“What are you doing here?”
“The astral projection didn’t work,” said Jake. “Believe me, I’d rather be in Morocco.”
“Your mom and Bert must be gone,” said Rachel. He nodded, and was grateful that she smiled. He was used to being an imposition. “Come on in.”
He lifted the basket with a little grunt and staggered into her living room. He stared around at the mess. “Have you thought about carpet -colors?”
“Do they know you’re over here?”
“Bert doesn’t like to see me iron,” he said.
“He doesn’t like it when you help your mom out?” Rachel blew out the stick of incense she had been burning. Jake wondered if the witchcraft rumors were true.
“Ha,” said Jake. “My mom never irons anything. This is my iron. I got it for Christmas.”
“Is that what you asked for?”
“Of course,” he said. “I made a list. My mom got me everything except for The World Is Full of Married Men. Bert put his foot down.”
“Jackie Collins?”
“The only one I haven’t read yet. Do you have a copy?”
“No,” said Rachel. “I don’t own any books.”
He decided not to hold that against her. “We have school pictures on Monday,” said Jake. “I would like to wear something that isn’t wrinkled.”
“I understand,” said Rachel.
“Can I iron here?” Jake nudged the basket forward with his leg. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not. Are you sure it’s okay with your mother?”
“Bert proposed to her last night, so she’s kind of preoccupied with that.” That was true—Jake had watched the whole thing play out over last night’s Tater Tot casserole. Bert no longer wanted to live in sin, and Krystal swooned at the cheap ring, the cliché of a June wedding. “It was gross.”
“Do you like Bert?”
“No,” he said, examining the kitchen. Frank had never let him inside, so Jake had always wondered what it would be like, and apparently it was chaos and ugly countertops.
“Me neither,” she said, and stopped herself. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” She suddenly clapped her hands together. “I’ve got something to show you!”
She pulled Jake down the hallway and shoved him inside the bathroom. It reeked of fresh latex paint. She had chosen a bright yellow and a pale green, which in the poor lighting of the bathroom mirror, made his face look ashen. He kept this to himself. “It’s fantastic! I’m a fan of color.” Lucky Santangelo’s bathrooms were usually smoked glass and stainless steel, and there was always an enormous marble bathtub with Jacuzzi jets. Lucky’s bathtub would never fall through the floor of a trailer house.
“I’m so glad you approve,” she said. These were not the colors of a thief or a murderess; these were colors from an outdated issue of Good Housekeeping. He would help her.
He eased his way past, as she followed him into the living room. “Where’s your ironing board?”
“Actually,” she said. “I don’t have one.”
He looked her up and down, at her sweatpants and Blondie T-shirt. “I guess I’m not surprised. I’ll be right back.”
Jake luxuriated in his empty house and gathered his new purchases from under his bed. He grabbed his beloved ironing board and tucked it under his arm. It was vintage, and he had bought it at a yard sale. It was the kind that was designed to sit on countertops. He assumed that this was so women could cook and iron at the same time. Jackie Collins would not approve.
Rachel’s countertops were in terrible condition, but once again, he refrained from comment. Originally, they were a pearly white, shot through with gray veins; Jake’s own trailer house had the same version of ersatz marble. But Rachel’s were deeply stained with concentric circles of rust in different sizes. Frank must have left wet cast-iron pans on the countertops for months at a time. Jake eased the box of T-shirts and sewing notions from a paper bag, unfolded the board, and plugged the iron into the socket below the window. He folded his arms and stared at her as the iron hissed and began to warm.
“I lied,” she said. “When I lie, I have to promptly admit it.” Jake raised an eyebrow. “I forgot that I have some books. Well, it was a half truth. I don’t own them, they came from the library.”
“And?”
“You wouldn’t like them,” she said. “Laura Ingalls Wilder.”
“You’re right,” he declared, and removed a dress shirt from the basket. He unbuttoned it, snapped it open with a quick flick of his wrist. He draped it over the ironing board.
“I loved those books when I was your age,” she said.
“I’m an advanced reader,” he said. “I don’t like to read about people roughing it. I live in Quinn. I see it all the time. I prefer to read about people who aren’t dirty. I like a clean and complex protagonist.”