They walked Joan to the door, assuring her they would get right on the renovations. “If you need help finding a new apartment, let me know,” she said to Cassie. “I’ve got a gorgeous one bedroom in Gramercy Park. Doesn’t need any work and it’s a nice, quiet neighborhood.”
A single woman on the downslope of life looking for a nice, quiet neighborhood. Was that what she was? She could move into the apartment in Gramercy Park and never leave. Andrew would find her there thirty years from now gumming her food. Or she would board the A train, forget where she was going and end up in the Rockaways.
She accepted Joan’s card, relieved to show the woman out. She’d blown in like an evil wind, deviling her with choices that had to be made. Phil was wrong, she wasn’t a ballbuster, she was a mosquito that wouldn’t leave them alone.
“Well.” Phil exhaled once the door was closed. “I guess we have work to do.”
“I guess we do.” The apartment with the two of them in it suddenly seemed claustrophobic. She couldn’t wait to leave. “Feel free to get some quotes,” she said, gathering up her purse.
“Um, I thought you might want to do that.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and get started.” It felt good to toss the ball Phil’s way. Let him choose new bathroom fixtures. He could hand it off to Natalie for all she cared. She was moving on.
Somewhere.
Chapter Thirteen
Cassie had begun to hope Mrs. Macuja might work out after all. She was a bit opinionated—only certain cleaning products would do and the very fact of her existence annoyed Cassie’s father—but she was definitely a big help. Her dad grumped about someone else washing his clothes and deciding what he was going to eat, but he’d seemed resigned.
But now, at nine-thirty on Monday morning, when she had a call at ten, something had gone awry.
“Mrs. Macuja wants to talk to you,” Andrew called upstairs.
“I have a meeting in a few,” Cassie said. “Can I talk to her later?”
“She wants to talk to you now.”
She clicked out of the memo she’d been reviewing. She should have spent more time preparing over the weekend, but between dinner with Glenn and the trip to the city and—
“Mom!”
“All right, I’m coming!”
Mrs. Macuja was halfway up the stairs, her face an alarming shade of red. “I try my best. I do everything you ask but your father no good.”
“What do you mean, he’s no good?” Yes, her father was difficult, but he’d been difficult all along. “Is it the laundry, is he giving you a hard time?”
“Not the laundry. He pinch me!”
“Hepinchedyou? Like on your skin? Are you sure?”
“What you mean, am I sure?” Mrs. Macuja lifted her skirt to show a red mark on the soft skin of her inner thigh.
Cassie felt slightly sick. “Hedidthat? He actually touched you there?”
“He don’t touch. He pinch!”
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry. Did he, I mean, what did he—” She glanced downstairs to see Andrew gaping up at them. She lowered her voice. “—He put hishandup there?” Dementia could lower inhibitions. She’d heard of elderly patients who suddenly began groping their caregivers or came out with lascivious comments that were completely out of character. Sometimes they even ended up getting kicked out of their nursing homes. But herfather? The man so full of decorum he used to wear pressed slacks even on the weekends.
Mrs. Macuja glared at her. “How you think he do it?”
Cassie squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second. “I amsosorry. Let’s go talk to him right now.” She glanced at her watch. Nine-thirty-five. She needed at least twenty minutes to go over that memo. But her father had pinched a woman. That couldn’t wait.
In the family room, her dad was placidly watching TV with his headphones on.
“Dad,” Cassie said. “Dad!” She muted the TV.
He tugged off the headphones. “What are you doing?”
