by Kay Bigelow
Lauren had never, ever thought she’d live in the country. Many of her colleagues and friends had country homes, retreats they used to get out of the City and the stresses that came with living in Manhattan. But she’d never even considered doing the same thing. She considered herself a city dweller, born and bred. She’d never thought there were benefits to living anywhere other than in Manhattan.
A series of epiphanies began blooming when Lauren reached her fiftieth birthday. A heart attack scare sent her to the emergency room. The ER doctor said her heart was fine, but that Lauren was having a severe anxiety attack. She needed, the doctor said, to figure out what was causing it and make the necessary lifestyle changes if she expected to live longer.
The first thing she admitted to herself was that she was no longer happy at work. She was a partner in a large Manhattan law firm and worked sixty or more hours every week, seldom took a vacation, and was lonely. She wasn’t sure when it had started, but knew she never had time to do anything she wanted to do. What surprised her most was she thought she was, if not happy, at least content. It was clear, though, she was neither of those things. More than anything, she was ready to be both happy and content, preferably with someone to share it with.
Lauren had already reached all her work-related goals, so she’d decided it was time for an extreme change. She knew just reducing the number of hours she worked wasn’t going to make one whit of a difference about how she felt about her job. Simply put, she no longer wanted to be an attorney. It took a few months, but she decided to retire from the law firm. Much to the surprise of her colleagues, she began taking entire weekends off, using them to visit towns outside the City. As she moved farther west, she began seeing possibilities. It took nearly eight months to find the property she wanted. It was only about two hours from New York City, close enough to be able to enjoy a day with friends but far enough away so that she wouldn’t be having them drop in on her. After buying the five-acre parcel, Lauren hired an architect and built a modest three-bedroom two-story house that looked very much like the neighbors’ homes. As the house neared completion, she put her Manhattan condo on the market. Since the condo was on Fifth Avenue and had a view of Central Park, it sold quickly for far more than she was asking for it after a mini-bidding war involving three couples erupted.
She pulled herself out of her trip down memory lane and decided to head for town. When she got there, she parked her newly purchased SUV in front of City Hall. As she and Serena walked around town, she found the friendliness of the people amazing. In the City, with the exception of tourists, no one looked you in the eye and never spoke to you. But here, a half dozen people wished her a “Good Morning” before she’d gone a block. A few people ignored her but said hello to Serena as they stopped to pet her and ask her name. A small restaurant named Patsy’s was a hub of activity with dozens of people inside, and she bet most were drinking coffee with friends. Maybe Patsy’s was the town’s equivalent of Starbucks. As she meandered farther along the main street, she noticed a bookstore, a flower shop, a jewelry store, and at the end of the block, a small gym.
There was also a sign, pointing to her left, that said, “Library.” She turned the corner and found herself in a neighborhood of homes that looked much like her own. There was also a medium-sized library housed in a white building. Much to Serena’s dismay, she was told to sit and stay outside the library’s front door which was at the back of the structure. After entering the building, Lauren stopped in her tracks. Straight ahead was a huge stained glass window showing people reading all over town. She recognized Patsy’s right away.
“Are you new to town?” a woman asked in a rich alto voice.
What a sexy voice!
“Yes. I need a library card,” she told the woman standing next to a counter to her right. A nameplate on the desk said her name was Alexandra Aoki. Interesting name, too.
The woman was striking. Probably in her early thirties, she was taller than Lauren’s five foot eight by at least two inches. Her coal-black hair almost reached her shoulders and was disheveled, but that could have been because it was naturally curly or due to an errant breeze. Regardless, it was sexy as hell. She had jade-green, almond-shaped eyes. She was dressed in navy slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the middle of her forearms. Everything about Alexandra Aoki spoke to Lauren at a visceral level. Lauren also noticed the small smudge of bright blue paint on her left jaw and wondered what she’d been painting.
When the librarian smiled, Lauren thought, Oh my God! The woman has dimples. Be still my beating heart. She found any woman with dimples to be wildly attractive. When she’d been seven, she’d asked Santa to bring her dimples. Alas, there were no dimples from Santa. Her mother had explained that Santa must have been all out of them. She’d cried herself to sleep that night.
Serena snuck into the library as Alex was verifying she lived in town. When she had her library card in hand, she and Serena headed out the door. Lauren suspected Alex watched her leave, but didn’t turn around to verify her guess. How embarrassing would it be to know Alex had gone back to whatever she’d been doing when I walked in? Better to fantasize than face reality on this one.
Chapter Two
As Alex made her way toward her condo, she was greeted by several people on the street. She stopped to talk to a few, but most she simply nodded to and continued on her way. I wonder what Lauren does for a living? Perhaps because she came to this small town to live, she doesn’t work at all. Is she retired? She didn’t look old enough to be retired. Is she married, in a relationship, or single? Oh, hell. What if she isn’t a lesbian? I’m certain she is. How does one go about ascertaining whether a woman I’ve only just met is a lesbian? None of the usual clues seem to apply to her. She didn’t have super short nails, but they weren’t long, either. She wore comfortable clothes, but there was no flannel or denim. She held my eyes, but didn’t stare. She wore loafers, but did they qualify as sensible shoes? She wore makeup, but it was only mascara and lipstick (which could be tinted lip balm). And her hair was short—that one could go either way. Of course, since it had become an “in” thing to be lesbian, straight women could more easily pass for lesbian these days. After that analysis, I still don’t know whether she’s a lesbian. Maybe I should ask her? “What a novel concept that is,” she murmured to herself sarcastically.
