The Fixer Upper (26 page)

Nobody had asked Vivienne to come here, either. But how could Libby object when the poor woman was having marital difficulties? Besides, Vivienne had been announced by the doorman. Harry hadn’t.

“Dad,” Reva said, grabbing her father’s hand and dragging him down the hall. “Listen to the sound clip.”

Harry appeared deeply annoyed as he trudged along with Reva. The den was barely big enough for them all to fit in, but they managed to clear a path for Eric to reach the com
puter desk. He sat down, clicked the mouse, and the room resonated with a flourish of guitar chords and then Darryl J’s voice, crooning, “‘You can’t leave her, you’ve got the fever, she’s in your blood, you’re delirious. In a way it’s almost hilarious. And you’re hooked, brother. She’s your drug, brother. You got it bad, brother. She’s your dru-u-ug.’”

Wonderful, Libby thought. A song about drugs. Well, not really—a song about love, using drugs as a metaphor. Perhaps he could have chosen a different song for his Web site, one that likened love to, say, spring flowers or sharks. But then, the first time she’d made love with Ned, she’d feared—rightly, it turned out—that she’d become addicted.

If looking as though one was about to shove his fist through a wall was a sign of approval, Harry approved of the song. Libby could practically feel waves of anger and indignation rolling off him. He turned to her. “We have to talk,” he growled.

Ignoring him, she smiled at Darryl J and then at Eric. “The sound clip is great.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Reva said, sighing passionately. “Dad, isn’t it great?”

“It’s great,” he snarled. “Your mother and I need to talk. Excuse us, please.” He acted as if he were the host, in charge of the evening, and Libby realized some of the waves of anger and indignation she felt were rolling off her.

She held her ground. “We’ll talk in a few minutes,” she called after him as he stomped out of the den.

“Oh, my God!” he shouted from the entry. “What the hell did you do to the fireplace?”

“Libby didn’t do that,” Ned said, ignoring the quick shake Libby gave her head. She didn’t want Ned to intervene. Whatever Harry had a bug up his butt about, Ned was not responsible for debugging him. Neither was Libby, but she’d been married to him and she had a certain familiarity with his bugs, as well as his butt.

Ned sauntered through the entry to the living room, Libby right behind him. He joined Harry, who stood stiffly, studying the fireplace and seething visibly. “See,” Ned said amiably, “this is a beautiful marble fireplace, but someone slathered tons of paint onto it. I hope it wasn’t you.”

“Of course it wasn’t me. Do you think I’d waste my time painting a fireplace?”

Ned shot Libby a smile, as if to assure her he wasn’t insulted.
He’d
been wasting his time
un
painting the fireplace—except, of course, it hadn’t been a waste of time. Libby loved the way it looked.

Reva sidled up behind her father. “Darryl J is packing up now,” she informed Libby, “and then I guess Ash and Kim are gonna leave, too. So how do you like the fireplace, Dad?”

“I’m in shock.”

“Eric says his dad is a fixer upper. He sure fixed up our fireplace.” She smiled at Ned. Obviously, after the hour she’d spent with Darryl J, she had smiles for everyone.

“Who the hell is Eric?”

“Stop saying
hell
,” Libby told Harry reproachfully.

“Eric’s my son,” Ned said.

Harry’s gaze shuttled between Ned and Libby. His stubble-free cheeks lost a little color. “We need to talk, Libby.” He reached for her elbow, but he must have sensed that she’d inflict pain to a sensitive part of his anatomy if he touched her. He let his hand drop. “Where can we go to get away from all these people?”

Acknowledging that Harry had promised to lend her a huge sum of money, she relented. “No one’s in the bedroom. Reva, honey, say goodbye to your friends for me.” With that, she stalked down the hall to her room.

Harry followed her in, slammed the door and suffered yet another visible spasm of horror at the sight of her files spread across her bed. “Libby, what the
hell
is going on?”

She wondered if he’d deliberately emphasized the word
hell
to piss her off. “What do you mean, what the hell is going on? I’m hosting a dinner party. If you’d called before dropping by, I would have told you that tonight isn’t a good time for you to visit.”

