Must Like Spinach Read online

  There’s no need to answer. This might be the biggest city in the continental US, but word sure gets around fast in the business district.

  “The Pacific Northwest is far enough away that your….” Her hesitation draws out again. “Well, lets hope it’s far enough away that news of your outburst won’t follow.” She passes a file edged with multicolored tabs. “Here’s some reading for you. The rest will be in your email.”

  He takes the folder from her and opens the cover. “Hallquist Holdings? I’ve never heard of them. What’s their deal?”

  “That’s for you to find out.” Ms. Weiss stands. It’s a clear signal that his time with her is over. “But do think, Jonathan, while you’re gone. Think hard, because I rarely offer favors. Your mother made the best of hers. I hope you do the same, but….”

  But?

  “But if you don’t”—she opens the door for him—“I think we both know who you’ll let down.”

  Chapter 2

  THE LINE for security at JFK is ridiculous, losing structure as it meanders. Travelers slowly shuffle forward, stepping around children having meltdowns. As Jon joins the end of the line, he overhears whispered conversations between adults that sound almost as fraught. At least compared to them, he’s less stressed now that the hardest part is over. Packing in front of his roommates had been the worst, and he’d been right to think their thin-lipped smiles had been fake at the news of his departure. Facebook notifications already tag him into their speculation. He goes against his better judgment by reading another.

  A little bird in HR told me that Jon fucked up big time.

  Of course that’s the news that traveled fastest.

  He needs to spin another story so that rumor doesn’t follow him like a bad smell.

  The selfie he takes shows the security line extending behind him and his attempt at a victorious expression, his smile a tight twist of triumph he hopes doesn’t look as fake as it feels.

  Next stop Seattle! Proud to be the first at Bettman & Co. to work without supervision this year! Come on, guys. What’s keeping the rest of you?

  He tags Ms. Weiss as well as his roommates to silence the worst of their public gossip. Talking up this assignment while waiting in line seems like a good investment of time. He spins his exile as a promotion across every social media platform to a flurry of likes and thumbs ups. Picturing his roommates’ pissed off reactions almost makes the whole last week of stress worthwhile, and now that he has a moment to think, there might be even more positives to living away from them for months.

  It’s a thought that unlocks a genuine smile, and the tight twist in his gut unfurls for the second time that day as his imagination wanders.

  With no one breathing down his neck for results, he could spend whole weekends outdoors instead of working seven days a week like all the others vying for the top spot. The thought of a day off outdoors has him Googling his destination, and that small smile blooms when he finds a site detailing hiking trails that look amazing. He reads about nearby national parks next, grinning as he saves sites, oblivious to the noise around him.

  Seattle is beyond beautiful, if these photos aren’t doctored—urban yet green at the same time, hemmed by water and snow-topped mountains as though someone went ahead and designed a perfect location for him.

  Want unspools inside like a kite string, lifting his spirits steadily skyward before he’s even made it airside. When he shifts forward as the line moves, he catches sight of someone familiar. It’s him, reflected faintly in a glass pane—boy-like and beaming—and he almost stumbles over his bag.

  When the hell did he last feel authentic excitement like this?

  And when had he last looked forward to the next day instead of spending each night dreading its arrival? Living with the others had been exhausting, their no homo bullshit grating. Now possibility after possibility runs through his mind.

  One in particular lingers.

  Hooking up in the shared apartment had been impossible, but bringing someone back for the night in this brand new city would be no one’s business but his. Jon takes out his phone and swipes past hookup apps he’s barely done more than hover over lately. He clicks on his email icon instead and checks out his per diem. According to the expenses package Hallquist Holdings offers, he could stay in a designated motel or rent a modest place of his own.

  His jaw tightens as he searches online rental listings with intense focus. The line moves, but Jon nudges his carry-on ahead without looking up from his screen, scrolling past listings for condos and apartments out in distant suburbs when he guesses he should stay central. He almost shoots past one listing before scrolling quickly back, sure he must’ve misread its title.

