Be My Neat-Heart (3 page)

He burst out laughing. “Actually, it
was
kind of fun. I haven't been this relaxed or unconstrained in years. How about having dinner with me?”

I blinked. Dinner?

“You don't have to feed me, I'm fine. I often work late….”

“I know I don't have to. I want to—out of appreciation and gratitude. In only a few hours you've given me hope of getting my dirty little secret cleaned up. Now I can open these doors and not have a skeleton in the closet.”

“I couldn't…”

“We can grab a pizza just down the block. Frankly, Jared Hamilton and I were supposed to have dinner tonight, but he's got trouble at his office and he cancelled on me. You'd be doing me a favor.”

I didn't have any desire to fill in for the tetchy, short-tempered sidekick, but Ethan looked so hopeful.

“Oh, all right.”

Now Jared Hamilton owes me one, too.

 

Another gift from my ancestors is the fact that I have the metabolism of a coal furnace. I burn up anything I put into
my mouth and never gain a pound. It sounds like a blessing, but it isn't always. I had a boyfriend in college who admitted he could no longer afford me because I ate like a linebacker. I never minded paying my own way, but he had a hang-up about it. Last I heard, he was married to a woman less than five feet tall who eats like a sparrow.
Cheapskate.

Ethan smiled widely as I finished the last piece of the family-size, deep-dish, with-everything-but-the-kitchen-sink pizza. “I like to see a woman eat.”

“Then you must have had a wonderful time tonight. I usually control myself but you kept encouraging me.”

He played absently with a piece of silverware still left on the table. “You're an interesting woman, Samantha, and you have a unique job. I assumed I'd be hiring a sort of glorified cleaning lady, but it was very different. No one's ever asked what kind of system works for me or what I consider an efficient office arrangement—even in my own company. It takes someone very clever to comprehend how my mind and office work and then put a plan in place—especially in an afternoon.”

“It's remarkable how many people try to live inside someone else's comfort zone and not honor the ways that work best for them.”

“So you help people find their ‘comfort zones'?” He looked pensive. “Can you help two people with very different ‘comfort zones' to get along?”

“It depends. I'm not a miracle worker.”

“Interesting, very, very interesting.”

He said it thoughtfully, in a way that made me wonder what—or who—he was thinking about.

T
here was already a message on my answering machine from Ethan when I got to work the next morning.

“Hey, Sammi! Great job! Listen, I've got something I want to run by you. Give me a call when you get in.”

Theresa gave me a thumbs-up sign as she was walking by my office door.

It had worked out rather well, I thought. Ethan's messy little secret was no longer messy and he was obviously pleased. I could feel a referral or two coming my way.

I dialed his direct number and he picked up on the second ring. “There she is, the woman who put my world in order.”

If only someone I was dating and not a client would say that!

“I want to talk to you about something, but I want it to stay between us.”

“Confidentiality plus,” I assured him. “No dirty laundry aired by me, either literally or figuratively.”

“I thought so.” He took a deep breath, as if he were venturing into dangerous territory. “I asked my friend Jared what he thought of my new professional organizer last night.”

Oh, oh.

“What did he say?” I asked in my chipper, nothing-will-bother-me voice.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I guess so.” Feedback is feedback.

“He told me I was nuts.”

“That's no surprise. I saw that written all over his face.”

“I thought he, of all people, would understand. He runs his business like a military operation. I've always suspected that he has someone in the back room ironing the creases out of paper.” Ethan paused as if he were deciding how much to say. “Or maybe what I'm saying is now past tense. He
ran
his business that way. As he reminded me, it's not that way now.”

I remained silent and Ethan continued.

“Normally he's a great guy. You can't find someone with a bigger or gentler heart. He's just angry and frustrated right now. Jared and his sister have a business together. He's having some issues with her, and they've always been very close.

“Anyway, I suggested that he hire an organizational consultant himself. I thought you might be just what he needs.”

What a dandy relationship that would be….

“What did he say to that?” I asked without enthusiasm.

Ethan is evidently unable to say anything but the honest—and painful—truth.

“That he's not crazy like me. That he needed a personal organizer like he needs another hole in his head. Of course, what he needs has nothing to do with it. He and his sister, Molly, are like night and day, oil and vinegar, yin and yang…”

“There's nothing wrong with two people being dissimilar.”

