Slow, tentative sounds followed as Meghann tried her hand at the peeler. Slice-slice. Pause. Slice-slice—faster this time.
"Ah, much better. Far simpler when you're in good form, wouldn't you say?"
Meghann giggled.
The sudden burst of merriment surprised Daly and her hand slipped—suddenly, the twenty-first century non-virgin Mary had a new halo over her head. Unsettled by the irony of her mistake, she balled up the sketch and took in several deep breaths. She needed to focus.
"This isn't too much different than what we did with the potatoes. First we peel and then we chop off the ends." Click-click-click went the knife as Laine snapped through a carrot and scraped against the glass cutting board.
After a few beats, Meghann took a try, the awkward click-clicks of the knife spaced far apart.
"Good, good," said Laine. "Just like that."
"Really?"
"Yes, you're a quick learner. In no time at all, you'll be a skilled chef with a broad repertoire."
"Well, maybe, but only if you'll keep on teaching me, Mrs. Daly."
A shudder ran through Daly's body. It was so strange hearing her name refer to anyone but her—and especially to Laine.
Daly's first name was the same as her mother's last name, perhaps the one good thing Laine had ever given her. She hadn't done it for Daly, though. Laine had argued "both parents' contributions should be equally recognized in a child's name, and hyphens are so tacky." Instead, she'd saddled Daly with both parents' last names.
Twenty years ago, if Laine had known what a disappointment her daughter would end up being, would she still have chosen to give Daly her name?
"Well, of course." Laine's voice broke Daly's reverie. In a weird moment of synchronicity, she almost seemed to be answering Daly's internal questions.
"I've always enjoyed whipping up my little creations. Finally, I have someone to share my culinary enthusiasm."
Daly rolled her eyes. Those words stung. She'd always wanted to expand her artistic interests to the kitchen and bond with her mother, but Laine had never extended an invitation, and Daly was too insecure to ask for the lessons herself. Besides, an entire hour spent doing anything with her mother would probably ruin the activity for her... permanently.
"I like cooking," Meghann said. "It's peaceful. Like you can control what happens if you put in the right ingredients, you know?"
"Indeed."
"So then, what will you teach me next?"
"That depends on what you'd like to learn. We could do another American staple, or something a bit more exotic. Perhaps hors d'oeuvres or le dessert."
Meghann's voice perked up. "Le dessert? You mean dessert?"
"Oh, sorry, I tend to slip into French when I'm feeling festive. Yes, I mean dessert," Laine said emphasizing the T. "Is that what you'd like to make next?"
"Yeah. I've always had a bit of a sweet tooth, especially now." Meghann tossed another freshly peeled carrot into the pot with a clunk.
"Don't we all?"
Who is this woman? Had Meghann performed some kind of witchcraft on her mother? A personality transplant, perhaps?
"Probably."
Laine chuckled under her breath—the sound was unusual but not fake.
"No, but seriously," Meghann said, "I've always wanted to bake my own super delicious cookies. You know, when I think of being a mom, I think of cookies rising in the oven. Like having good cookies might make me a good mom."
Daly rolled her eyes again, and tried to block out the laughter by holding a right hand over her ear as she continued to work the charcoal. Did the girl honestly think she was going to be a good mom? Daly pictured her beaming as she held up a World's Best Mom mug, while her little one crawled into oncoming traffic. If she was looking to Laine as a role model, she would be sorely disappointed.
Daly shook her head, letting out a sigh.
This time, Laine actually noticed. "Oh, Daly, have we disturbed you?"
"No," she lied. "I'm having some trouble with my art, that's all." She would not admit to the disgust and jealousy surging through her.
"You're certain?"
"Yeah. You guys are fine, but, um... I need to work my oil pastels now, and they're down in my studio, so...."
Laine didn't respond. Frankly, Daly was impressed that her mother had said anything to her at all.
Turning her attention right back to the young mother-to-be, Laine said, "Many people wonder if there's a benefit to eating organic. The answer is a resounding yes. In fact, it really makes the stew."
