by Stella James
“Hmm. That’s a tough one,” I say. “Losing a parent isn’t easy.”
She looks at me knowingly but doesn’t press. “She hadn’t seen her in a long time, she wasn’t even really a parent at this point or any point I suppose, but I think Dru had a secret hope that maybe someday her mother would get her life together,” she says sadly. “I just feel bad, you know?”
“Are you close?”
“Yeah, we are,” she says smiling. “Do you have siblings?”
“No.”
Silence settles between us, but it’s surprisingly comfortable. I glance down at Anna’s hand and notice several strings of colourfully painted macaroni tied around her wrist. I nudge her side and nod down to where her hand rests.
“You make those yourself?”
“Funny,” she replies. “I teach kindergarten at Walton Elementary. Today we made jewelry.”
“Ah, it all makes sense now,” I realize.
“What makes sense?”
“Your patience.”
“Are you comparing yourself to a five year old?”
“I think I might be,” I reply. “I’m sorry, by the way.”
“Sorry for keeping me awake and depriving me of countless nights of peaceful rest? Sorry for shutting your door in my face or sorry for telling me to pull the stick out of my ass?”
“All of the above?”
“You don’t apologize often, do you?”
“Apparently not, since I’m doing it wrong,” I say. “But I am sorry.”
She looks up at me thoughtfully. “All is forgiven,” she says. “Friends?” She holds out her hand.
“Friends.” I take her hand in mine. “I don’t have a lot of good friends,” I admit.
“Sometimes we surround ourselves with people that we know will never try to get in. It’s safer that way, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose it is.”
The silence returns as our legs sway back in forth in the water. She nudges my side and glances down at the stains on my old T-shirt.
“Doing a bit of arts and crafts yourself?”
“Funny,” I say with a smile. “Work, actually.”
“Oh? And what type of work would that be?”
“Pottery,” I say casually.
“Wow, really? I never would have pegged you for the artist type,” she says. “Shame on me, I suppose. Dru is an artist, she paints and sketches,” she continues with pride. “Do you sell the things you make?”
“I do. Mostly commission pieces and retail contracts, I haven’t done a show in a long time,” I tell her. “But I manage to make a living, so I’ll ride it while I can.”
“Good for you,” she replies sincerely. “Well, I should probably get going. You came up here for a reason and I’m probably holding you up.”
I’m about to object but she quickly scoots back on the cement, lifts her legs from the water and reaches for her shoes. I can’t remember the last time I talked to someone so easily, I didn’t even realize how much time had gone by.
“Have a good night,” she says.
“See you around freckles.” I continue to stare at the water and out at the city lights beyond.
“Sebastian?” she calls from the open door.
I turn my gaze and she smiles softly. “Thanks,” she says before turning and heading down the stairs.
I stand from the edge of the pool and uncover the hot tub in the corner of the makeshift patio. I pull off my shirt and sink into the hot water, groaning as the jets hit every single muscle.
*
“What’s with you lately?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t call, you don’t write,” Mason jokes. “Even now, you’re a million miles away in that pretty little head of yours.”
“Shut up and help me load these crates,” I smirk, slapping him in the chest with a pair of leather gloves.
We’re currently at my studio where he’s supposed to be helping me load up my newest stock so that I can drop it off at the indie shop downtown that sells the household items that I make. It’s one of the steady commissions that I’ve been lucky enough to maintain for the last several years.
“Look, all I’m saying is you went from party central to nada in a matter of a couple weeks,” he says. “I don’t give two fucks if you don’t want to waste your time with those superficial freeloaders who hang on your every word,” he continues. “But what’s up with you?”
“Nothing,” I grunt, hefting a large box into the cab of my pickup. “Shit just gets old man.”
I don’t really know what to tell him other than that partial truth. If I were being honest with him, I’d tell him that I’m restless as fuck lately and that I’ve been working non-stop and crashing the minute my head hits the pillow at night. The last time I was in a zone like this was after McKenna, and I don’t want to hash out that fucking shit show with him right now.
“I get that,” he says. “Jenna’s been whining down at Cinder’s wondering where you’ve been and why you haven’t called.”
“I never call.”
“Yeah, I reminded her, but she’s clingy as fuck,” he shudders. “Next time you see her you better set her straight.”
We surround ourselves with people that we know will never try to get in.
Anna’s words slip into my mind and it’s on the tip of my tongue to repeat them out loud, but I don’t. I haven’t seen her since that night on the roof, but I’ll admit that I’ve thought about her a couple times. Not in a way that I’d typically think of a woman, which would include various mental images; like what they would look like bent over my kitchen table. No…when Anna crosses my mind, I think about how easy it was to talk to her. Friend shit.
“Christ, how many of these damn boxes you got?” Mason whines.
“Calm down pretty woman,” I grin. “Consider it weight training for all those clients of yours. They need something to ogle while you pretend to listen to their problems.”
“Fuck you Seb, I’m an excellent listener,” he argues.
“I bet you are.”