At the building where her loft was located, she paused to look up and down the street, hoping to see Lauren, but she was nowhere to be seen. With a sigh, she entered the building and climbed the stairs to her third-floor loft. She loved her living space because it was also her workplace. She didn’t need to get dressed in the morning; all she needed was an easel, a canvas, and her paints, and she was ready to work.
As she entered the loft, she could feel the peace wash over her. It was like she entered a magical space where only her corporeal body and her creativity lived. She glanced at the words she had hung on the wall above the hooks she’d hung for her bag and jackets. It was Virginia’s Woolf’s quote that said, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” The same could be said for artists.
She’d lucked out when her real estate agent, Meryl, called her one afternoon. “Alex, I think I’ve found your new home. It’s a loft in the center of town with lots of light and close to the library. It’s been on the market for some time, so we may be able to get it for a much lower price than they’re asking.”
Alex had said she wanted a house in the residential area of town or on the edge of town. But something appealed to her about the loft Meryl had described. “You’re right, it does sound good. Let’s take a look at it. Why has it been on the market so long?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve seen it, of course, and didn’t see anything inside that would make it hard to sell. I’ve looked at some of the older inspections and there’s nothing there, either. It may be that people just don’t want to live downtown.”
When they’d entered the loft later tha
t same afternoon, Alex knew it was home. She could imagine where all her belongings would be placed and where she’d be painting. Luckily, the owner was anxious to unload it, and after a building inspector said it was up to par, Alex had Meryl put in an offer.
Three days later, Lucia and Alex were on their way to London to attend the birthday party of a close friend of Lucia’s when Alex said, “I’ve made an offer on a loft in town.”
“What’s it like?”
After Alex described it, Lucia said, “It sounds perfect for you. Please let me buy it for you.”
“While I appreciate your offer, Lucia, this is something I need to do for me.”
Alex thought Lucia sounded disappointed to be turned down, but had said, “Well, if you change your mind, the offer still stands.”
“Thank you.” This is going to be mine and mine alone. I don’t want to be beholden to Lucia for my home, and I want no strings attaching my home to Lucia.
Ten minutes after the loft had become hers, she was moving her stuff into it. Earlier that morning, she’d packed her SUV full of boxes. She’d been living with her paternal grandmother, April, and didn’t own much, but it had taken several trips to get everything into the loft. Perhaps, she’d thought, she should have rented a dolly so she could carry more than one box at a time up the stairs. She had sketched the loft before moving in so she knew where things belonged. It didn’t take her long to have the loft looking like she’d lived there for months rather than hours.
Walking around the large space, she’d made notes about the things she needed to purchase. A bed, refrigerator, and shelving to hold her paints and brushes were first on her list. She’d wait to buy a washer and dryer until she had the cash to do so. She was certain her grandmother would let her do her laundry at her house.
Today, she wanted to immediately start her next painting, so she retrieved her sketch pad from her messenger bag and left the bag near the front door. She pulled out an already-prepped canvas, removed a work in progress from the easel, and put the new canvas in its place. She taped the sketch she’d made of Lauren studying the stained glass window onto the easel with washi tape and began transferring the sketch to the canvas. She’d made a note on the drawing that Lauren’s eyes were the color of stonewashed denim.
The best light for her work was on the side of the loft overlooking a huge expanse of meadow and forest. A previous owner—she didn’t know who—had put skylights into the ceiling, enhancing the lighting in that area.
For the next three hours, Alex was immersed in her art. She didn’t notice the passing of time, she didn’t hear the street noises, people greeting one another, or the neighbors’ dogs barking. She noticed only the brushstrokes and the story coming alive beneath her brush.
Alex took several steps back from her new work in progress to assess it, and felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. She pulled it to see who was calling. It was Lucia, but Alex didn’t want to speak to her and she let the call go to voice mail.
It was time she took a break, and while she was reluctant to walk away from what she was doing, she’d learned long ago to take breaks every few hours. She also knew she needed to leave the loft. She was smart enough to know she needed sustenance and needed to give her brain and her hand a break. Even as she was thinking about her painting hand, she began shaking it to loosen the kinks and relax the muscles in her arm. With another look at the painting, she took up her messenger bag and headed out the door and down the stairs.
Her first stop was at April’s house. Her grandmother was always glad to see her, and today was no exception.
“Are you hungry?” April asked. “I still have some leftovers from yesterday’s pot roast. I can make you a sandwich.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No. And, before you ask, there is enough for the both of us to have a sandwich.”