Daly rushed down the stairs, and Laine did nothing to make her stay.
***
Paint dripped from the fibers of Daly's paintbrush and onto the carpet below—the canvas remained hauntingly white. She didn't even care. At least she'd painted something. She dropped to her knees and grabbed a thin brush to mix the red and black on her palate, creating a bloody hue. Procrastination, she wrote, titling her impromptu floor art. At least procrastinating seemed like a choice, one she could overcome with a conscious effort, unlike the creative block she found herself stuck behind.
Inspiration had come and gone so fast—Laine, Laine, Laine.
She couldn't give up, couldn't go through all she had only to become exactly like her mother. She needed to regain control, whatever it took. Her throat tightened as she eyed the beige walls of her bedroom. She needed to get out of here. Now.
She threw her palate onto the floor without even bothering to see where it landed. She needed a clean break, not another confrontation.
"Oh, Daly?" Laine's voice rang out when she'd reached the halfway point of the staircase.
Daly paused, trying to decide how she should answer.
Luckily, Meghann beat her to it. "Yeah, tell me about her. She seems interesting, like she'd be a good person to know."
"Interesting? Well, that can have a whole range of meaning, now can't it?"
Daly halted her climb. Her throat clenched even tighter.
"She's... well, she's different. In a good way, I think, but still different. Very creative."
"I can tell from the way she was drawing with so much energy."
"Yes...." Laine's voice trailed off, replaced by the clinking of silverware. "I hope you like the stew. You've worked hard, and I expect it will be lovely."
Daly remained frozen on the stairs. When the two dining companions had moved on to a new topic, she continued as nonchalantly as possible.
Both sets of eyes turned to her as she thrust the closet open in search of her running shoes.
"I'm going out for a walk."
"Hi, Daly," Meghann chirped, and threw a smile her way.
Laine slurped a spoonful of broth—indelicately.
Meghann, however, seemed intent on including her. "Do you want to eat with us? I can go grab another bowl from the kitchen."
Laine swallowed and cast a smile toward her apprentice. "Yes, you should. Meghann's quite the chef-in-training."
The forced offer came too late. "No, no, that's okay, Mom—Mother. I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" Meghann's face fell.
"Daly, you should have something to eat. You're too thin." Laine liked to play the role of the concerned mother, as long as someone was around to witness the effort.
Daly was fed up with Laine's false display. She refused to be used.
"I'm fine. I'm going out now." She thrust her feet into the first pair of shoes she could find. "See ya."
She threw a pashmina around her shoulders, grabbed her keys and purse from the half-wall, and stormed out the door.
Chapter 4
New opportunities equal new pain. What more is there to say?
Daly half walked, half sprinted downtown. She had no doubt that if God offered Laine a daughterly do-over, her mother would choose Meghann—would choose anybody over her. She quickened her pace, hoping that the thumping of her accelerated heartbeat would drown out the thoughts of Laine and Meghann's happy little gathering.
St
riding ahead, she failed to notice the gap in the sidewalk, but the heel of her shoe didn't miss a beat. It snagged and threw her forward, twisting her ankle in the process.
She clutched at her throbbing ankle and cursed under her breath. Angry or not, she should have taken an extra two seconds to find her walking shoes before heading out. She shook off the pain and carried on with an even fiercer determination, a slight limp in her step. She needed to put as much space between herself and Laine as possible. Nothing—not even a messed-up ankle—would hold her back now.
After a few more blocks, she hardly noticed the pain, which was nothing compared to the sting of betrayal.
She passed the sprawling graveyard and attempted to hold her breath—a game she and her father used to play—so as not to inhale stray spirits. Tweens flocked the local ice cream parlor, wearing athletic gear and chomping at precariously stacked cones. Another month and the parlor would close for the season.
After a few more blocks of boring scenery, the single stoplight in Oxford's downtown area loomed ahead. Finally, Daly reached the one likable place in her drab hometown. She pushed open the door, taking in the warm air and pleasant aromas of the coffee house. The tinkling of bells and bluesy voice of an unknown singer greeted her.