“I told him that and he suggested that
I
take Molly on as a partner and let me know in a month or two how it's going. He regrets taking his sister into his business, and I'd like to help him do something about it.”

Like get him to hire me? Terrific.

“He's a God-fearing fellow. He told me he'd consulted with the Big Guy about this, but now he tells me I should have talked him out of it.”

“Easy as talking water into running upstream?” I asked, getting the bigger picture.

Ethan chuckled. “Of course, if I'd accomplished that, I'd have the credentials for negotiating world peace. Anyway, I wanted you to know that I've been pushing him to give you a call. I think you could help him out.”

“Help him out of what? I'm sorry, but this doesn't sound like a job for me. Thank you for the heads-up and the referral, but I'm not a family counselor or a miracle worker.”

Despite Ethan's disappointed sigh, I thought,
No thanks. Uh-uh. No, no, no. I want nothing to do with it,
and promptly forgot about any possibility of a job with Jared Hamilton.

T
wo long, grueling days after I'd worked for Ethan Carver, I walked into Theresa's office and dropped into a chair across from her. “Tell me again why I do this for a living.”

“Because you love seeing people take charge of their lives, knowing that you've helped them to manage their possessions rather than having their possessions control them. You know that by shifting one's external environment one can shift the internal environment as well. You enjoy interacting with people, you have a talent for making order out of chaos and you like a challenge.” Theresa took a deep breath and plunged back into the response she'd memorized for occasions such as this.

“You are also very good at what you do, your clients love you and you make a good living doing it. Today will pass and you will forget all about the fact that…”

She paused for me to fill in the blank.

“…that I spent a day in a kitchen with cabinets that, every time I opened one, would launch china, glasses, pots and pans like Twins' pitchers launch baseballs. And while I was going to the bathroom my client emptied my car of the bags I was
taking to Goodwill and dragged them all back inside the house for another look….”

“…and you will live to tell of it another day.”

“Thank you. I needed that.” I dropped my chin to my chest and rolled my head to one side and then the other in a vain attempt to get the rock-hard knot out of my neck. Theresa is my decompression chamber. If I didn't vent to her, I believe I'd spontaneously combust.

“What else is new?”

“The new storage line arrived and looks great. Mrs. Fulbright called to say that she is ready for ‘round two' in the kitchen and she feels emotionally prepared to part with all those lovely plastic disposable plates, forks and spoons she's been washing and reusing. You have two potential clients who want more information. Ben dropped in to tell you that your Aunt Gertie had called. She and her husband are taking fencing classes, but Arthur is a little nervous about Gertie having a sword in her hand. And Wendy called to say that she is at your place cooking dinner. She found a recipe for focaccia that she wants to make from scratch.”

I groaned and sank more deeply into the chair. My poor kitchen. Why I haven't sent Wendy Albert, my former college roommate, packing before now is beyond me. We are as far apart on the human continuum as any two individuals can be. Wendy is an actress. Right now she's teaching drama classes, which should be easy for her, since life is drama for Wendy. She was born in the wrong generation. What she really should be is a 1970s hippie, wearing tie-dyed clothing, Birkenstocks and a crumpled cotton skirt made in India, and doing impromptu bits of drama in the park.

Even after all these years, she doesn't have genuine, practical grasp of what I do for a living or how I like to live—neatly. In college, I tried to get her on board with a plan to keep
“our” room tidy but it was like talking to a vapor. Every time I said something such as “I'll put my shoes in this closet and you can put your shoes in that one,” she disappeared and rematerialized somewhere that neatness wasn't being discussed.

We eventually negotiated a way to live together peaceably. It involved strips of masking tape across the floor and up the walls, marking off which side of the room was Wendy's and which was mine. I dusted and mopped right up to that line and Wendy made hugely messy collages with tiny bits of paper, glitter and dried twigs on her side. She hung them on the wall with masking tape and allowed them to dry and shed on the room all year long. By the end of the second semester, she was sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag because her bed was buried in books and unfolded clothing and her half of the room looked like a nest put together by sparrows—bits of paper, string, books, underwear and who knew what else. I, meanwhile, had purchased shams and a dust ruffle to match my comforter. It was like being able to see both the light and dark sides of the moon at once.