  2br - Central Seattle Apt - Cheap, but must like spinach!

  Who the heck lists an apartment like that?

  He clicks through and reads the details. An apartment over a garage isn’t exactly what he pictured renting, and the listing has no interior photos, which he guesses should be a warning, but a couple of pics snapped outside have him peering closer. They do a lot to explain the must-like-spinach tagline.

  A backyard fills the screen, featuring the kind of well-stocked garden he hasn’t set foot in for years. The photo must have been taken in late summer if the produce he can just about make out is any indication. There’s a greenhouse in the next shot, with two weathered seats set on either side of its door. A tiny red-haired woman sits on one, her features indistinct like she’s been caught while laughing. The blond man seated next to her is clearer. He sprawls like he’s exhausted, all long legs and sunburned chest and shoulders, but it’s his soft smile that Jon zooms in to study. Maybe he’s the tenant this ad seeks to replace. Or perhaps he lives nearby.

  Must like spinach? Jon thinks.

  With a neighbor who looks like that, he can learn to love it.

  BY NOON the next day, Jon’s sure there’s precious little to love about this city.

  In hindsight, maybe he should’ve lingered over his first cup of coffee for longer. At least that had lived up to the hype, as had the view across the Puget Sound, but the rest of the morning is a complete bust. None of the apartments he views live up to their write-ups. The first isn’t ideal for professionals as promised—more shoebox-like than spacious, like he’d expect to find back in New York. He doesn’t hang around for longer than a minute or two at the second apartment either. Eventually he gives up and heads to the last place on his list almost two hours early.

  It’s another let down from the outside, and he doesn’t even try to rein in his huff of disappointment when he pulls up in his rental car. So much for saving the best place to last. The rundown exterior is a big clue, but the interior turns out to be so much worse. No amount of access to a backyard or cute neighbors with soft eyes could make up for this dump.

  It’s downright awful.

  Unwashed dishes still fill the sink and pizza boxes tower by a trashcan that’s overflowing. The soles of Jon’s shoes adhere to the kitchen floor tile, just as tacky as the cobweb tendril that clings to the sleeve of his shirt.

  No wonder the listing had no interior photos. Far from its online description of a cozy two-bedroom, it’s a cramped apartment, even smaller than his first stop that morning.

  Now that he thinks about it, those photos of the yard had set his imagination running when he should’ve read between the lines. Nothing else in the ad hinted at the pretty suburb he’d mentally pictured. There sure as hell are no white picket fences in this neighborhood—overgrown bushes divide this place from its equally aged neighbors, located closer to the noisy freeway than he’d expected.

  No wonder the last tenants left in a hurry.

  The omission of square footage from the listing is understandable now that he’s here. There’s hardly any distance between the couch and the kitchen—barely room for a single big guy like him, let alone for two people. It’s ridiculously small like its owner, the bird-like, red-haired woman from the photo, who extols its virtues. When s
he nudges another pizza box aside to take a seat on the couch, dust motes rise to hang in the air like they don’t want to settle.

  Jon can’t help sympathizing.

  He can’t wait to get out either.

  “So.” The owner tilts her head but her bright red curls stay put. “What do you think of the apartment, Mr. Fournier?”

  What does he think?

  There’s no way he’d pay to live here.

  Maybe the woman mistakes his silence for interest. “Think it’s big enough for you, sweetie?”

  Big is the last descriptor Jon would choose, but he bites his tongue when she smiles up at him so sweetly. She doesn’t need to hear how let down he feels right now. There’s only one habitable room in the place—a second bedroom, smaller than many closets, housing a lonely twin bed. The rest of the rooms are a disaster. He picks another cobweb from his jacket, sure even the spiders have relocated.

  Her gaze is so hopeful.

  She smiles again, only this time it’s fleeting, like she can tell what he’s thinking.