“A dinner party? You’re hosting a zoo! That man—that fixer person—he’s, what? A boyfriend?”

Vivienne would have answered “None of your business.” But Libby shared Reva with Harry. That made his current wife her business, and, she supposed, her current boyfriend his business. “Yes,” she said.

“He’s a laborer! He smells like turpentine!”

“Not all the time,” she said.

“He comes in here, into my daughter’s home, and does that to my fireplace?”

Libby caught herself before erupting. “First of all, Harry, it’s not your fireplace. Second of all, he made the fireplace look much better. Third of all, he loves that fireplace more than you ever did.” So did she, especially after she and Ned had christened it with their midday fun and games a few days ago.

“And my sister—what the hell is she doing here?”

“She got mad at Leonard.”

“So she left? Why didn’t she stay home and make him leave?”

“I don’t know,” Libby said coolly. “I assumed it was a family trait. You let me stay and you left.”

“I wasn’t mad at you,” he muttered, his dark eyes flashing. “I’m mad at you now, though. You’ve opened your house to all these people. You’re parading your boyfriend in front of Reva and letting him mangle the fireplace. And that man—that musician. Who the hell is he?”

“He’s a friend of Reva’s.”

“A friend? He’s old enough to be—”

“Her older brother,” Libby said.

“In case you didn’t notice, he’s the wrong race to be her brother.”

“Do you have a problem with his race?” She could list plenty of reasons not to be happy with Reva’s friendship with Darryl J—his age, of course, and his occupation, and his songs about drugs. As far as she was concerned, his race was a nonissue.

Obviously, Harry was bothered by it. “I always thought you were sensible, Libby. What, are you having a midlife crisis?”

“I’m not old enough for that,” she retorted.

“I can’t believe this. I feel like I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole. A strange black man hanging out with my daughter, some little boy using the computer I bought Reva, a handyman sleeping with my wife and—”

“Your
ex
-wife,” Libby interrupted. “And you have no right to discuss my sex life. You have no right even to think about it.”

“You’re the mother of my child,” Harry roared, “and you’re acting completely irresponsible.”

“And you’re acting like a complete schmuck.”

“That’s it.” He shook his head and waved his hands in a show of profound indignation. “I came here to make arrangements for transferring funds into your account so you can buy this damn apartment. And I’m looking around and wondering why the hell I should hand over all that money so you can host a circus here. Give me one good reason I should pay you for turning my daughter’s home into chaos.” He eyed the mess on her bed and winced.

“Here’s one good reason. You promised,” she said, fear clawing at her innards. He wouldn’t renege, would he? He wouldn’t back out now, when Sharma was well into the process of arranging her mortgage. He wouldn’t dare.

Apparently, he would. “I’m going home, Libby. And let me warn you—” he jabbed his finger into the air barely an inch from her nose “—if you don’t rein Reva in, there will be consequences.”

Before she could respond—before she could slap his face, which was the first, and probably the best, response she could come up with—he pulled the door open so forcefully he nearly tore it from its hinges, and strode down the hall. She heard him open the front door, then slam it hard enough to leave the building shuddering in his wake.

She remained where she was, trembling with rage and dread. “Hey, Mom?” Reva hollered from the kitchen. “The rice burned!”

Libby couldn’t move. She could scarcely think.

She was homeless once again.

N
ed checked the address once more. The guys on the crew had told him Spring Street was a block before Broome Street, so if he hit Broome he’d know he had gone too far. Greater Manhattan Design Associates had renovated a loft in SoHo last year, before Ned had joined the firm, so they all were familiar with the neighborhood.

Ned was getting familiar with Manhattan’s neighborhoods, too. He suspected that by winter he would feel like a true New Yorker. The city didn’t take long to suck a person in and transform him. Already he was walking faster, talking faster, getting by on less sleep—and not even noticing the white noise of city traffic when he did finally crawl into bed.

He wanted to crawl into bed right now—with Libby. Instead, he was marching downtown to do something that would probably make her feel a whole lot better than sex.

