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  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Phipps said, looking concerned and hugely disappointed at the same time. “Bad strange or good strange? You know, there’s nothing like a little tea and a little sympathy to smooth out the edges of a strange day.”

  Ellen chuckled softly, heaving the bags of groceries and the ten-pound bag of kitty litter onto the counter near the sink.

  “I know,” she said. “But this has actually been sort of a good strange day, and it isn’t over yet, so ... I really do have to go.”

  She started for the door.

  “Maybe it’s just as well,” she heard the old lady say. “We’ve run out of Earl Grey, I’m afraid. We were going to have to have chamomile with rose hips, and we know that’s not your favorite. But we’re all out of the other.”

  “I’ll pick some up tomorrow.”

  It was out of her mouth before she could think to stop it, and once again she was committed to going to the grocery store during her lunch break or after work the next day. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t know what was happening.

  “You’re such a dear. Truly, we don’t know what we’d do without you, Ellen. If only we had some of those cream-filled ladyfinger cookies. Then our tea tomorrow would be perfect. Oh! And a loaf of thin-sliced bread too. We’ll have watercress. We know you’re always hungrier after work than you let on.”

  This was Mrs. Phipps’s modus operandi—casually mentioning, regretfully and repeatedly, her entire shopping list for the next day. They had operated very well this way for quite some time—but things were different now. She wasn’t too nice anymore.

  But dealing with Mrs. Phipps now would take all the time and energy she’d need to get Felix out of her apartment before her date arrived. And besides, Mrs. Phipps was old and sweet and harmless and cute. ...

  No, no. She was time-consuming, inconvenient, bothersome, and repetitive, sometimes telling the same silly old story or reporting the same neighborhood news more than twice. She needed to be dealt with. Tomorrow, Mrs. Phipps would get attitude.

  “Tell you what, Mrs. Phipps. Why don’t you write up a list of all the things you might be needing for a while, and I’ll stop by for it on my way to work in the morning.”

  “You are the nicest young woman, Ellen. And so good to us,” she said, standing by her apartment door, looking a bit bewildered at the hasty departure.

  “I know,” Ellen muttered under her breath before smiling down over the banister at her. “See you later, Mrs. Phipps.”

  The old lady said something else and shut her door quietly, but Ellen hardly noticed. As she approached her apartment door, Bubba right behind her, she was searching for the anger she’d had not ten minutes earlier. She turned the knob, knowing it wouldn’t be locked, and walked in.

  Felix lay sprawled across her couch, his long, dishwater-blond hair cascading over the armrest, one arm across his chest and one dangling loose to the floor. His mouth hung open. His clothes were dirty and wrinkled.

  A long, drawn-out snore was her only greeting. It struck her as a most horrible noise. Disgusting. Nasty and vulgar somehow. Far, far worse than any noise they’d ever made during the belching contests they used to have under the dining room table every Thanksgiving when they were kids. Her heart softened momentarily, remembering the little boy he’d once been—but then he snored again.

  Bubba dallied about in the doorway, then judiciously backed away as she began to swing the door back and forth by the knob and then slammed it closed with all her might, rattling windows throughout the house. She smiled and watched Felix’s body jerk and jump, rise inches off the couch, then fall and slide to the floor. But by the time his eyes opened and he was groping to sit up, Bubba was crying at having a door rudely slammed in his face and Ellen’s countenance was stern and angry once more.

  “Oh. Hi,” he said, as if he were surprised to see her; as if she’d come to call unexpectedly. He flashed his teeth in a would-be smile.

  “Get off my floor,” she said, her voice quiet but sharp as a fresh razor blade. She leaned to one side to open the door for Bubba, who had free run of the house. “Get that hair out of your face and get out of my apartment.”

  “Bad day at the office, honey?” he asked, his own voice raspy and hungover.

  “I had a great day at the office. Just a really lousy homecoming.”

  “You mean,” he paused to push the hair out of his face and take a good look at her, “you’re not tickled to see me?”

  “Not like this, no. Felix, you look awful.”

  He laughed. “You should see how I feel.”

