“Who is Holt?”
“Didn’t I tell you about him already?” Her flightiness rears its flighty head.
“Nope, can’t say you did.”
“Ah, well,” she mumbles, trying to work out where she should start. I know the vacancy in her expression well. “He’s the new groundskeeper.”
“You’re paying someone to work around the house?”
“Not exactly.”
“He isn’t doing it for free.”
“For room and board.”
She didn’t.
“Where is he rooming and boarding exactly?”
“I was in town trying to buy things for the house a few months ago. It’s been in need of work. I guess I came off as confused because he came to my rescue and helped me figure out what I needed. We got to talking. I found out he didn’t have a place to stay while he was in town. He seemed kind. And there was a lot falling apart around here, and he’s good with man work, so we made a deal.”
She did.
“You’re letting a drifter live in our home? How can you do that? What if he’s a serial killer?”
“You’re being dramatic.” She laughs softly and brushes strands of dark hair out of my face, sticking them behind my ear.
She’s always been like this. She does things most people would never consider doing. For example, letting a man she doesn’t know live in her home in the middle of nowhere.
“I’m being realistic. You have no idea who this guy is.”
“Evie, he’s been a real Godsend.” When she realizes I’m staring at her like she’s looney, she tries to justify her decision. “He’s not a danger. He’s—sad, maybe a little antisocial. He has a lonely aura about him. Whatever it was, I felt for the poor boy. I really did.”
Right, because that’s so much better.
“You’re too trusting.”
“You’re too untrusting, especially of men. It’s an unfortunate symptom of your father.”
Here we go again.
“Why do you always bring him into things? This has nothing to do with Dad.”
“Oh, baby.” She rests her hand over my cheek and pets the apple with her thumb. “Of course it does. It’s his leaving that makes you suspicious of men and unable to connect with others easily. You sabotage yourself.”
“Please, spare me your psychology babble, Mom.”
“Not to mention your inability to communicate about what he did to you. You’re detached.”
She always manages to bring him up. After traveling all day, I’m drained, physically and mentally. I’ll wave the white flag for now.
“Is there anything else I should know before it’s sprung on me?” I ask, praying there isn’t.
“I may or may not have given him your art studio in the attic.”
My shoulders sag.
“You didn’t.”
“Oh, it’s getting late.” She glances over my head to the clock, making note of the time. “I need to start dinner.”
Rising from the couch, she scurries out of the room while I stare at the empty entryway with a dimwitted expression on my face.
There’s a strange man living in my old art studio. And my mother is cooking dinner, which she’s never done a day in my life. Have I entered an alternate dimension?
Leaving my bag where I abandoned it, I drag ass toward my room in the back, across the hall from the kitchen, and swiftly gather it’s been straightened up since my last visit home. There isn’t the usual thin layer of dust across every flat surface. Everything has been wiped down and polished until it sparkles like those cheesy cleaning product commercials.
She’s cleaning now, too?
I walk over to the glass-paned double doors. Beyond the wide porch and natural carpet of green, there’s an extraordinary view of the crystal lake. When I was a teenager, I’d sneak out for midnight swims, the open sky above me packed with stars.
Icky from my travels, I strip down for a bath, sit on the edge of my tub, and turn on the water, the thunderous noise relaxing me instantly.
Pruney and limp, I step out of the tub and slide into my holey peach bathrobe. I peek into the steamy mirror, wiping away the condensation with a swipe of my hand. My green eyes are drained of light, dark circles underneath deadening them.
Jet-lagged, I decide to go to bed early. I stroll into the kitchen across the hall, where my mom is slaving over the stove. It’s a shock to the system for sure. And what’s even more astounding, it smells as if she’s been cooking for years.
“Hey.” She twists around from stirring.
“It’s so nice having you home, baby.” She smiles contently. “I’ve missed hearing your voice every day.” She continues adding ingredients to the simmering shrimp and fish stew. “You’re going to love this dish. It’s Brazilian. Moqueca.”