Of course, I still love her—just as I love Imelda despite the way she desecrated my shoe collection. Like Wendy's, Imelda's excellent traits can't be dismissed lightly. Granted, she's a fashion pup like the Yorkipoo and the schnoodle, but she's also hypoallergenic, she doesn't shed and has very little doggy odor. What dog could be more perfect for me? Besides, it never hurts to
have
to buy new shoes once in a while.

I may be compulsive about neatness but I know where my priorities are—God, family and friends—two-and four-legged—and
then
career. Imelda could eat me out of house and sandal and I'd keep her just the same.

Wendy is highly creative and she is inspired by bedlam and disarray. I've begged her not to cook in my kitchen, but she keeps coming back like a bad rash. Wendy thinks it's her purpose on earth to get me to “loosen up.”

I'm already plenty loose.

I'm just loose in a tight sort of way.

 

“That was great, Wendy,” I volunteered. My back was to the kitchen so that I couldn't see the dusting of flour that coated everything from the counters to the ceiling fan. My grandmother has always said that a messy kitchen is a happy kitchen. If that's true, right now my kitchen is giddy with delight.

Wendy studied me with those disconcerting hazel-colored eyes of hers. Whatever color Wendy wears, her eyes take on that color. Tonight, in her baggy, moss-colored cotton sweater, her eyes were a muddy gray green and not easy to read. “Worth the mess?”

“No fair, Wendy. That's a loaded question. You're just trying to make a point. The same point you've been trying to make since we were eighteen.”

“Maybe I am. Every time I cook in your kitchen you get these tense little lines—” and she pointed to her forehead “—here. If you aren't careful you'll look old before your time.” She picked up a knife and tried to see her own reflection in the blade. “I don't have a single crease.”

I turned and eyed my kitchen. “That's because you're a carrier. You make other people frown. You don't frown yourself. You're the Typhoid Mary of frustration.”

Every pot and pan I owned was in the sink, Imelda was eating mayonnaise off the floor and the garbage can Wendy had put in the middle of the room for easier access was overflowing, the surplus edging inexorably toward the back door. What's even worse is that Imelda does not digest mayonnaise well.

It took all my self-control to stay in my chair and not run for a mop, a trait that Wendy considers a character flaw or possibly an obsessive-compulsive condition that would be well-served
with medication. For years now, she has been trying to train garbage to take itself out. If anyone can do it, Wendy can.

Her earrings jingled as she tipped her head to study me. “It's no surprise that you aren't in a serious relationship, Sammi. There's no one tidy enough for you.”

“And what's your excuse?”

Wendy broke into a smile. “I'm too messy. Maybe we're doomed to be the only two people in the world who can stand us.”

“Now
that
is a depressing thought.” Wendy and I talk about this a lot, especially since many of our friends are already married. It has always been a lighthearted, no worries kind of conversation so I was surprised to realize that this time it hurt.

“What's wrong?” Wendy asked.

“What kind of person
could
live with me, Wendy?”

She raised her eyebrow. “Someone with neatness running in their blood. Someone who lives by the clock, makes lists of everything including when to take a shower and plans his day down to the minute in a perfect leather planner. Oh, yes, and he'd never make a spelling error in his planner, either.” She rolled her eyes “Not that
I'd
consider that kind of a guy much of a catch.”

It sounded good to me, but I still felt compelled to protest. “I'm not that bad!”

“Maybe not, but you'd need someone even more organized than you in order to be happy. And a Christian, of course, but that almost goes without saying.”

Wendy is right about that. My faith is as integral a part of me as my skin or my lungs. I couldn't live without it. But the tidy part…

I thought about Ethan Carver with his perfect office and his dirty little secret hidden behind cupboard doors. Then I considered Ben and his completely scattershot methods. They
were fair examples of nice, desirable men. Maybe the man Wendy had described didn't exist.

At that moment my cat Zelda wrapped her way around my ankles to remind me that since Wendy hadn't dropped enough food on the floor for both Imelda and her, I should get busy and feed her. Zelda is a cat but she's never believed it, not even for a moment. Zelda is a diva. She has no self-esteem issues and considers herself to be the finest feline specimen on the planet.

She snaked her way around my ankles, massaging them with her warm body and demanding attention, her distinctive meow sounding like fingernails on a chalkboard. Zelda is very hard to ignore, especially when she's wearing her pink cashmere sweater.