“I got a five hundred dollar tip last week because of my listening skills,” he boasts. “I turned an insecure thirty-eight year old divorcee into a confident and active member of the dating pool.”
“Before or after she suc-.”
“Maryanne was classy as hell,” he interrupts. “So shut your mouth and let’s finish this shit so you can buy me a beer.”
“Whatever you say,” I chuckle.
We finish loading up my shipment and head downtown. The small shop sits nestled between an artisan bakery and a clothing store. The glass shoe is an independently owned, overpriced shop full of trinkets and random household items that every single self-proclaimed art connoisseur in the city goes nuts over. I don’t know how in the hell my colourfully mismatched dishes fit in, but apparently they do because they sell out every month.
Once we’ve unloaded the crates and I pick up my cheque from last month’s supply, we head back to the truck and I take Mason out for the beer that he’s been whining for. I give him shit, but he really is my oldest and truest friend. We met in seventh grade when his parents shipped him off to live with his grandmother and she stuck him in the same private school that my parents forced me into. He wound up in my homeroom and we’ve had each other’s backs ever since.
It’s well past eleven by the time I pull into the small lot behind my building. The outside lamp casts just enough light for me to see the path around to the front door. Just as I walk around the corner, a taxi pulls up and Anna steps out. I pause and wait for her to make her way to the sidewalk.
“Hey,” she says.
“Nice shoes,” I say, nodding down at the tall black heels dangling from her hand.
“Ugh, these damn things,” she replies. “I reached my maximum level of discomfort about two hours ago and couldn’t wait to take them off,” she sighs.
If she were wearing the heels, she’d still be shorter than my six
-foot three frame. Her open jacket lets me see the modest black dress beneath and I notice her hair is swept up in some fancy shit and I can tell she’s wearing more makeup than I’ve seen on her before. The last time I saw her she was wearing a short bright blue skirt and a mismatched boldly printed blouse; her hair was loose and plain and every freckle was visible on her face. I suspect the former is more her style.
“Big party?”
She tilts her head to the side and looks at me with furrowed brows before glancing down at her dress and laughing lightly.
“Oh, no. Well kind of,” she says. “Dru, the sister I told you about?”
When I nod my remembrance and we begin to make our way to the front door, she continues, “She had her first show tonight. And I’m not an expert, but I think it was a total success,” she smiles.
“I’m sure it was,” I agree truthfully. I’d asked around a bit after Anna had mentioned her before and apparently Dru Marx is well-known in several small circles. Her bright colours and at times unconventional gambles often pay off and people are starting to notice.
“Where have you been? I hardly know what to do with myself and all this quiet,” she jokes, gesturing to the space around her.
“Working mostly,” I reply. “But if it would make you feel better, I can have some people over tonight,” I grin.
She smacks my chest and smirks as we make our way up the last step and into the hallway. “No thank you,” she says, stifling a yawn. “Although I doubt I’d hear much anyways, it’s been a long week.”
I stop at her door as she digs through her small black purse and pulls out her keys. She turns to unlock the door and glances back at me as I step toward my own.
“Sweet dreams, freckles,” I say.
“Sweet dreams, Sebastian.”
Chapter 5
Anna
Sundays are my favourite day of the week. After sleeping in a bit and lounging in bed with a cup of coffee and Kate Morton’s newest historical romance, I lazily make my way to the kitchen and pluck a ripe yellow pear from the pink bowl that sits on the counter.
I stand at the kitchen sink as I eat, juice dribbling down my chin, and swipe through my phone. I was able to sneak a few pictures from Dru’s show last night, which I send to both her and Elle. One picture, in particular, of Dru and Ethan leaned in close toward one another makes me smile but also fills me with a hefty dose of jealousy. I’m happy that my sister seems to have found someone special, she certainly deserves it. But I’m only human and when your last date was with a married guy, it’s hard not to feel put out.
I wash my hands and rinse out my mug before glancing at the clock. Esme will be expecting us soon, although I doubt Dru will make an appearance at brunch today after her big night.
After a quick shower, I wind my partially dried hair into a loose knot and dress in a pair of faded skinny jeans and a brightly patterned tank top that I sewed myself. I slip on a pair of pink flats and grab my canvas bag from the kitchen table and head out. My eyes wander to Sebastian’s door and I find myself curious if he’s home or at his studio. I’m the first to admit that my initial impression of him wasn’t exactly accurate, even if he did give me a long list of blinding reasons to see him as nothing more than a party boy type. But I suspect there’s more there.
Esme’s place isn’t too far but I decide to take the bus so that I’m not late and to give my feet a break from last night’s torture. I swear I’ll never understand how some women can live in heels. I take a seat on the bench just down the street from my building and wait in the bright morning sun. It’s supposed to be warm all day; hopefully I’ll catch Jack in the park on the way home. Esme always cooks too much and I usually stop by afterwards with some form of leftovers. Of course, he’d never admit it, but I’m certain he’ll be expecting me and I would hate to disappoint him.
The loud city bus rumbles to a stop along the curb. I pull my pass card from my bag and flash it at the driver before taking an empty seat near the window. As we make our way through downtown, I watch the passing scenery of traffic and people while remembering the first time I spoke to my foster mother.
