"No," I said at last. "I haven't fucked him yet. But I plan to."
"Good," Felicia said. "I don't think you've gotten laid since you started working for me, and that's too damn long."
"I have!" I said, though I couldn't quite remember when. "It's just that you get laid enough for the both of us."
"I don't think it works like that," Felicia said. "You don't get to average sex out across multiple people."
"I know." Boy, did I know. Maybe my unbelievable attraction to Malcolm was because of how long it had been since I'd just gone out and had fun with a guy. I was a ball of repressed sexual energy, clearly, and Malcolm had picked up on it. Perhaps that was why he thought I was so magnetic.
"Well, whatever, go over to his studio, get painted, get fucked."
I made a face, though I knew she couldn't see it. "Damn, that sounds like you're mad at me."
"I'm not mad," she said. "I'm just cautious about this guy. What kind of man calls up your employer to ask to give you the day off?"
"A rich man used to getting his way?" I guessed.
"I suppose."
"You sound like you don't like him."
There was silence at the other end of the line for a long moment. "I don't think he's good for you," Felicia said. "You said he's damaged. You always try to save the damaged ones and it never works out."
I sighed. "I know." I remembered the way he stood up and belted out a classic barbershop tune and dumped his wallet out to help a hobo he'd never met before and probably would never see again. And then told me Allah said he should, even though he wasn't Muslim. Absently, I rubbed one of my tattoos, feeling the marred skin beneath. He was weird... and probably damaged... but... "But he's... different. I think."
"You think?"
"I know. I know he's different."
Felicia sighed on the other end of the line. "I know I can't talk you out of it," she said finally, "so try not to fall into the trap of trying to fix him. Please?"
"I won't," I promised.
"Okay. Have fun today. Go get a massage or something beforehand. You deserve it."
I smiled. Felicia was always trying to take care of me, when I was the one who always took care of her. It was sweet. "I will. See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
I arrived at Malcolm's mansion ready for anything. A good massage will do that for you. Gazing up at it, I heaved a sigh and steeled myself to once again enter the hoarder's den.
Except when I tried the door and it opened easily into the foyer, I was greeted with the sight of boxes. Stacks and stacks of boxes. Circling around, I peered into the long stretch of the house behind the entrance and saw still more boxes, and a group of men making more boxes, putting stuff into them. What the hell? I thought.
I didn't even call out this time, just started up the stairway. Reasoning that Malcolm wanted to paint me in his studio rather than his bedroom, I went all the way to the top floor.
A wave of heated air hit me as I stepped into the room to see Malcolm setting up a large drop cloth.
"Are you moving?" I asked him.
He looked up at me. His eyes were still haunted, smudged with dark circles. "No. Why?"
My mouth twisted. "You know there are a bunch of guys packing up your stuff and putting it in boxes downstairs, right?"
"Oh, that." He shrugged. "Yes, I know. I have decided to get rid of my things."
I blinked. "Just like that? You, uh, have a lot of stuff."
"Yes, I know. I've decided that it doesn't make me happy. I'm going to give it away."
I just never knew what to expect with Malcolm Ward. "You're giving all your things away? What about the really valuable stuff?" My mind went immediately to the sculpture that had been sitting in his foyer, the one by the student of Rodin. I would have liked to have touched that sculpture.#p#分页标题#e#
"What about it?" he asked. "I couldn't care less about how valuable something is to other people." He smiled. "Do you know what the most valuable thing in the world is, Sadie?"
Oh, I thought, please don't get all mushy on me. "You're not going to say love, are you?"
He shook his head. "Go ahead. Guess."
I looked around this huge room, and thought about the boxes moving downstairs. "Peace?" I hazarded.
"Nope," he told me. "The most valuable thing in the world is the head of a dead cat."
I suddenly felt small and cold. Tendrils of the past tickled at my brain. "What the hell?" I blurted. "Why would you say something like that?"
Malcolm looked up from his work in surprise. "It's only a koan, Sadie. A mental exercise posed by the Zen master Sozan."