of the more private spots in the dining room. People often request the tables along that wall. I'm glad you planned ahead.”

“A friend arranged this for me.”

“How nice. Your friend thought of everything. Here we are. Have a seat. You'll be having a dining partner. I hope you don't mind. We are completely full this weekend. It's busy because of the large golf tournament on the grounds.” She twinkled at me. “Spouses come along and enjoy the spa while their partners are golfing. It keeps everyone happy.”

I knew that
I
was happy. I felt a little teary knowing that Molly, in spite of all her troubles with her traitorous brother,
had arranged this beautiful gift for me. She is the most generous soul I've ever met. My hand shook with emotion as I reached for my water glass.

Then the waitress handed me a note addressed to me, in Molly's distinctive hand.

“I was asked to give you this. Have a nice dinner.” And she sped away.

More from Molly? How could there possibly be more?

I slipped the notepaper from the envelope and opened it.

So like Molly to think she'd “done” something, to take responsibility for everything.

Scare who off? I thought dully, my brain not functioning at full throttle.

Then I heard the waitress returning.

“And this is where you'll be sitting, sir. I hope you enjoy your meal.”

I looked up with a smile on my face to greet my new dinner partner. The smile froze and shattered as I saw Jared Hamilton pull out the chair across from mine.

“You!”

He blinked and looked as dumbfounded and dismayed as I. “Sammi? Why…how…?” His forehead furrowed. “Molly strikes again.”

“What does Molly have to do with you being here?” I demanded, a sinking sensation forming in my stomach. Surely Molly wouldn't subject me to her brother's presence intentionally.

“She sent me.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an exact duplicate of the card I had received. “The little scamp said it was my birthday present and I was so cranky these days I needed to go
immediately.
”

“But why? If she sent me…she knows how I feel about…” I stopped just in time.

“About me? I'm sure you've told her often enough.” There was a hint of irritation in his voice. Then he read his note and began to look genuinely puzzled. “I don't see why…”

“She must have planned this before you
fired
her,” I said peevishly.

Jared stared at the card and shook his head. “No, she gave it to me after I fired her.”

“But why?”

“As a way of telling me she understood.”

“Then she understands more than I do!” I blurted, furious. “She is the sweetest, most generous, caring person…”

“I know all that,” Jared said wearily. “I've lived with her my entire life.”

“And you still had it in you to let her go? What does that make you?” I might have continued but at that moment a waitress came to the table with our lunch, a lovely piece of steamed salmon, an imaginatively arrayed bouquet of vegetables and a fruit bowl that looked like it had been arranged by a sculptor.

“Enjoy your meals.”

We both stared down at the food and then up at each other. I'd like to say that my righteous indignation won out and I stormed away from the table and out of the spa altogether, but I didn't. The food and my appetite prevailed. There was no way I was going to let this guy chase me away from a perfectly divine meal. Apparently the food won Jared over, too, because he didn't appear any more willing to give up his spot than I was mine.

Finally, something we have in common—we're both too stubborn for our own good.

I put my hands in my lap and prayed the most unappreciative table grace of my life.

Oh, Lord, thank You for this beautiful food, this wonderful place and the sweet friendship of Molly. Now, Lord, if it's in Your will, is there any way You can get this brother of hers off my back?

When I raised my head, I realized that Jared was saying grace as well and surmised that his words were probably very close to mine. What would God do in a case like this? When both parties are praying to get rid of each other?

“Why…” I began.

“I don't know,” he retorted.

“What was she thinking?”

“Molly doesn't think. She acts. Rashly.”

For once I had to agree with him.

“What can we do?”

He looked at me, considering his answer. “Eat?” he finally ventured.

Oh, why not.

I picked up my fork. I wasn't about to let the likes of Jared Hamilton ruin my appetite.

 

I escaped to my room after our silent, uncomfortable meal. I needed to think. Why had Molly sent Jared here? The man
fired her—she should have been furious with him. She wasn't rational, thinking Jared and I could become friends. Poor Molly is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She's a French fry short of an order, a crayon short of a box. That had to be it, she was suffering an emotional collapse. Friends? Jared and me? When lions lie down with lambs, maybe.

More determined than ever not to let Jared's presence ruin my good time and vowing to encourage Molly to see a physician when I got home, I put on shorts and a T-shirt, grabbed my swimsuit, flip-flops and fluffy robe and headed for the spa treatment area.

The treatment area is as elegant as the public areas in the spa. The tiles on the floor run down the halls to treatment rooms and halfway up the walls. They are large, thick, earthy looking and warm to the touch, signaling that they are heated from beneath. I gave my name to the woman at the large round desk. She looked on her list, nodded and gestured toward overstuffed sofas nearby to wait my turn.

I sat down and lay back against the cushions with my eyes closed. Ecstasy! I didn't have to worry about another thing—including making decisions—until I returned home. Then raised, anxious voices intruded upon my reverie. It was workmen and spa employees in conversation.

“What do you mean, there's no water on the other side? There
has
to be water We can't run a spa without water!”

“Sorry, but a pipe has broken under the floor in the men's whirlpool area. We turned off all the water to that area. Plumbers are coming but we're going to have to do some excavating to find exactly where the leak is. That means ripping up the tile, fixing the break, laying a new subfloor and retiling.”

