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"Does your hair always look this way when you wake up?"
"What way?" I reach to touch it, quickly realizing that the natural curl I so desperately dislike took control when I went to sleep with damp hair. "Not always, no."
"I love it."
I see that he's already dressed in navy trousers and a light blue dress shirt. "You're dressed," I say under my breath, feeling very out of place.
"I've been out. I needed to take care of some things."
"Things?"
"Ivy things." He winks at me before walking out of the room.
"Ivy things?" I repeat quietly.
He returns carrying two shopping bags. "I went to your apartment."
"You what?" I'm startled and instantly unsure of how he could have gotten past the doorman.
"Fred Johnson and I have done business together." He continues, "I mentioned that you'd had a problem in your apartment last night and he was more than happy to let me in."
"You know the man who manages my building?"
"I do." He grins.
"Please tell me you haven't bought the building." I try to cover the anxiety in my voice.
"Not yet." His voice teasing.
I raise my eyebrow before taking a small sip of the coffee.
"If I did own it, I'd lower your rent." The smile on his face is widening.
"You couldn't. I own," I counter.
"You own? Or you and Mark own?" There's surprise in his voice.
I hesitate before I reply, "Actually, Mark owns the apartment I live in." I take a deep breath and look directly at him. "I want to be able to move out on my own but I'm still working on how to make that happen."
"I understand." He holds his hand out to me. "Come with me."
I follow him down the hall to the bedroom. He motions for me to sit on the edge of the bed as he places the shopping bags on the floor.
"Ivy." He kneels in front of me. "There were some broken things at your place."
"Yes." I sigh. "Liz broke a wine glass and then I heard more glass when I ran out."
"I cleaned it up." He stops as if to gather his thoughts. "But it was more than just a wine glass."
I raise my eyebrow giving him a quizzed look.
He leans to the left, reaching inside one of the shopping bags. I gasp the moment I see the edge of the weathered picture frame. It's bent, splintered and the glass shattered.
I can't stop tears from filling my eyes. "Oh no. No." I stare at it unable to move.
"This is you and your mother, isn't it?"
I nod. "It's the only photograph I have of the two of us." I stare at it resting in his hands. "She ... my mother..." I sob, trying to say the words. "She made the frame herself."