The lady with the cookies is back. She comes every Wednesday to help some of the kids with their school work. Last week when she was done explaining Cara’s math homework to her, she came and sat beside me. She didn’t talk or anything, she just sat there while I read one of the old Babysitter’s Club books that I found on the shelf in the rec room.
I’m not reading today, just sitting in my favourite purple chair by the window. I’ve been staying here for a month now. The other kids don’t like me, they think I’m weird. Cara told me so last night at supper. I’m wondering what we are eating tonight when the lady comes and sits beside me again.
“You don’t talk much, do you sweetie?” She holds out a container with blueberry muffins this time. I choose one and take a small bite.
“I don’t like it here,” I say. I haven’t told anyone that, I hope I’m not in trouble.
“Hm, well I can’t say I blame you,” she replies. “You probably miss your family and your old house.
I feel like crying so I don’t say anything at all.
“My name is Esme, and your name is Anastasia, right?”
“Anna,” I say.
“Anna. That’s a lovely name.”
“It was my grandma’s name,” I tell her. I never met my grandma, but my mom told me. I’ve never met any of my family. Joan says I have an uncle, but they can’t find him. She says she’s going to find me a family, but I don’t want a new family.
“My grandma’s name was Gert, that’s not nearly as lovely as Anastasia,” she tells me.
I try not to laugh because I don’t want to be rude, but that’s a funny name.
“So, lovely Anna,” she says. “I was thinking that maybe I could come and visit you on Sundays. Maybe we could go to the museum or maybe we could just sit here together. Would you like that?”
I like the museum. I should say yes but what if she brings the other kids too. They don’t like me.
“It would be just the two of us,” she says.
I take another bite of my muffin. It’s really good. I don’t talk with my mouth full because my mom wouldn’t like that.
“Okay,” I say.
“It’s a date,” she says with a smile.
The bus screeches to a stop and I slip my bag over my shoulder before I make my way down the narrow aisle and step off in front of the apartment building where I lived for most of my childhood. After that first day that Esme and I talked, she continued to volunteer every Wednesday to tutor the kids at the group home, in addition she would come every Sunday for our date. About one month after that, Joan found out that my great uncle had passed away a year earlier and I was officially without any living kin.
I was ten and Esme took me in. Dru came shortly after that and Elle was the last to arrive and complete our makeshift family. I still remember my parents and my younger brother Andrew, and I always will. But Esme and my sisters have been my family for the last fourteen years and I thank God every day for them.
I knock before opening the door, knowing full well that Esme likely has her hands too busy to open it for me. The modest kitchen is visible from the doorway and as predicted, her hands are busy kneading a large, round slab of homemade dough.
“Hey kiddo,” she says, smiling brightly.
“Hey! Am I the first one here?”
“Afraid it’s just you and me today sweet cheeks,” she says. “I told Dru to stay home and catch up on some rest and Elle called about an hour ago saying that she wasn’t feeling well.”
“Oh no, I hope she feels better soon.”
“Just a touch of the flu I think.”
I set my bag on the kitchen table and wash my hands before I start peeling and slicing the apples sitting on the counter for Esme’s apple cinnamon French toast.
“Did you have fun last night, dear?”
“I did, I can’t believe how bu
sy it was. I haven’t talked to Dru yet today, did she say how it went?”
“She was going to wait until after lunch to call Cassie,” she tells me. “She didn’t want to seem too eager,” she chuckles lightly.
We work in companionable silence as we often do. Esme taught me the single gal basics, as she calls it, before I graduated high school. She wanted to make sure us girls could cook decent meals for ourselves. When I’m not devouring Stephanie’s homemade pasta, I often make things that Esme taught me.
“How’s everyone at Linden?” I ask.
Linden House is the group home where I was first placed after my parents died, and it’s where I met Esme. She still volunteers as a tutor once a week. She first started when her husband Joe passed away from cancer, about six months before I found myself there. She was still working as a sixth grade teacher part time but she wanted something extra to keep her mind occupied, she said. Teaching was something we often talked about on our Sundays together all those years ago.
“Full to the brim,” she says. “But it’s a good group of kids. You should come by and say hello.”
Never able to have children of her own, Esme has a soft spot in her heart for the kids that wind up in the system. Linden House takes in twelve and under and is meant to be a temporary solution until approved foster parents have room, but kids often end up staying longer than expected.
“I’d like that,” I smile.
Once the first two loaves of bread are done, Esme pulls them out and places them on a wire rack to cool. She slides the next two into the oven while I dump two large handfuls of cinnamon coated apple slices and a hefty chunk of butter into a frying pan. The apples sizzle as the spicy scent fills the air and Esme wraps an arm around my waist, squeezing me tightly before she pads back to the counter behind me and begins slicing the bread.
Once we’ve eaten, I tidy up and help with the dishes before I make a few sandwiches for Jack. I wrap them in foil and place them in a plastic bag, along with a couple of oranges and a small container of the cooked apples for dessert.