  Jon feels bad for her. She could’ve made him wait a couple of hours to meet the guy she said took care of business for her. From the spot he now stands in the stuffy apartment above her garage, he wishes she had. He could’ve searched online some more and lined up other places to take a look at.

  A neon sign blinks above a pizzeria across the street, part of a rundown strip mall that would be real hard to ignore once it gets dark—another reason to walk away just as soon as he can, without hurting her feelings. Maybe she senses his desire to escape. She pats a couch cushion, encouraging him to sit close. Jon eyes the door leading outside before stifling a sigh and lowering himself next to her.

  She’s most likely lonely.

  Lord knows it’s clear no one’s helping her out. The wooden staircase leading up here is a deathtrap, and the front yard is neglected, patches of grass growing close to knee high where someone quit mowing halfway. He sits quietly while she adjusts her skirt with fingers that look stiff. The silence stretches until she breaks it.

  “Did I mention how much Tyler loved living here at first? Said it was perfect for him.”

  Tyler, whoever he is, must have real low standards. If he’s the guy in the listing photo, Jon’s glad he doesn’t get to meet him. He sneaks a glance at his watch as she reminisces. He’s been here ten minutes already. That’s six hundred seconds of his life he’ll never get back. Perhaps he should take another look at the first apartment he saw—it had been palatial by comparison. “Listen,” he starts. “I was really looking for somewhere with—”

  “Oh! Did I tell you Tyler fixed up the shower?” She slowly stands, knees audibly creaking, and grabs Jon’s hand before tugging. “Come see!” In less than six steps they’re both peering into the smallest bathroom he’s ever seen.

  Tyler must have vision issues. The wall tile is laid at an angle, and a wrench lies next to a dripping faucet, warning that this, like the half-mown grass outside, is another unfinished project.

  Beside him, the old lady preens. “My boy’s so clever.”

  Her boy?

  Installed by a close relative or not, the workmanship he’s seen so far is shitty. The only thing the bathroom looks good for is growing mold. And that’s the real rub, if Jon is honest. If he’ll be here for months, he wants to rent a place where more than mildew can flourish.

  He hadn’t grasped just how much the thought of getting his hands dirty outside had appealed until he’d read the listing’s stupid title. The idea of a backyard had been full of promise, but now disappointment makes him abrupt. “Listen, Mrs. …” Her name escapes him for a moment. It’s only when her hand tightens around his that he realizes she’s still clutching his fingers.

  “Sikorsky,” she reminds him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Margaret Sikorsky. But you better call me Peggy. Everyone does who lives here.”

  That’s not going to happen. Jon shakes his head.

  “No?” Confusion creases her expression. “Are you sure, Mr. …?” Her voice is so much smaller now, quieter and wavering.

  “Fournier,” Jon reminds, then adds a quick, “Jonathan.” He pulls his hand from hers and then takes a few steps backward. “I’m sorry,” he lies. His “this isn’t exactly what I was looking for” is unvarnished and honest.

  “No? Are you sure?” The genuine surprise in her voice almost has him hesitating, all his training forgotten in the face of one old lady’s sadness.

  “If it’s the rent, Jonathan, I can… I can think about accepting less? Maybe hold off on taking a deposit? I’ve done that before for tenants when they needed a break.” Her voice wavers once more, and Jon’s blood chills.

  Jesus.

  There’s no way an old lady this naïve should be negotiating finance. Some asshole will only take advantage. “No,” he insists. “It’s not the money.” He bends until he’s sure she meets his eye. “And listen, Mrs. Sikorsky. Don’t ever accept less rent than market value, and always get first and last month up front in cash.” That way, if the next tenant bails like the last one must have, she’ll have something set aside to get a cleaning crew in. “This place isn’t….” Habitable in its current state? Clean enough for roaches? He settles on a partial truth. “I have some things in storage back in New York that I want to deal with while I’m here.” Business papers and personal effects of his mom’s that he’s put off dealing with for too long. “I need to get some crates shipped out while I’m here so I can sort through them once and for all, but I’m going to be busy with work for a while.” He shrugs and gestures at the floor space. “There isn’t enough room up here to store it all until I get around to dealing with it, not with a second bedroom that small.”

