CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The kitchen was clear. There wasn’t much to clean out except the expired pantry items. The dinnerware and flatware were in good condition, as were the mugs and glasses. Meena wasn’t much of a cook, but it would be wasteful to get rid of the pots, pans, pressure cooker, utensils, and the like, so they stayed in the cabinets and drawers.
She did peek into the cooker to check for a note and found Neha had written on the back of the warranty card.
I do not agree with Julia Child. There is no joy in cooking. It is an unnecessary chore when we are surrounded by dozens of restaurants. This is a present from Sabina. She knows I hate to cook, yet she still buys pots and pans for me. She likes to goad me. In return, I gift jeans. She hates them and does not ever wear them. One useless gift in exchange for another.
Meena added it to her ever-growing stack and shoved the envelope back in the desk. She would finish the kitchen later. The biggest project was the living room and foyer. The sofa, coffee table, and desk were in good condition even with clutter on every surface and in every corner. Having read through design blogs and taken quizzes, Meena had learned that she preferred minimal and modern. Clean surfaces, structured furniture. The small stuffed parakeets tucked in between books wouldn’t work with her new style, nor would the random wild animal figurines spread out on the fireplace mantel and along the end tables.
Between the fireplace and the opposite wall, there was little space. Every inch was taken up by furniture: small tables, a desk, a chair, a standing lamp, big pillows on the floor, and a huge wooden chest that looked as if Neha had bought it at a flea market. And of course, the top of the scarred chest was the perfect place for a lamp in the form of a butterfly made of stained glass.
“Snickerdoodle.” Meena accidentally bumped into the lamp, and it crashed on the floor. The shattered glass flew every which way and caught the top of her foot. She yelled in frustration.
Her front door crashed open. Sam rushed in, his hair mussed, as Wally barked behind him.
“You OK?”
“Sorry,” Meena said. “Keep Wally back, there’s glass everywhere.”
She was cornered against the bookshelf with no place to step over the shards.
“What happened?”
“I went to grab this parakeet.” Meena waved the small velvet figurine. “And I knocked over the lamp.”
Sam picked up Wally and plopped him on the couch. “Stay.”
“I can’t go anywhere,” Meena said.
“I was talking to the dog.”
Meena grinned. “I knew that.”
He gave her a harried look before getting a broom from the coat closet. As Sam swept a path for her, Meena picked up the lamp base. Something glinted as the sun hit it. She looked closer.
“Your foot is bleeding,” Sam said.
“Flying glass.” Meena picked at something wedged in the black rock base. Slowly, carefully, she slid a piece of paper out.
“What’s that?”
Meena knew. “Right now, it’s pretty stationery paper folded up, but watch . . .” She opened it up, and it was the size of printer paper. “Ta-da! Neha and her notes.” She handed it to Sam.
“You should read it,” he said.
She shook her head. “Your turn. I’ve opened all the ones I found so far. Some turned my life inside out; others are either nonsensical or I’m completely missing the message. Honestly, go ahead. You should enjoy her shenanigans too. I’ve officially stopped caring.”
Sam frowned. “I’m sorry about not telling you everything. I didn’t . . .”
“I know, you didn’t know what I knew . . .” She waved him off and stepped away from the corner as he swept up the broken glass. “Don’t mind me. I’m irritated. There is so much clutter in this place.”