  “No, thanks.” She watched him make several feeble attempts to hoist himself back onto the couch. He did look pale. There were dark circles under his eyes; his lips were dry and chapped. She shook her head and sighed. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

  He shrugged, his head in his hands, then reached down to help fat Bubba up onto the couch beside him.

  She tried to ignore the tugging at her heart as she dropped her purse and jacket on the wing chair and went into the small kitchen, returning with a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water. She held them out to him and, when he didn’t take notice, kicked his foot. Squinting at the water as if he didn’t recognize what it was, he reached for the bottle of pills.

  “These’d go down better with a scotch.” An icy silence. “Or a beer if you’ve got one. I don’t want to put you out.”

  “You do,” she said, setting the water on the side table where he could reach it. “You do put me out. Very much. Felix, it’s bad enough that you’re doing this to yourself, but I’ve told you before that I won’t let you do it to me too. I don’t want to see you like this. I don’t want my neighbors seeing you like this ... or your car parked on the front lawn. This is my home, not a flophouse. If you want help, I’ll help you find some, but I’m not going to tolerate you just—”

  “I do. I do,” he said, repeating it several times before she actually heard it. “I do need help.”

  Well ... okay. The man, the smile, and the little green book were immediately pushed out of mind. If a sober and responsible life was a star in her brother’s galaxy, a star he was reaching for, then her stars could wait awhile. She’d do everything she could to push him a little closer to his goals.

  “Felix,” she said, the awe in her evident. “That’s wonderful.” She laughed. “Where do we start? I’ve been waiting for you to make this decision, and I’m so unprepared.” She made a couple of false starts, then decided on the phone book. “A rehab clinic. That’s what we need, don’t you think?” She sat on her jacket in the wing chair, fanning the pages, prattling. “M-N-O-P ... I’m so proud of you, Felix. You’ll never regret this. They have trained professionals in these places. Know all the tricks. All the best ways to do this. I feel like crying, I’m so happy you’ve decided to do this. R-R-Ra-Re ...”

  “Elly. Elly. I need help. Not a clinic.”

  “Oh. A twelve-step program, then. I think they follow some sort of similar program in these clinics and there’s more moral support, but if you—”

  “Ellen! Drinking is not my problem.” He stood up quickly, jostling Bubba and cringing briefly from the pressure in his head. He glared at his sister. “You and Jane both think that if I stop drinking, my life is going to turn into some sort of fairy tale where I run around in a suit of armor and ride a white horse and save maidens, and nothing but good things will happen to me. But the truth is, my drinking is the only armor I’ve got. I’m a screwup, Ellen. I always have been. Everything I touch turns rotten.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is. I was a screwup in high school. I couldn’t finish college. Couldn’t hold my marriage together. Can’t hold down a job—”

  “Because you drink.”

  “Because I’m a screwup!” he shouted emphatically. “Drinking is the only way I can survive. People feel sorry for drunks. They let them get away with murder.” As an afterthought, he added, “Almost.”

  “That’
s crazy.”

  He scoffed, “Oh yeah? If I were stone sober and sitting around the empty apartment I got out of my divorce settlement, with no job and no prospects, you think Mom would give me money to pay the rent? You think my friends would buy my drinks, or would they expect me to buy my own? Think my gambling buddies would let me ride as long as they have if I had a job? Heck no! But I’m sick, see? So Mom gives me money. My friends buy my drinks. And I have gambling debts that you, big sister,” he said, pointing a shaky finger at her, “would not believe. So don’t be telling me my problem is drinking. I drink just fine. My problem is—I’m a screwup.”

  Staring, openmouthed and dazed, she started to shake her head.

  “Felix, can you hear yourself talking?”

  He snorted a half laugh and fell back down onto the couch. Bubba opened one eye and rolled with the bounce. “Question is, can you hear what I’m saying?”

  “Yes,” she said, slapping the phone book closed on her lap. “You owe someone money and you’re scared.”