“I’m going to skip dinner,” I inform her with an apologetic tone. “I’m really tired.”
The content melts from her face. She’s disappointed.
“Are you sure you don’t want to eat, first?”
“I’m sure.” I kiss her on the cheek. “We’ll catch up tomorrow.”
“Alright,” she agrees. I turn to retire to my room when she stops me. “Violet?”
Oh crap. She used my given name. This won’t be good.
“Yeah?”
“Would you try to be civil with Holt? He could use a friend.”
“Mom,” I whine. It sounds childish.
“I’d appreciate it,” she says, in a tone dripping with syrup.
Argh.
“Fine.”
“Thank you, Evie.”
“Smells great by the way,” I remark, heading back to my room. “Night.”
I manage to shut and lock my door before collapsing lifelessly onto my bed.
suppressing the fullest value of a color
The next morning, I rise with the sun, revived after a night on my feather-soft mattress. It’s a million times better than the unforgiving one I bought for school.
I shuffle into my bathroom to brush my teeth and scrub my face. I put on a floral baby-doll dress and fasten my brown hair into a ponytail to keep cool throughout the day. Already hot and sticky, the early June morning threatens brutal temperatures.
I cross the hallway to the kitchen for my morning cup of tea. When I crack the door, I spy Holt standing at the counter, pouring himself coffee.
Holy crap.
I slip out before he notices me, slumping against the wall. It’s too early to forge a forced friendship, especially before my morning stimulus.
Suddenly, Max lets out a warning bark at my feet. I yelp with a start, alerting Holt to my presence. It appears I have no choice now.
I turn to the black Lab and whisper, “Thanks a lot, dog.”
He snorts out a huff of air through his nose then trots into the kitchen to join his master.
I align my chakras, center my chi, and follow suit.
“Good morning.” I attempt civility.
I join him by the counter, ignite a fire under the kettle, and get a teacup out of the cupboard. All while he stares me down from mere inches away, scratching Max’s head.
“It’s going to be a hot one.”
His hip leant into the edge of the counter; he sips his coffee and nods.
Figuring I’d make myself something, I offer, “Would you like breakfast?”
He picks a piece of buttered toast from a plate I hadn’t noticed and bites off a corner, chewing it slowly, his gilded eyes inspecting my body with the same lackluster. Choosing to ignore him, I stand uncomfortably at the counter, my eyes forward, wriggling under his scrutiny like a hooked worm. Minutes pass like this, until the whistle of the kettle screams for my attention. I pour the boiling water into the dainty teacup and dunk the bag to steep. With his sleep-mussed hair and penetrating stare chiseling away at my resolution, ignoring him proves to be difficult.
When I’m sure I’ll combust into flames under his gaze, he tosses Max the last bite of his toast and wa
lks out, his furry companion trotting happily behind him.
That’s it.
Not. A. Word.
Once I’ve finished my tea, I step out onto the back porch with my sketchbook in hand. The summoning nays of our horses in the close distance beckons me. I make a detour over to the massive paddock where my girl is waiting for me, her wise and all-knowing black pearl eyes watching me steadily. You’d swear she was staring into your soul.
When I approach the fence, she bows her head to me. I step into it, nestling my face against hers, running my hand over the black sheen of her neck. This is our ritual.
“Have you been a good girl, Nightmare?” I ask, my forehead touching hers. She makes a soft noise as if actually answering me. “I missed you, too, girl.”
I named her after the painting by Henry Fuseli, depicting a sleeping woman with a black horse and a troll-like demon hunching over her. Plus, I thought it was a clever play on words. She’s darker than night and a mare.
My father hated the name. He thought it was twisted. My mother, being the art enthusiast and quirky, thought it was brilliant.
It killed me to leave her here when I left for school, but I made up for it during my breaks.