Purple shadows stretched across the narrow downtown streets as the sun slid past New Jersey to the west. Ned paused at a corner when the light turned red—one sure sign that he wasn’t yet a true New Yorker. Most of the other pedestrians hurrying home after work would never let a mere red light stop them. They charged across the street, glaring fiercely at any car that dared to honk at them. Ned had foolishly hesitated at the curb, and the cars surged into the intersection, denying him the opportunity to jaywalk.

He hoped Harry Kimmelman had hurried home. Ned would hate to have begged Mrs. Karpinsky to stay with Eric an extra hour—and begged Eric not to whine about staying with Mrs. Karpinsky an extra hour—and walked all the way from the Meatpacking District to Kimmelman’s place on Thompson Street, only to find the SOB not home. Ned could have phoned ahead, except that if he had, Harry might have told him not to come. And damn it, he was going to set the bastard straight. Face-to-face, mano a mano.

Every time he thought back to last night, he suffered a surge of fury. He’d spent most of the day staring at one of Macie Colwyn’s grandiose pillars or her heating vents or the pickled-maple kitchen cabinets, which had been delivered that morning, and finding himself pondering not the job at hand but the tension that had tightened Libby’s mouth throughout yesterday evening. He remembered the flashes of panic in her expressive eyes, the way she’d choked on small talk and picked at her food and let her whacko sister-in-law dominate the dinner conversation. While Libby had silently stewed, Vivienne had held forth on her belief that men watched televised sports to avoid thinking about sex—a laughable theory, given that men thought about sex all the time, even during the Superbowl—and her complaints about the quality of wine served after services at her temple, and her concerns about whether her parents had enough money
socked away to retire comfortably in ten years, “Because I won’t be able to give them much. And Harry’s such a
putz,
who knows what he’ll do?”

Ned had heard the rise and fall of Harry’s voice in Libby’s bedroom yesterday, just before the guy had taken off. Harry and Libby had exchanged words heated enough to transform the entire apartment into a tropical paradise. But Libby clearly hadn’t wished to discuss the argument in front of the kids and her sister-in-law. She’d put on a show after Harry’s departure, smiling gamely, setting the table, scraping the charred rice out of the pot and calling everyone into the dining room for dinner. She’d eaten little, but downed three glasses of wine, one more glass than Vivienne had consumed. And Vivienne had walked out on her husband. According to the wine-o-meter, whatever Harry had done to Libby in the bedroom was worse than a marital rupture.

Vivienne had insisted on hanging around in the kitchen after dinner, helping Libby clean up after the meal. Ned had wanted to be Libby’s helper—he’d hoped that doing the dishes together would give them a chance to talk—but in Vivienne’s presence, Libby hadn’t said much. She’d only nodded whenever Vivienne cast aspersions on her brother. “That squash club he belongs to? It’s all goyim. Forgive me, Ned,” she’d added, although he’d had no idea what
goyim
meant. “He’s such a snob, Libby. Did I ever tell you about the time we went on a vacation in the Catskills, and he spent the whole week kvetching because there was no place to go scuba diving?” She must have noticed Ned’s confusion, because she’d explained to him, “Jews don’t scuba.”

“Sure they do,” Libby had argued, but Vivienne had sounded so authoritative, Ned had taken her word for it.

“I can’t believe he barged in here like that!” Vivienne had ranted. “No invitation, no warning, just ‘Hello! Drop dead! Goodbye!’”

“Let’s not talk about it,” Libby had said, considerately not mentioning that Vivienne had also barged in with no invitation or warning. At least she’d seemed unlikely to tell anyone other than her brother to drop dead. “Where do you want to sleep tonight?” Libby had continued, deftly changing the subject. “You can have the living-room couch, but it’s lumpy. Or you could share my bed. It’s big enough.”

Ned had suffered a stab of jealousy. He would have liked to share Libby’s bed, but the odds of his getting his wish last night had been zero to none.

Eric had appeared at the door. “Reva and I changed the Web site a little. Wanna see?”

