“I was wondering when you’d make up what you owe… but better late than never,” she adds, moving away from the door before I can even begin to explain.
“Come in, come in,” she exclaims, opening the door wide after fetching the dreaded rent book, practically dragging me inside and making me sit in one of her antique chairs that smell like old books and aged wood.
Her apartment, like the whole building, is from another age, but her own space is immaculate. Making me feel like I’ve slipped back in time somehow.
“Such a pretty girl, just need to lose a few pounds,” she muses, not even being shy about touching my hair or insulting me so casually. The one thing I’m actually proud of is my bright blond hair not my weight, but it’s the least of my worries right now.
“Mrs. Peterson, it’s not about the rent,” I interrupt her bluntly, watching her weak smile turn to a near scowl.
“Oh?” she says hoarsely, lines suddenly creasing on either side of her mouth.
“I… I’ve locked myself out of my apartment. I don’t have anyone else to turn to…” I stammer, feeling tears where there should be something else.
Something more solid.
I start to cry and watch the old woman roll her eyes, clasping her hands in front of her chest.
“Oh that I might have had a daughter,” she exclaims to the ceiling. “She would have turned out much better than this!”
Ignoring my tears, she shuffles to a sideboard and starts to rummage through some drawers, keeping the rent book in her hand where she makes sure I can still see it.
“Here,” she says firmly, thrusting out a business card. “He’s the best, and he’s cheap,” she adds, looking down to find the page in her rent book and producing a pencil from her apron pocket which she licks the tip of.
“And the rent. Now,” she says calmly but firmly.
Through watering eyes, I can make out the name of the locksmith, and use it to avoid talking about rent.
“Three Bears Locksmiths?” I ask, looking up at her.
She shrugs. “He’s cheap like I said,” she adds, creasing the corner of her mouth as she figures if I can’t even get inside my apartment I won’t be paying her a dime today.
“Phone’s there,” she grunts stabbing a gnarled finger towards the ancient phone on the wall, which is also a payphone.
Ever the businesswoman.
“I suppose you need a quarter, too?” she clips, pulling a dull coin from the same pocket she’s returned her pencil to.
I take myself and the creased business card over to the phone, relieved when a friendly voice answers.
“Three Bears Locksmiths. How can we help?”
I feel like I can breathe for the first time in a long time.
A friendly voice and an even friendlier person on the end of the line, promising to help.
With no mention of crappy jobs, rent, or nasty notes under doors.
Hang on Trixie, baby girl. Help is on the way.
Chapter Two
Maxwell
“Pop, hang on a second will ya? Slow down.”
Covering my phone with one hand, I excuse myself from my meeting.
I get one polite smile, and the rest of the table raises their brows as I head out to the balcony.
Sealing big money deals isn’t new to me. Forgetting to switch my phone off beforehand is.
But it’s my dad, and I know he wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.
“A baby?” I exclaim, running a hand through my hair and shaking my head, “Tell her to call 911,” I growl, feeling like maybe I’m the only sane person left alive on this planet.
“Dad, she doesn’t need a locksmith from the other side of town, she needs to-”
And then I get it.
He repeats his story. His little problem.
Her problem.
“She’s a young, single mom, Max. Locked herself out and it’s like three blocks from your building… She said it herself, ‘Phone, keys and my baby girl, all trapped behind three locks. What am I gonna do?’”
I’m counting back from ten in my head. A stress-busting technique I never thought I’d need to use after organizing my own life just how I like it.
But sometimes, just sometimes, the old man has this effect on me.
Especially when I feel like he’s trying to play cupid.
“And what exactly did you tell her, Dad? That you couldn’t possibly help her out. That you could recommend another locksmith or that she call 911?” I ask, knowing what’s coming.
Almost.
“That’s the thing, Max. She went weird when I suggested she call the fire department or the cops. Like she’s in some kind of trouble.”
I blow air out of my cheeks, glancing back at my clients, who look worried.
“So I told her that my son, my baby bear who used to be my best locksmith before he decided to take on the whole world would rescue her.”
I feel myself flush with embarrassment.