Dropping my sketchbook into the grass, I climb into the pen, grab the brush hanging on the post, and brush her almost blue coat, petting her neck with my other hand. When I finish, I reward her with a carrot.
I devote the rest of the morning and afternoon to drawing in the shady refuge of a tree, its thick greenery sheltering me from the intense rays of the scorching summer sun. Every now and then, I’m rewarded with a refreshing breeze off the lake, blowing across the back of my neck. A sheen of sweat across my olive skin provides an added coolness when the wind picks up, playing in the leaves overhead, creating a crackling hiss. The lake laps against the dock twenty paces to my right. I’m finally home.
I set my leather-bound sketchbook down and lie in the grass, the soft blades flirting with the bare skin of my arms and legs, peeking up at the sun poking through the leafy canopy of the towering trees. The air smells of summer, of earth, chlorophyll, and flowers.
“Oh, there you are, Evie,” my mom says. I crack an eyelid, squinting up from my earthy bed at her dark outline set against the blazing brightness of the blue sky. “Would you drive into town and pick some things up for me? I’d send Holt, but he’s already in town buying supplies at the hardware store. And he doesn’t have a cellphone.”
Who doesn’t have a cell nowadays?
“Sure.” I pop myself up on my elbows. “Just give me a list.”
“Thanks, baby. I’ll get one started.”
I watch her walk toward the house with colorful spots swimming in my eyes.
“It’s so hard to find good help these days,” I mutter.
Chuckling, I struggle to get up, stiff from lounging on the ground. I stretch once I’m on my feet, cracking and popping in places I didn’t know possible. My ass is nonexistent. When I enter the house, she’s in the kitchen jotting down items on a slip of paper. Once she hands me the list, I put on my favorite pair of scuffed leather boots, snatch the keys from the entryway table, and make for my powder blue ’63 Chevy Nova, stored in the carriage house. My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. It’s my baby. I drive it whenever I’m in town since she thought it wouldn’t make the trip out west.
I open the door and freeze when I’m greeted by emptiness. Frantic, I run back to the house, ready to call the police to report my stolen car.
“My car’s gone!” I exclaim when I re-enter the kitchen.
“Ah, I forgot. Holt must’ve taken it on his errand.”
Astonishing how she always seems to forget things. That’s Meredith, scatter-brained.
“First, you give him my studio. Then, my car. Am I next?”
“He doesn’t have one. And I couldn’t keep driving him into town every time he needed something, so I made him a spare key and let him drive her while you were away.”
“Well, I’m here. However, my car is not.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, baby. Take my car.”
I’m upset she permitted him use of the Nova without my knowledge. Not in the mood to argue my first real day back, I take her keys out of the bowl and jump into her gold 70’s Mercedes-Benz out front. We have a love for the classics.
Ten minutes later, I’m driving through the center of Aurora, a quintessential New England town complete with a white steeple church, centuries-old wood and brick buildings fringing Main Street, and tree-lined sidewalks with antique streetlamps spotted in between. There’s a river coursing along the south edge of town, making Aurora a truly postcard-perfect place to call home.
I love summers here, but my favorite season is winter, when everything is dead, quiet, and blanketed in thick sheets of white. It’s a virtual snowy wonderland.
I park in front of the store and go inside, locating what I need without difficulty. I browse the aisles for special items I’d like in the house. While lost in the junk food aisle, I sense prying eyes on me. My suspicions are confirmed when I spot two women about halfway down the aisle, sneaking swift leers at me then whispering to each other. I’m actually taken aback by it. The members of this community are usually very friendly, always making eye contact and saying hello when they pass you on the street.
Abruptly, one of the hens pipe up, “You’re Meredith’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I reply with faux politeness, wondering why they’re asking.
They snicker then casually stroll away in the other direction, whispering and huffing.
Shaking it off, I continue shopping, setting my attention on the colorful bags of sugary treats. However, before long, I realize the pair of women aren’t the only customers shooting me unnerving grimaces.