Ned had grabbed the opening. “Reva’s Aunt Vivienne will check it out,” he’d said. “Ms. Kimmelman and I have to talk.” He’d punctuated this statement by giving Vivienne a pointed look.

She’d shrugged and spread her arms. “You want me to check out the Web site? I’ll check out the Web site.” Then she’d followed Eric through the dining room and out of sight.

Ned had closed the kitchen door, pried the dishcloth out of Libby’s hand, turned her away from the sink and wrapped his arms around her. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” Libby had said, then made a little sound that was a cross between a laugh and a sob. “Harry decided not to help me buy this apartment, that’s all.”

“Why?” he’d asked in a level voice, even though anger had bubbled up inside him like some dangerous chemical reaction. He’d figured he would have to stay calm in case Libby exploded. They couldn’t both explode.

She hadn’t exploded. She’d made another hybrid laugh-sob sound, then eased out of his arms. “God only knows. He thinks I’m a bad mother.”

“Why?” Judging by the result—Reva—Ned would
grade Libby pretty high on the parent scale. Higher than him, for sure.

“Because Reva’s friendly with a black musician? I don’t know. Then again, Reva may have nothing to do with it. Maybe he’s just pissed that you took the paint off the fireplace.”

Ned reviewed the situation as he turned the corner onto Spring Street. He was going to pay a call on the
putz
and tell him that, fireplace or no, he’d made a promise to Libby and he’d better not break it. The apartment on West End Avenue was her home, hers and Reva’s. If the fact that Ned had rehabilitated the fireplace—or, more likely, the fact that Ned had slept with Libby and hoped to sleep with her again in the near future—was enough to make Harry deny Libby her home, then he deserved to have his balls torn off, fricasseed and served with some of Libby’s burned rice on the side.

From Spring Street, Ned headed onto Thompson and found the building. Libby hadn’t supplied him with the address; he hadn’t informed her of his plan to pay a call on Harry, because he’d been sure she would tell him not to. Ned respected her, and he believed in letting a woman fight her own battles. But this was about her fireplace, damn it. This was about Harry punishing her for including Ned in her life, and that made it
his
battle.

In any case, learning Harry’s address had been simple enough. A person could find just about anything on the Internet.

Although the building was fairly large, only twelve names appeared on the intercom buttons. Two apartments per floor, Ned calculated. They must be huge apartments. Not surprising—Harry was rich, after all. A hotshot corporate attorney, Libby had told him.

Ned pressed the button next to Kimmelman. After a minute, a woman’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Yes?”

“My name is Ned Donovan.” He leaned toward the speaker and projected his voice. Shouting into intercoms in empty vestibules was one of those native-New-Yorker activities he hadn’t yet grown used to. “I’d like to see Harry Kimmelman.”

“Ned who?” the woman asked.

“Donovan. I’m a friend of Libby’s.” After a few seconds of silence, he added, “It’s important.”

The inner door buzzed as the lock was released. He opened it, went inside and summoned the elevator. Unlike Libby’s elevator, this one had no paneling, no brass, no charm. The walls were gray, for God’s sake. Elevators were inherently gray. Giving them gray walls was redundant.

He emerged on the top floor and pressed the doorbell for Harry’s apartment. The woman who opened the door was thin and painfully chic, her streaked blond hair cut in an angular style, her eyes impeccably made up and her nose a bit too small for her face. She wore a brown slacks outfit in some fabric he’d never seen before, shiny but with little nubs texturing it, and the open neckline displayed her collarbones and her scrawny neck. She needed at least ten more pounds on her, and a normal hairstyle. Ned couldn’t believe Harry would have left a real woman like Libby for a plastic one like this.

Then again, looks weren’t everything. This woman might have the perfect personality for Harry.

“Hi,” he said, attempting a smile he hoped was neither too friendly nor too scary. “I’m Ned Donovan. Can I talk to Harry for a minute?”