  “Ah!” Her expression brightens. For someone who seems so frail, she’s out the door and headed down the exterior stairs in a hurry. He quickly follows. No way does he want her falling down these deathtrap stairs on his watch. The handrail shifts as they descend, bolts pulling worryingly away from their fixings, but Mrs. Sikorsky doesn’t notice, intent on showing him something. When she tugs at double garage doors, he’s tempted to simply make his excuses and go, but the way she looks over her narrow shoulder and smiles stops him mid step.

  He’ll give her another few minutes of his time, he decides, and then he’ll drive away as fast as he can. He’ll go without looking back at this dump and find somewhere much better, only when light floods the inside of the garage, Jon’s cast-iron resolve falters.

  It’s a huge space.

  Huge.

  Far from full of crap like upstairs, it’s well organized and tidy. One side is devoted to garden equipment, the other to tall shelves of perfectly labeled large totes. Mrs. Sikorsky says something about her tenants using the rest of the space to store whatever they want, but Jon’s too distracted to listen. He walks toward the gleam of garden tools by a sunny window. There’s a space for everything here, including a sturdy table holding row after row of seedlings and pots filled with earthy compost. He leans close and breathes in, inhaling a damp scent so darkly full of promise that it hurtles him back to childhood.

  “Jonathan?”

  He abruptly straightens, something like embarrassment closing his throat.

  “You like to garden?”

  It’s a simple question, one that shouldn’t be so hard to answer. Jon might be standing in Seattle, but his heart’s back with his mom who gardened for their kitchen table before their lives were uprooted. He nods rather than speak aloud.

  “Who taught you?”

  “My mother,” he finally gets out. “She—” His swallow is surprisingly thick. “—she loved it. I guess it didn’t exactly register yesterday, but your listing photos reminded me of where I grew up.”

  “Where was that, dear?”

  “Upstate New York. She made helping out fun. The year I turned ten, she said I’d learned enough to plant a garden of my own. I planned it out all winter.” Those plans had started simple but took over an entire be
droom wall by the time he was done. Where other kids might cover their rooms with sports heroes or pop stars, he’d drawn out his own garden to scale and stuck seed packets where he planned to plant them.

  He hasn’t thought about that forever.

  Dust from the apartment upstairs must be what affects his voice. He has to clear his throat before saying, “We moved right after I started planting. I always wondered if my seeds came up.”

  Mrs. Sikorsky blinks back at him, silent for a long moment. “So,” she eventually says, her tone soft like he might startle, “if storage is an issue, there’s plenty here, Jonathan, for whatever you want to get shipped out from the East Coast. You can store whatever you need down here, and it will be perfectly safe for as long as you need. And while you’re here, you could plant another garden.”

  “I guess.” There really is enough space down here for everything he needs to plow through. “But….” The apartment upstairs is so bad, its squalor good enough reason to walk away, only he’s rooted where he stands for some reason, like the plants on the potting table, each one so full of potential that he can almost feel between his fingers. He itches to touch the fuzzy stems of what look like young tomatoes to find out if they tickle like he remembers.

  “How tall are you?”

  The question comes out of left field, so Jon’s surprised into answering. “Six two.” The shovel she passes his way is the perfect size for his height, its handle warm and wooden, worn smooth from years of hard use.

  “You know, you’re about as tall as my late husband,” she says. “His eyes were kind as well, though not half as dark as yours, dear.” She opens a door at the rear of the garage. “Why don’t you come see what we made together?” She talks gently as she walks, turning often as they cross the overgrown backyard. She’s short enough that Jon can see right over her head, and when he spies the vegetable garden he glimpsed in the online listing, his footsteps falter.

  It’s so much bigger than the photos hinted.