“How long is this supposed to take?” It sounded like Olga speaking.

“It will take as long as it takes. Don't plan on using the men's side of the spa until noon tomorrow at the very earliest.”

“Are you out of your mind? Do you know how much people pay to stay here? We can't tell them ‘Sorry, we're closed,' just like that.”

“The women's spa is plenty big. Don't you have spare rooms over here?”

“The men's and women's spas are separate for a reason. Privacy.”

“Before you added on, wasn't that area used for everyone?”

“Yes, but we had a dividing wall in place then.”

“So put up another one. Close off some of the rooms so they can be used by the men.”

There was a long silence. “It wouldn't be my first choice, but it might work. Most of our guests are ladies this weekend since most of the gentlemen are out on the golf course during the day. There are some facilities that could be shared, I suppose.”

“We can make a wall, but we can't prevent sound from crossing back and forth. It wouldn't be very private.”

“It will have to do,” the voice with the most authority said. “Get someone in here right now to put up some dividers. Now.”

I groaned inwardly. Great. There went the peace and quiet I'd been so looking forward to. But how bad could it be?

 

Quite bad, I realized that afternoon as I walked down the hall to have my legs waxed. The treatment rooms, though sealed with doors, were open at the top, like cubicles in an office. Although sound didn't carry much, it was definitely not as private as secure rooms would have been.

Oh, well, I wasn't planning to talk to anyone, anyway. Nothing was going to ruin this wonderful gift. Even having leg hair ripped from my body with hot wax wouldn't deter me.

By the time I reentered the hallway, the makeshift dividers
were in place and draped with curtains. If I hadn't known better, I would have assumed it was intentional all along.

A young woman trotted toward me with a worried expression on her pretty face.

“I'm so sorry,” she began, “but due to some plumbing problems, we have to share the manicure and pedicure bays with the men's side.” She must have seen my alarm. “You won't be able to see each other because there are thick curtains around each pedicure chair, but sound may travel….”

There was no use fussing about the inconvenience. It would be over soon enough.

“That's fine. I'm sure it won't be a problem.”

The woman, relieved that I didn't complain, led me toward my next indulgence.

The luxurious pedicure chair looked like a throne. The heavily cushioned leather engulfed me as I scrambled into place. She turned on the massage mechanisim and rollers began to work the muscles in my back. Warm water was bubbling for me to sink my feet into and everything was in place for the manicure to follow. Then I caught a waft of almonds and vanilla. Aromatherapy, too.

“Do you care for a beverage? Pineapple juice? Apricot? Apple? No? Then I'll leave you for a few moments so you can relax and soak your feet before the pedicure.”

I sank into the chair and waited to be pampered.

I must have dozed off as my feet steeped in the aromatic water they'd scattered with rose petals, because I was startled awake by a man's voice coming from the next bay.

“A manicure and a pedicure? She ordered me a pedicure? Surely there's some mistake.”

“No, Mr. Hamilton, it says right here, very specifically, that you are to have a pedicure this hour. So, if you'd just like to put your feet in this water….”

“No, I don't want to… What's that stuff floating in it?”

“Rose petals.”

“I might as well stick my feet in soda pop. Cross this off the list and give my sister a refund or something. She can use it to pay for her straightjacket, the one she's going to be wearing when someone in the medical community hears what she's done….”

“Oh, sir, I don't have authority. I'd have to go to the front desk. It might take a few minutes. They're having some trouble with…”

“I know, I know. ‘The plumbing in the men's spa.'”

I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle as I heard Jared say wearily, “Then let's just do it. I can see that stopping this charade my sister has dreamed up will be harder than just getting it over with.” Then there was splashing and a little yelp from Jared as his back hit the massaging rollers installed in the chair.

“Do women actually
like
this stuff?” he muttered. “And what on earth is that
smell?
”

All grew silent as we steeped side-by-side in our own rosy brew. I didn't know if I should laugh or cry.

But, if I were completely honest, a part of me was wickedly enjoying his discomfort. Not one of my finer moments. Suddenly I was reminded of Luke 7, when a woman wet Christ's feet with her tears, wiped them with the hair of her head and anointed them. Perhaps Molly believed she was doing on act of atonement. Who was I to stand in the way of that? My attitude began to improve.

Please make Jared grateful. I know Molly is trying to be good to him. Help him see her motives, not the awkwardness. And help me to be gracious as well. I'm sorry for my attitude toward him. I'm going to try to improve. Help me?

As the procedures progressed, I didn't announce my
presence on the other side of the canvas wall. I was having far too much fun hearing Jared experience his first pedicure.

“Ouch! What are you doing? You're scrubbing awfully hard, aren't you?”

“Your first pedicure, Mr. Hamilton?”

“And my last. A manicure is one thing, but this… That tickles!” Splashing noises came from the other side of the trompe l'oeil-decorated canvas wall.

I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing.

There was a sudden and profound silence from Jared's space.

Finally Jared's voice came floating over the divide. “Sammi, is that you?”

“Yes. And although I can't imagine why she sent you here, the least you can do is be gracious about it.”

“Gracious? They're making soup out of my feet and trying to asphyxiate me with weird smells. And—” he gave another yelp of protest “—don't
do
that, it tickles!”