The woman eyed him up and down. Having come here straight from work, he wasn’t at his most presentable. He hadn’t performed too much messy labor today—mostly overseeing the work of the electrician and plumber as they piped and wired the kitchen—but a laborer couldn’t leave
a construction site without some crud on him. And Ned’s clothes—stained denim jeans and an old U of P sweatshirt under his denim jacket—would seem shabby even if they were clean.

She twisted to call over her shoulder, “Harry? That man is here.” She made the word
man
sound like a curse.

“I’m coming.” Harry’s voice echoed from the nether reaches of the apartment. He strode down the entry hall and joined the woman at the door. His suit was perfectly tailored to his lanky frame, and his face had about as much character as low-fat yogurt. Maybe some women considered all that bland symmetry attractive. At one time, Libby must have. That realization unnerved Ned a little.

“Hi,” Ned said, reviving his neither-here-nor-there smile.

“So we meet again,” Harry responded.

“We need to talk about last night,” Ned said, wondering if they were going to have their talk across the threshold, him out in the elevator alcove and Harry safely inside the apartment. With only one other neighbor on the floor, Harry might not worry about anyone eavesdropping on their conversation.

Harry sized him up, then waved him inside. “Please, come in,” he said.

Great. We’re going to be civilized,
Ned thought as he entered the apartment.

It was everything Libby’s apartment wasn’t: austere, tidy and chilly. Accompanying Harry down the hall, the walls of which were decorated with framed photographs of dead trees in silhouette, Ned passed a state-of-the-art kitchen much like the one he was building for Macie Colwyn. The hall ended in a spacious great room, in which everything—walls, windows, furniture—had been designed with a straightedge and protractor. The couches, chairs, bookcases, tables and area rugs were all rectangular. Ice cubes had more curves—and more warmth.

“Can I get you a drink?” Harry asked, loosening his tie as he crossed to a rectangular bar built into one wall.

Very
civilized. If they shared a drink, Ned supposed no blood would be shed. He wondered if Harry’s bar glasses were rectangular, too. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a beer?” he asked.

Harry gave him a withering stare.

Okay. Ned would be civilized. “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said.

Harry turned from him, plunked some ice into two highball glasses and filled them with Scotch. Carrying the glasses across the room, he gestured toward two of the boxy leather chairs. Ned lowered himself into one. It was as uncomfortable as it looked.

Harry handed Ned his drink and then sat facing him, cradling his glass without sipping from it. It was his prop. Ned needed a prop, too—and a glass of Harry’s high-priced Scotch wouldn’t do. A hammer would have worked. He should have brought one with him.

Lacking a hammer, Ned opted for directness. “The fireplace had to be stripped, so I stripped it. This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t help Libby buy her apartment.”

Harry blinked. Evidently, he hadn’t expected him to be as blunt as, well, a hammer. “What I do with Libby is none of your concern.”

“Actually, it is my concern,” Ned said. “She thinks you’re backing out on her because of the rehab work I’ve been doing. The rehab work is
good
for her apartment. It increases the value of the place. By having me do this work, Libby’s demonstrating how much the apartment means to her.”

“If she can afford to have that rehab work done, then let her pay for the apartment herself,” Harry snapped. “My daughter’s home was a zoo last night. My
meshuggeneh
sister was hiding out from her husband there, and you were tearing apart the living room, and some street
schnorrer
was using the electronic equipment I bought for Reva. Why should I pour money into that kind of
tsores
?”

“That street
schnorrer
is a talented musician,” Ned argued, wondering what a
schnorrer
was. “Maybe you ought to consider investing some money in him. He’s going places.”

“One place he shouldn’t be going is Libby’s apartment.” Harry finally took a sip of his Scotch.

Ned took a sip, too. He wasn’t much of a Scotch drinker, but this was definitely the good stuff. “If Libby loses the apartment, where is she supposed to go?” he asked. “Vermont?” The notion almost made him laugh. Libby would hate Vermont. The peace, the forests and the big blue sky would drive her crazy.

“Would it kill her to move to Queens?” Harry retorted. “There are lots of nice apartments in Queens. She could find a place as big as where she’s living now for half the money.”