  He giggled insanely. “I owe a lot of people money.” He fought with the cap on the aspirin bottle. “But I’m only scared of the big ugly ones. Can you open this for me?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  STEP THREE

  The first problem is not to learn, but to unlearn.

  —Gloria Steinem

  You’re unhappy with the present course of your life. So, turn, left and go that way. Everything we think we know has either been told to us or learned through trial and error. Think about the choices you make. Is vanilla ice cream really the best? Or is it the most readily available? Or is it what your mother always served for dessert? When was the last time you tried Rocky Road? Maple nut? Cherry Garcia? If what you’re doing isn’t making you happy, try doing the exact opposite.

  SHE WAS A FAILURE. She hadn’t taken two steps in the little green book and already she could feel herself slipping back into her old ways. First with Mrs. Phipps. Then with Felix. At this rate she’d end up being too nice for the rest of her life.

  She wrapped a towel around her wet head, cinched her terry robe at the waist, and sighed at the distorted reflection in the steamy mirror. Whoever had written that little book obviously hadn’t anticipated the likes of Mrs. Phipps and Felix. The exact opposite of her usual behavior would have been refusing to shop for Mrs. Phipps and having nothing to do with Felix. But sudden changes were traumatic to old people. And she couldn’t very well throw her own brother out on the street with the wolves and vultures of society waiting to tear him apart and pick his bones clean, could she?

  No.

  Still, the advice had worked twice and failed twice, in just one day. That was a 50 percent success rate. Even odds that, with time, she could turn her life around. And once Mrs. Phipps gradually grasped the idea that she wasn’t a personal shopping service, the odds would get better. And Felix ...

  She opened the bathroom door and let the light shine into the room across the hall, where her brother lay sleeping in her bed. She had no idea of what to do about Felix. What did she know about loan sharks?

  “You gonna stand there all night?” came his muffled voice. “That light’s in my eyes.”

  “You shut up,” she said, her lightweight anger coming in bursts between lapses of sympathy and concern. “Don’t even talk to me. Not a word. I’m so mad at you, I could spit.”

  “Fine,” he said, and she could hear him rolling over away from the light. “Elly?”

  His voice sounded so young. Like a little boy’s. Like her little brother’s.

  Her heart softened.

  “What?”

  “Be sure you lock the door when you leave.”

  It hardened again.

  “What did I just tell you? I don’t want to hear anything from you. Not another peep.”

  She waited a moment or two to make sure he got the message this time, then purposely left the door open when she returned to the bathroom to dry her hair. He needed a place to hide out for a while, he’d told her. Somewhere to gather his thoughts and decide on the best course of action. He hadn’t asked her for money yet, and protecting him for a while didn’t seem like too big a setback, considering he was her brother.

  Question was, how to explain the debt-bedeviled drunk in your bed to your new date?

  Dinner in Quincey—no matter which restaurant they went to—never required much dressing up. Sand-colored slacks and a white silk blouse were her first choice, the choice she would have normally made. She replaced them and, with a designing smile she didn’t even know she owned, chose a low-cut spaghetti-strapped sheath she’d ordered from a catalog and never worn, instead.

  She was dressed and finishing up her makeup—and getting a little nervous—when she heard a rap at her door. Strange how your hands can be so cold and your cheeks so hot when you have the jitters, she thought, placing one against the other to even them out. She left the bathroom mirror, checked herself in the hall mirror, then tidied herself at the door once more before opening it.

  “Zowie! Will you look at you!”

  “Oh. Hi, Eugene,” she said, attempting a welcome smile for her neighbor and missing by a mile. Not that he noticed.

  Bubba came to stand in the door beside her, took one look, then scurried down the stairs and out of sight.

  Eugene occupied the other second-floor apartment. For the most part he was a quiet tenant who worked days in the local fan factory and spent much of his free time surfing the Internet in his darkened apartment. In the name of charity she tried not to liken him to a mole, but truth be told, he not only acted like one, he looked like one. Pinched face. Thick glasses. Dirty nails. Dark unkempt fur ... uh ... hair.

  “Looks like someone’s got a date,” he observed astutely. It might have been her nerves, but there was something about bugging eyes behind thick glass focused on her overexposed chest that made her want to scream and run.

