“Would you prefer for them to arrange in a different way?” Mrs. Saint asked. “We thought this would be best for entertaining. Because every seat can see well the fireplace.” She swept a hand, indicating.
Markie considered the arrangement and knew her neighbor was correct. She also knew it was irrelevant whether the furniture was arranged to accommodate company—after she ushered out the three people standing before her, she and Jesse would be the only ones who set foot inside the bungalow for the length of their tenancy. There was no need to share that out loud, though, so Markie smiled, told them it was perfect, and, hand extended, crossed the room to finally introduce herself to the two men who had done so much work for her.
Frédéric said his name the way Mrs. Saint had—“Fraydayrique”—as he took her hand in both of his and bowed deeply. Markie moved to Frédéric’s companion, who hesitated before finally resting his hand limply in hers.
“And this is . . .” Mrs. Saint said, dragging out the last word, her gaze fixed on the younger man until he finally caught on.
“Oh! Bruce!” he said, diving his stubbled chin to his chest and shaking his head as though he could never get that one right, the whole state-your-name-when-meeting-someone-new thing. His cheeks were red, either with embarrassment or shyness, and he seemed to Markie like an oversize, socially awkward child. It was the same way Markie felt when she was around her parents’ friends at the club, with their inside jokes she didn’t understand, their standards for appearance she never seemed to meet. Despite her ambition to avoid all personal connection, she felt an instant kinship with Bruce, and she patted him on the arm, smiled warmly, and said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Bruce.”
Directing her attention to Frédéric as well, she said, “Thank you so much for your help. We lost our moving team at the last minute. Without the two of you, we never would’ve gotten the truck unloaded ourselves and returned on time.”
“Non, non,” Frédéric said, waving her gratitude away. “But it was our play-zire. We were more than happy.”
Markie took in his formal attire and wondered how happy he could be to have foregone his other plans in order to perform heavy labor for a woman he had never seen before. Bruce, his jeans and T-shirt worn-looking and ill-fitting, had presumably not been invited to whatever affair the elder two were planning to attend.
“So you’re French, too,” she said to Frédéric.
“French Canadian,” Bruce corrected, and Mrs. Saint reached over and gave his arm an approving pat. He beamed.
“I am,” Frédéric said. “But corporate America beat out most of my accent over the years. Angeline suffered no such pummeling.”
The expression he directed at Mrs. Saint was so openly adoring that Markie almost said, “Aw,” out loud. How nice, she thought, that the woman had found love after her late Edouard. But Mrs. Saint frowned and turned to the window, and Frédéric, his smile collapsing, stared at his loafers.
“Bruce would like to ask you about the tay-lay-vi-zions,” Mrs. Saint said.
Bruce pointed to the two TVs that sat on the invisible threshold where the tiny living room met the minuscule dining area. “We wasn’t sure which goes where, since one’s . . . you know . . . bigger.”
“Oh.” Markie swatted the air. “Please leave the rest. You’ve done more than enough. Jesse and I can take it from here.” She extended her arm toward the archway and the side door beyond. “I’m sure you’ve all got things you’d like to do. We’re really quite able—”
“But Fraydayrique has brought with him his hammer!” Mrs. Saint said. “His picture-hanging nails, also.” She pointed to a toolbox Markie hadn’t noticed before, sitting on one of several large boxes grouped together in the corner, all marked ARTWORK. “And also there is the entire kitchen to unpack!”
Markie dismissed the boxes of art with a flick of her hand. “I’m not going to bother with those. Jesse’ll carry them to the basement later, along with most of the kitchen things. But thank you so much. You’ve gone above and beyond your neighborly duties.” She moved her arm again to show them out, resisting the urge to jab her finger repeatedly toward the door until they got the hint.
“I should move them TVs, though,” Bruce said. “They’re pretty heavy.”
He had seen Jesse’s stick-thin limbs, in other words, and he had also seen the boy’s middle-aged, out-of-shape mother. And he knew there was no way those two were hoisting those sets anyplace. He shifted nervously, waiting for her answer. The look on his face was so earnest, so hopeful, it seemed a refusal might crush him.
“Sure,” Markie said, letting her hand fall to her side in defeat. “That’s very kind of you. The big one and the stand go in Jesse’s room. The smaller one goes in mine.”
Mrs. Saint made a noise as Bruce pointed to the ceiling. “Big room for you and small for him? That’s how we done the beds.”
Markie started to answer, but she was distracted by Mrs. Saint’s reaction to the TV-in-bedrooms idea. She wanted to tell the woman she was aware it was a parenting no-no. She knew Jesse would stay up too late watching. She knew not having a common set meant she wouldn’t even be able to pass off their mind-numbing tube watching as “family bonding.” But she also knew her son, and she knew what he needed right now, and it wasn’t mother-son togetherness or a bunch of rules about screen time.
She had already tried pleading the TV-and-video game case to her parents, though, and they had not been moved. No way was she about to prostrate herself in front of another judge, and certainly not one she had known for only half a day. So she told Bruce, “Actually, he’s taking the room in the basement,” and before Mrs. Saint could register her disapproval about that as well, Markie added, “That’s the room he requested. He’s had a very rough year. I said yes.”
Bruce redirected his finger from the ceiling to the floor. “Move the bed frame before I go?” he asked. “Can pull the cable down from the family room, too.”
“That would be lovely about the bed frame,” Markie said. “No need on the cable, though. Not in the budget right now.” She shrugged as though the lack of cable wasn’t going to be a huge disappointment to her son—huge enough that she still hadn’t found a way to break it to him—and fluttered a hand in the air. Ho-hum, no big. “He’s got one of those gaming systems he can hook up.” She moved her waving hand in the direction of the family room. “I think I saw it near the side door.”
“Le pauvre,” Mrs. Saint said. “To have a rough year at such a young age. Divorce, non?”