Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

The main thing, he was occupied and Felicia could work steadily.

The “gig” was different; you couldn’t ask for anything easier.

Felicia wondered why Nick was willing to pay someone to drymop every inch of wall and floor, scrub down granite counters and appliances in the clearly unused kitchen.

When Nick made her go over the walls a second, then a third time, gave her freshly shredded T-shirts and ammonia spray to “really get down” into the corners, she thought it was a little weird, but it was his money and the take-out Thai food he ordered from a place in the County Mart was delicious, not to mention the candy for Emilio.

Knowing, somehow, that she loved Thai.

She’d use a toothbrush and a magnifying glass if that’s what he wanted.

While she cleaned, Nick kept busy in the master bedroom, emerged from time to time to inquire if she and Emilio were okay.

Between the second and the third go-rounds, when she made a joke about it being like one of those forensics shows on TV, cleaning up the evidence, Nick thought that was hilarious.

On the second day, the bus was late and so was she, but Nick was cool about it. He patted Emilio’s head and had Felicia go over the dining room again. Then he showed her into the master bedroom, the only part of the house she hadn’t been.

This was different.

Clothing was piled everywhere – on the bed, the floor, in the closet – except for one section where stacks of folded cardboard boxes stood ready to be assembled.

As if the contents of the entire house had been concentrated in one space.

“Please fold everything and pack, but not too tight,” he told her. “If you can arrange it loosely by color, that would be great, but don’t worry if it’s not perfect. Do you know how to fold these sides to make the boxes?”

“Sure.”

“Then you’re all set.” Big smile. “I’m going out for a while. I left drinks in the fridge and some snacks… it’s really nice having you help me, Felicia.”

“Me, too,” she said. Boy, did that sound stupid. “Um, afterward – after the food is gone – do I need to scrub down the fridge again?”

Nick thought about that. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

It didn’t take long to realize everything was for a woman. Big woman. Expensive stuff, a lot of it vintage.

Gowns and dresses, silk blouses and skirts. Tweed suits – a whole collection of those. Silky negligees and panty hose and real silk stockings you needed garters and clips for, she’d never actually seen those before. Lots of bras, size forty-four C.

On the bottom of one pile, she found a bunch of cute little leather boxes filled with costume jewelry. Tucked in a corner were cool old hatboxes, round and hexagonal, containing feathery cloches, felt derbies, berets, delicate straws with fake wooden cherries sticking out of the bands. One blue plaid cap that looked like a man’s, but women with hat faces looked cute in them, too.

She tried that one on, tilted it at a jaunty angle, grinned at the mirror.

People had told her she had a hat face.

Parting two other stacks in the corner revealed a bunch of plastic bags containing tubes and jars of high-end cosmetics. Some of it all dried up, but she packed it anyway, Nick was the boss.

In a humongous plastic bag, she found a dozen wigs, with tissue paper between them. All different colors and styles. In a matching bag were the little foam dealies you put wigs on.

The coolest find was thirty-three of the nicest scarves Felicia had ever seen. Vuitton and Armani and Chanel and Escada and some others she’d never heard of. She counted them because she’d never seen so much gorgeous hand-painted silk in one place.

No men’s stuff, not a single sock.

Felicia wondered if Nick was a costume designer. Or maybe married to an actress who traveled, needed all those changes.

Big woman, maybe a character actress. She conjured an image: tall, buxom, had to be a blonde. Big but firm and shapely, you had to give Nick credit for not insisting on an X-ray.

Felicia had once been a totally slim size six. She’d lost all her preg weight, but twenty-five months later was still a little poochy in front, favored baggy sweatshirts.

No competition for Nick’s glamorous wife.

Stupid thought!

Like the fantasies that had begun filling her mind since last night.

Lying in bed, hoping Emilio would sleep through the night. Thinking about Stuart in Fallujah. It had been three weeks since she’d heard from him and no way would she listen to the news, all news did was make everything as horrible as possible.

Stuart’s face faded from view.

Nick’s took its place.

Felicia felt stupid and ashamed.

Fought the fantasy but it kept coming back and finally she gave in.

Her and Nick.

It starts off all friendly, totally innocent, they’re both good people.

The two of them in that vanilla-colored house. Beautiful, warm sunny day.

She’s mopping, dusting, sweeping stuff outside.

She goes outside, by the pool, to dustpan it up. It’s so hot. She peels off her sweatshirt. Underneath is that skimpy black tank top. The one Stuart always asked her to put on when they…

For some reason, she’d worn it to work.

No bra.

She stretches. Bends down, accidentally flashes a full view of her dangling boobs.

That’s okay, no one there.

Uh-oh; there is.

Nick. Lounging under a palm tree, reading a book.

Wearing swim trunks, nothing else. Nice body, not an ounce of fat.

He sees her, smiles.

She smiles back, shyly.

Her eyes drift to his swim trunks.

Uh-oh. That’s kinda hard to miss.

Nick blushes. Tries to hide the evidence with a book.

She smiles. Walks over to him, real slow.

Both of them working at controlling themselves because they’re good people.

But…

Remembering last night’s fantasy, Felicia’s cheeks burned. Her knees felt weak.

From the corner room with the toys, Emilio cried.

Thank God for the interruption.

At the end of the third day, Nick came home around five p.m., whistling and looking happy and carrying a big brown leather bag that could’ve been a purse or one of those things guys use.

Felicia said, “You want me to pack that, too?”

“Not necessary. Looks like you’ve made excellent progress, Felicia.”

She had. Getting through most of the clothing, everything folded and organized perfectly by color and fabric.

She bragged about it. “Silk with silk, linen with linen.”

Nick flashed his big, white smile. Removed his glasses and looked at her with clear brown eyes.

Felicia loved the fact that she could please someone. Her own happiness was an elusive thing, she knew Stuart wrote as often as he could but…

Nick said, “Why don’t you take a break?”

Cool fingers grazed the nape of her neck. When had he moved close enough to do that?

Felicia drew back, feeling the scorch of her cheeks. Wondering if she’d done something to let him know what was flying through her head…

His smile turned crooked. “I’m going to look over these boxes, see if there’s anything I want you to change.”

“I hope there’s more work,” said Felicia. “You’re a great boss.”

Why had she said that?

Nick laughed. “Boss? We’re two people who’ve reached an agreement. Take a break, Felicia. Go chill by the pool, drink something, you’re sweating.”

Running a finger along her arm.

She shivered. “Sure.”

He closed the door to the master bedroom and she went to the kitchen, brought a Diet Peach Snapple outside, along with a carton of strawberries from the collection of luscious fresh fruit Nick had bought at the Country Mart this morning.