  “Someone does.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “No ... leftovers, then?”

  Oh yes. Along with his other rodentlike mannerisms, Eugene also scrounged for food. Too nice by nature, she’d found it extremely difficult to refuse him—despite the fact that accommodating him was extremely annoying and distasteful. His one saving grace was that he wasn’t picky. He was delighted with the scraps in her frozen dinner trays; he thought a hastily made peanut butter sandwich and an apple a king’s feast, and an unopened can of spaghetti set her up in his book of saints.

  The mere mention of food was her cue to fetch him something to eat, but if what you’re doing isn’t making you happy—and it wasn’t—try doing the exact opposite.

  “No. No leftovers. None.”

  “None?” His gaze rose from her chest to meet hers.

  “Nope. No leftovers tonight, Eugene. Sorry,” she added. She wasn’t, of course. She felt liberated in an outlandish fashion. But old habits were so hard to break.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his face twitching, sensing that something was wrong. When she didn’t scoot off to find him something, his instinctive need to feed took him elsewhere.

  “Want me to take your trash down for you?”

  “What?” she asked, taken back. It wasn’t an extraordinary question. He frequently took her trash down with his. It was a neighborly thing to do. Right?

  “Your trash? Want me to take it down to the dumpster for you?”

  “Ah. No.” She motioned behind her with a finger. “Felix. He’s here. He can take it down in the morning. But thanks.”

  “Felix?” He tried to look into her apartment. Clearly he hadn’t seen the car parked on the front lawn as yet. “He’s here? Is he your date?”

  “No,” she said, her voice taking an offensive tone. Her dates and her brother were none of his business.

  “Isn’t he going to eat?”

  “No,” she said, an octave higher. She didn’t need to give him an explanation, she knew, but the insanity of the situation
was getting to her. “He’s ... under the weather ... a bit.”

  “Drunk,” he said in a holier-than-thou tone she couldn’t appreciate from a ratlike creature.

  “Plastered,” she said, picking her own adjective. “He couldn’t eat with a feedbag tied to his face. But I appreciate your concern for him just the same.”

  Eugene frowned, stumped and hungry.

  “Well, when he wakes up—”

  “His head’ll be bigger than his belly,” she interjected. “He may not be able to eat for hours. Days maybe.”

  He was backing up to his apartment door. “Days ...?”

  “And when he’s feeling better, he’ll be hungry as a one-man army and eat everything that isn’t nailed down. He always does.”

  Plainly disgruntled, he retreated into his apartment and the door slowly swung closed. Ellen smiled. The little green book should have been printed in twenty-four-carat gold. Who knew it could be so easy to rid oneself of pesky pests, without actually being rude or unkind—or using a broom. She stepped back and closed her own door.

  “You know,” came a weak voice from down the hall, “I could eat something.”

  “Shut up, Felix. You can starve to death for all I care,” she said. “And don’t eat the leftover roast beef while I’m gone; I’m saving that for my lunches this week.”

  She cringed at the knock on the door. Eugene had heard leftover roast beef and had returned.

  The grimace on her face slowly brightened to a dazzle as she took in Jonah Blake dressed in dark slacks and a sport jacket, the pressed white oxford shirt making the whites of his eyes whiter and the mystic green greener, though the light in them was no mystery at all. She didn’t need to be someone with Vi’s expertise to recognize the look in his eyes. She didn’t need to be someone with an attitude or a little green book to know what he was thinking. She was born a woman and knew it instinctively.

  She went warm and soft and gooey inside.

  It pleased him, probably more than it should have, to see that she’d gone to no little effort to dress up for their date. He’d been in Quincey long enough to know the dress code was casual, and had debated long and hard over his decision to go one step further to impress her—now he was glad he had. Except ... well ... maybe he’d gone too far. She was staring at him. She was so beautiful and elegant ... and so completely silent. His hand went to the open collar of his shirt self-consciously, and he fought an urge to squirm. He thought about buttoning it, then shoved his hand in his pocket.