“I see you dressed her for dinner,” I commented to Wendy as I scratched Zelda behind one of her large ears and her purring intensified.

Zelda is a sphynx cat, the breed that is normally referred to as “hairless.” She isn't bald as a billiard cue like one might assume. Instead, she's covered with a fine down that can be felt but not seen, much like the fuzz on a peach. Sometimes, if I think she's chilly, I put her in one of her little sweaters, most of which I knit or buy in the toy poodle section of the pet store. Wendy gave Zelda the cashmere getup for Christmas and now Zelda's getting particular about what she wears. She has highly developed fashion tastes for something with four legs. She's also insisted on eating her food out of a crystal goblet ever since she saw that cat food commercial on television. And though she hasn't admitted it, I think she has a crush on that big white Persian
and
the hots for one of the cats from the Tidy Cat commercial.

Like Imelda, Zelda is exceedingly special to me, a role model, in fact. Although she is the oddest, most skeletal, bald cat most of my friends have ever seen, Zelda knows she's
beautiful. She doesn't
think
it, she
knows
it. It's obvious in the way she moves and in her fearless willingness to take center stage and give herself a bath in a room full of people like a tiny naked yoga instructor doing contortions on my living room floor.

I love the way Zelda knows she's been
created
just the way she is and is perfectly accepting of it. I'm perfect the way God created me, too—He gave me everything I need to fulfill the purpose He has for me, yet sometimes I slink around, embarrassed and think I'm not “good” enough. Zelda is my reminder that if a hairless cat with ears like Dumbo and a personality like Cleopatra can make it, I can, too.

“What about you?” I asked of Wendy, returning to the subject at hand. “What would you need?”

Wendy chewed on her lip while she considered the question. At thirty, Wendy is still occasionally mistaken for a teenager. There is something deceptively innocent and ethereal about her, yet she's anything but ethereal. When Wendy chooses to make an impression, her imprint remains, much like the treads of a bulldozer on soft ground.

“I'd like to say I need someone as messy as me, but I'm afraid that might be asking for trouble.”

“I'd say so.”

“But I need someone who could understand me.”

“Tolerate you, you mean.”

Her sweet smile washed over me. “Exactly. You've learned to tolerate me. That means there's hope for me yet.”

I forced Wendy to take Imelda for a walk while I did the dishes. She was, after all, the one guilty of making her into a potential doggy time bomb with all that spilled mayo. Maybe it's all the shoe leather she eats that makes Imelda's stomach so touchy. Chips with fiery hot salsa is my downfall but, like Imelda, I pick my poison and eat it anyway.

“Come here, Zelda.” I popped the top on a cat food can, piled it into a crystal goblet and put it down on the glittery beaded place mat she loves.

Imperiously she marched toward the goblet, sniffed the contents delicately and considered for a moment if the aroma was satisfying to her sensitive nose and delicate palate. It seemed to be acceptable because she chowed down, purring and gulping like her last meal had been in the 20th century.

As I scraped and rinsed the dishes, my thoughts returned to Carver Advertising. Or, more accurately, they returned to Jared Hamilton, the storm cloud of a man I'd met there.

I'm not usually hypersensitive, but that man really managed to pet
my
fur the wrong way. Even today his words to Ethan Carver stung.
What are you? Nuts?

Or so Mr. Know-It-All Hamilton thinks. It's easy to figure out what
others
should do. It's not quite so simple when the problem is in your own backyard. Or with one's own sister.

I found myself scrubbing a dish so hard I was about to remove its painted design. What a waste—that man's gorgeous looks, and a personality like a Brillo pad. For some reason Know-It-All Hamilton really gets on my nerves. Who does he think he is, anyway, snorting and stewing in the elevator, lurking in the shadows at Carver's office and laughing at me?

He'd
never had desperate messages on his answering machine pleading for help from people who had lost their master's thesis, their promotion, their lease or their job because of the disorder in which they lived and worked. Some of my former clients have me on their emergency call list with their doctor, plumber and the police station.

How dare Jared Hamilton think he knows anything at all about me?

“What's with you?” Wendy asked when she returned with
Imelda. They both looked like they'd been running. “You look like you lost a best friend. But of course you didn't, because that would be me.” She gave me a hug and a look of concern.