Jamie Denton - Making Mr. Right

The frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...for example, when I said you’d have to clean out the closet, I was talking to you, but I was mostly thinking out loud. In fact, it’s kind of silly to clean it out until you know where all this is going to lead. Mallory may not be interested. Shoot, by the time she gets here, she may be married again.” She wanted to slap the startled look off his face.

“You think that’s a possibility?”

“I think,” she measured her response, “you shouldn’t worry. If she’s madly in love with someone else and already married again, do you really want her?”

She couldn’t bear to see the answer he might have in his eyes and turned away. “Never mind. She would have told me if she was thinking of getting married again.” She changed the subject quickly and promised herself that whatever she felt, she would not make snide remarks about Mallory again. She was her sister. Cindy did love her, even though she didn’t understand her. And she had to admit, she’d always been jealous of Parker’s reaction to Mallory. “It’s your house, and until something changes, you shouldn’t clean out the closet if you want that stuff there.”

“It is convenient,” he said.

“Then don’t clean it out.” She shook her head to clear the confusion he created every time she had one of these literal/euphemistic conversations with him. “If it gets to the point where Mallory is considering settling in here, I’m sure she’ll figure out some way to get you to move those things out herself.”

Cindy pushed past him and looked at the meager number of clothes he had hanging in his own closet. It held maybe ten suits, at least one of them dating back as far as high school—she recognized it from his and Mallory’s graduation. There was a line of white shirts and a hanger with neckties hung haphazardly over it. His clothes took up maybe two feet of the clothing rods that ran at least thirty feet on three sides of the room. The walls were lined with cedar. Built-in drawers and cabinets were interspersed between the rods and shelving of various heights and sizes. Four pairs of sneakers in various stages of disintegration perched neatly on a long low shelf obviously meant for the purpose. He had sweaters and casual knit shirts folded neatly on one stretch of shelves.

Only two suits survived her scrutiny. “What’s wrong with that one?” Parker asked at one point.

“Besides the fact that it’s threadbare?” She reclaimed the suit he looked reluctant to part with.

“That’s my TV suit,” he protested.

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