I’m learning that some guys can make you intensely aware of their … maleness. I feel like I’m being followed by a T. rex. The pavers make audible granite squeaks underneath his boots. His shadow stretches out in front of us, eclipsing mine. And I don’t know how it’s possible to feel someone’s interest, but the hair tie holding my bun feels loose and my tights roll down my waist a few inches.
In his man’s voice, all deep and husky, he asks, “Can I ask about my duties?”
“I think it’d be best if you just brought them up in the interview,” I say, sidestepping both the question and a tortoise. “The Parlonis will be your bosses, not me.”
“But I’d do anything you asked me to.” I don’t know why, but the way he says it flusters the absolute hell out of me. When I don’t reply, he continues in his normal voice, “You’re not going to even give me a clue of what’s coming.”
“I want to see how you work under pressure.”
He lengthens his stride to fall into step beside me. “Don’t worry. My specialty is walking into rooms and making people love me.”
“And do you have a hundred percent success rate?” I expect a grin and an outrageous claim in return, but instead he just looks rattled. I see that his confident mask has slipped. Maybe he’s thinking about his father.
He notices my attention. “You do fine under pressure, too. I know it must have been stressful to have Dad barging in.”
I straighten up my clothes before I ring the Parlonis’ doorbell. “Your dad’s asking your sister Rose to conduct a site review.”
“Oh man, I’m sorry. Pack your bags.” He draws in a deep breath and blows it out, and I know for sure he’s nervous. He’s just a good actor.
The door opens, and it’s Aggie, natty in a pewter pantsuit. Only armchairs and wealthy old women can pull off that kind of thick jacquard fabric. “Renata’s selecting a new costume. Hello, young man.”
I take charge of the introduction. “Theodore Prescott, meet Agatha Parloni.”
“Teddy,” he amends with a smile. They shake hands in a brisk, business-like way. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Parloni.”
“Call me Aggie. This way, young man. Are you going to sit in, Ruthie?” She’s noticed my notepad.
“I will, if that’s okay.” I trail along behind them. Around us, the house is in slight disarray. There’s a four-foot stack of garments in their dry-cleaning bags across the back of the couch. The bench is covered in mugs again. Only last night I stacked their dishwasher, fuming that I paid twenty dollars to be laughed at by a guy. The memory galvanizes me. I am not helping him out from this point forward.
“A bit untidy,” Aggie says with a weary sigh. “Did you have any trouble finding Providence?”
“No. And Ruthie was very kind to walk me up.”
“That’s Ruthie,” Aggie says, a faint smile on her lips. Little does she know I’m dreaming of some ritual humiliation. “So kind.”
“Kind of uptight,” Renata deadpans from behind us. What a treat to get a free master class in comic timing. She walks toward us. A bonus fashion show.
Teddy is wonderstruck. “So green.”
It’s an entirely green ensemble. She’s wearing very wide pants, a silk blouse, a bejeweled fanny pack, and a visor that has MONEY printed across the brim. Her little flat shoes sparkle. To top it off, she’s got on the emerald-green wig she calls “the Pisces.” She is wearing makeup that could be seen from the back row of a Broadway theater. Blending makeup is for “young people with time on their hands.”
If she’s gratified by Teddy’s jaw-on-the-floor reaction, Renata doesn’t show it. Instead, she strolls around him like he’s a fridge that has just been delivered. “What make and model is this?”
Aggie sighs at her dramatics. “Teddy Prescott, this is Renata Parloni.”
“Unfurl that hair, Rapunzel,” Renata orders Teddy, and there’s a genuine shampoo-ad gloss-and-tousle moment when he does. “What a wig that would make. Would you consider selling that to me?”
“Sorry. Without it, I’m nothing.”
Renata replies, “Worth a try. Do you ever cut it?”
“My sister Daisy trims it at Christmastime, out on the back patio. She’s the only one I trust. The others would shave me bald.” He grasps it now for comfort.
Renata will not give up easily. “I’d pay top dollar. Think it over.”
Aggie clears her throat. As always, things are off to a weird start. “Let’s sit in the sunroom.”
“My least favorite room,” Renata replies dourly, positioning herself out of the pool of warm yellow light. “If I had my way, we would have the shutters closed permanently.”
“But you don’t have your way,” Aggie replies mildly, and I realize I’ve missed something in their dynamic. Renata is loud as a foghorn and half as subtle, but Aggie is the boss. “Take a seat,” she encourages, and we do.
“Teddy Prescott, your first task is to ensure sunlight never again touches my skin. You two don’t know what you have: SKIN.” Renata makes both Teddy and me jump in our seats. We look down at ourselves. She intones like a creep, “Nice young skin.”
Teddy asks, “Am I going to end up in the bottom of a well, applying lotion to myself?”
“What you do in your spare time is none of my business,” Renata advises him. “Oh, let’s take a look.” She means the tattoos across his knuckles. “GIVE and TAKE. Are you left-or right-handed?”
“Left.”
“So you admit you take more than you give.” Renata is locking into a mode I have seen many times before: a serpentine argument based on the applicant’s self-perception. We barely have sixty seconds on the clock.
“Depends on who I’m with.”
“Elaborate,” Renata instructs crisply.
“If I’m down in the well, alone with the lotion, then yes. If I’m not alone, then I definitely mix it up.” Those multicolor eyes flick back to me now, maybe checking how I’m handling this risqué line of reply. He sees I’m amused, and now those eyes are sparkling.
“One point to Teddy,” Aggie umpires.
“What a blank canvas we’ve got here.” Renata reaches over and takes my wrist, unbuttoning my cuff and pushing up my sleeve. “We could take her to get a tattoo. I’ll pay. What should she get? I know, a big Virgin Mary.” She’s shockingly strong and I inhale as her nails begin to press.
“Ow,” I protest.
For the first time, Teddy looks truly uncomfortable. “That’s the first interview question? What tattoo would I, a licensed tattoo artist, give Ruthie? Whatever she asked for. Let her go, please.” His voice has dipped down into that particular register men use when they want their way, now. We three women suddenly remember what he is.
Renata releases my arm, which is now marked with crescent nail indentations. She makes long eye contact with Aggie, who remains impassive. They conduct a wordless communication. Then Renata says to me, “We’re going to have to invent a new category, aren’t we, Ruthie?” This is her apology.