“Good. Then, yes, I’d love a sandwich. What can I do to help?” Alex asked.
“Nothing. Sit here and talk to me,” her grandmother said.
While they sat eating at the kitchen table, Alex pulled her sketchbook out and showed April the second drawing she’d made of Lauren that morning.
“Who is she? I don’t recognize her.”
“She’s new to town. She came into the library this morning to get a card. Her name is Lauren O’Brien.”
“You’re intrigued by her, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. You know how, now and again, there’s a person you meet who you are just drawn to? You know you could be friends with her maybe for a lifetime? She’s one of those people for me. I don’t know anything beyond her name, address, and phone number, and I’m not even supposed to know that much outside the library. Her driver’s license said she lived in Manhattan, and if I remember my Manhattan geography, it’s in a very upscale neighborhood.”
“What do you need or want to know about her other than what you know now?”
“What did she do for a living in Manhattan? Why did she move here? Is she single? Does she like art?”
“Sounds like you want to know if she’s girlfriend material,” April said, cutting to the chase.
Instead of answering her grandmother, Alex took a bite of her sandwich. April had always told her not to speak with her mouth full.
April smiled brightly at her granddaughter.
****
As Lauren and Serena retraced their steps back to the SUV, her mind kept returning to the librarian. Before she started the car, she sat thinking. Had the librarian been flirting with me? Nah. I need to get over myself. She couldn’t be interested in a woman old enough to be her mother. I was interested in Sandy when I was twenty-one and she was forty-one, but that was different. How? I don’t know, it just was. Maybe it was because Sandy was the older one then and now I’m the older one. She remembered Sandy had tried to convince her she was too old for Lauren. In the end, Lauren had convinced Sandy that the age difference was not an issue. Sandy had been her wife for twenty-five years. Their relationship had ended only because Sandy had died in her sleep six years earlier at the relatively young age of sixty-six.
She started the car and headed to the grocery store. She took her time and bought food and staples. By the time she had unloaded the car and put the groceries away, it was lunchtime. The problem was she wasn’t hungry, and she didn’t know what to do with herself. She hadn’t had any at-home leisure time in forever. Maybe I should have checked out some books to read. Well, damn! I’ll have to go back to the library. I can’t go back today, that would be too obvious. I’ll wait until tomorrow or the next day.
She had remembered to buy the local newspaper at the grocery store. She took it and a cup of coffee to her study and sat in front of the window to read. It didn’t take long. But she now knew about the weekly meeting of a quilting group, the meeting time of the St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church’s choir, and the latest lecture at the library, among many other things.
As she sat staring out the window at her small domain, it occurred to her she might be wise to find something to do with her time. If she didn’t, her mind would atrophy. You’ll probably learn to love the afternoon soap operas on TV or start napping in the afternoon, and/or grazing in the kitchen. But what to do with all this time? She had no hobbies; her journey to the top of her field had left no time for leisure activities like hobbies. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d read for pleasure, although she considered herself an avid reader. She couldn’t even remember what the last movie she’d seen was. It took a few minutes, but she finally remembered seeing The Remains of the Day in 1993. Surely, she told herself, it was not the last movie she’d seen. There had to have been other movies. But no, no other films occurred to her.
I am fucking boring. If I want to start dating again, I’d better get some interests so I can carry on a conversation. Do I want to start dating again? If so, is it because the young librarian has stirred my senses?
On an impulse, she d
ialed Lindsey’s phone number. “What’s up?” Lindsey asked.
“Am I as boring as I think I am?”
“Yes, you are. But you’ve been climbing the corporate ladder.”
“You couldn’t sugarcoat it for me, could you?”
“I’ve always told you the truth. Now is not the time to decide you don’t like it. What’s going on out there in the boonies?” Lindsey thought anywhere outside Manhattan was the boonies.
“I’ve been doing some thinking,” Lauren told her truthfully.
“What is this, your third day in your new house, and you’re already bored? That does not bode well for the future, girlfriend.”
“I’m not bored. I’m only doing some future planning.”
“Right. Have you started watching the TV soap operas yet? Oh wait, you don’t have a TV. Are you going out to buy one this afternoon?”
Lauren didn’t tell her the thought had crossed her mind. “No,” she said. “In fact, I’ve already been out this morning.”
“Really? Do tell me about your grand adventure.”
“I got my library card.” She wasn’t sure why she didn’t tell Lindsey about Alexandra Aoki. Perhaps it was because Lindsey would be relentless in trying to get her to ask the woman out.
“Wow. That must have sent your heart racing, I know it did mine.”
Lauren laughed and said, “Oh, shut up, smart-ass. When are you going to come visit?”
“Me leave Manhattan? Not bloody likely.”
“Wussy.”
“That may be, but I have no desire to leave the City.”
“You will when you begin to miss me.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The two women talked for a few minutes more and then hung up.
Lauren sat looking out the window and thinking. I wonder if Lindsey is right. Am I boring or just bored? How would I know? I’d never had time to be bored when I was working. Finally, Lauren told herself she may be bored, but she was not boring.