Anxious, I finish up my shopping and leave.
“Dinner’s ready,” Meredith announces from the kitchen where an indescribable scent exudes and wafts into my room. I follow my nose like a cartoon character drifting on air toward the scent swirls beckoning me.
“When did you learn to cook?”
“I had to do something while you were away at school, or I would’ve starved.” She stirs a big wooden spoon through a bowl of creamy white sauce. “I wasn’t very good in the beginning. I wanted to wait to surprise you until I actually had something to show for it.”
“Yeah, but why couldn’t you do this before I left home?”
I giggle, the tip of my tongue gently pinched between my teeth. She smirks, a breath of a laugh escaping her lips. Leaning against the counter, I scan the many exotic dishes spread out across it.
“What is this?”
“Let’s see,” she says, pointing to the bowl of white sauce, “tzatziki, pita, skewered meat, lemon rice, and salad with tomatoes and cucumbers. It’s Greek. I thought we would try something new tonight.”
“Burgers would have been new,” I tease her. “This—you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Your welcome home dinner should be special, baby.” She rubs my back with loving strokes. “Now,” she says, removing her hand and picking up the platter of spat meat, “would you grab the rice and grilled zucchini?”
I carry the dishes to the rear porch, setting them on the white wicker table arranged with three place settings and a small bouquet of blue and lavender hydrangeas from the garden. I really hope the third plate isn’t for him.
I’m helping set out dinner when Tay’s cheerful voice rings out from the hallway, “Anyone home?” She materializes at the back door and steps out onto the terrace with a pitcher of her famous sangria and a big grin.
“I brought the cocktails,” she says, holding up the mixture of red wine, brandy, and cut fruit. She hands me the fruity concoction.
“I’m so glad you came.” Meredith hugs and kisses her on the cheek. Taylor is a second daughter to her, so I’m not surprised she invited her for my welcome home dinner. Though I am surprised Roy and Hettie aren’t here. They’re our neighbors an
d life-long friends of my grandparents. Roy must not be up to it, otherwise they’d be here.
Tay asks, “Can I help you get anything together?” eyeing the table with a ravenous gaze.
“You sit and enjoy,” my mother insists, a hand shooing us toward the table. And we do.
I dish out food, loading everyone’s plate, sans meat for Tay since she became an herbivore. My mother and I on the other hand are not. Tay serves up the sangria.
“I forgot the yogurt sauce.” Meredith swiftly rises and makes for the screen door.
“You’ll never guess who I saw,” Tay says, stabbing her salad with a fork and shoving a cherry tomato into her mouth.
It probably wouldn’t be hard if I tried. There are ten people in the whole town. She doesn’t actually want me to, though. Like most people, she wants me to set her up for whatever she’s about tell me.
“Who?”
“Makayla.” Her upper lip curls, as if it’s rejecting the name.
“I thought she went to L.A. to become a famous actress or something.”
“The gossip around town is Hollywood didn’t bang down her door. She’s been back in Aurora since spring working at her dad’s hardware store.”
“When did you see her?”
“Today, working some hot guy,” she answers, “instead of doing her job. She was her usual skank self. He didn’t seem to mind it either. I’ve never seen him before, so he must’ve moved here recently. Of course if there’s a new guy in town, Kayla’s the first to meet him, a one woman welcome wagon.”
Holt must be the unknown guy in the hardware store. Like I mentioned, in a town of three thousand people, if you’re not acquainted with someone personally, you at least know their face, name, or reputation.
“Did he flirt back?” I ask, wondering if she elicits a reaction from him. Tay elevates a nosey brow in my direction. She wonders why I care about the hot stranger’s response to my arch nemesis.
“Well,” she thinks back, “I couldn’t hear what he was saying to her, but he didn’t seem uninterested in her coming onto him. I mean, it’s Makayla, the man slayer.”
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