Why does Starbucks feel more like home than home?
She placed an order for a Venti hot tea.
Yesterday's edition of the Detroit Free Press caught her attention, and she grabbed a copy before slumping into the last available leather armchair. Uck. Nothing but news on budget cuts, violent crimes, corrupt mayors, and other depressing stories. She sighed—possibly for the billionth time that day—and tucked each section of the newspaper back into place before dropping the whole thing onto the floor.
"No news is good news. Seems you agree." A strange voice intruded on her comfortable gloom.
Daly looked up from where the paper had landed, and spotted the source—a man sitting across from her in another of the café's club chairs. She smiled hesitantly, sipping at her tea and directing her attention to the people passing by outside.
He didn't take the hint. "All these horrible things are happening right in our own backyards. Such a scary thought."
"Yeah, sure." Daly shrugged and took a swig of her tea.
She'd never been the type to come out and tell someone to leave her alone. Yet another warped value Laine had instilled in her—always be cordial to strangers, reserving any rudeness for family. Lesson learned.
She took another sip of tea and fixed her eyes on her lap.
He persisted still. "I've even quit following the news. And you know what? I don't miss it at all. Life carries on just the same."
Okay, so she either had to leave the café or engage him in conversation, and since her ankle was swelling inside her boot.... "You're right. Who needs the news?" She pushed the paper under her chair with her good ankle.
"Precisely." He smiled a big, mischievous grin. "Good decision you've just made. This is all a big-time waste. Life offers more than that." He paused, apparently waiting for her to add something to the topic.
She didn't.
"Anyway, my name is Akash Malhotra. Good to know you." He smiled again.
The whiteness of his teeth contrasted with his sandy skin in an unexpectedly poetic way. She tried to snap a still shot with her mind, so she could paint him later.
He rose from his chair and bent forward, offering his hand.
She studied him for a moment, not in the mood to make new friends. Yet the handsome, exotic stranger seemed harmless enough, so she took his hand and forced a smile.
She'd never been good with first impressions. "Hello. I... I'm sorry, how do I pronounce your name?"
"Uh-kaash." He annunciated each syllable. "But my friends here call me Kashi, so of course, that is what you will call me!"
She seemed to have little choice, since Uh-kaash was forcing his friendship on her.
"Kashi?" She tried out the taste of the new word in her mouth. "Like the granola cereal?"
"Yes, why not?" He let out a laugh from someplace deep inside his belly. "Actually, my name, Akash, it means the sky—vast and tall, just like me." He winked. "But granola cereal sounds a bit like me, too."
Daly joined him in a chuckle. Maybe he wasn't such a bad guy, after all. Actually, he kind of reminded her of her father—the way he didn't seem to take himself so seriously, and had sported a colossal grin ever since she first met him... all of three minutes ago. Still, it's okay to talk to him, she reminded herself.
"So, you still haven't told me your name."
"Oh, sorry. My name is Daly English."
"Daily, like every single day?"
"No, Daly. It rhymes with tally. I guess I win the weird name competition." Words were coming much more easily now, the conversation with him more enjoyable.
"Hey now, my name is not at all weird. It's quite common where I come from."
"Which is where?" She looked him over again, trying to guess before he told her.
Kashi was an undeniably good-looking man. His large, almond-shaped eyes sat beneath a tussle of midnight curls, which framed high cheekbones. His skin was smooth and rich. A blue-checkered button-up shirt hung over his lean torso, complemented by dark wash jeans.
"I am from India, of course."
"Oh, that makes sense." Earlier, if someone had asked Daly to paint a picture of what a person from India might look like, she would have produced an entirely different portrait. The skin would be a darker, deeper brown; his body shorter, thinner; the facial expression sadder, not goofy and light-hearted. "So, what are you doing here? I mean everyone else in Oxford... I mean, you know, this town is mostly—"
"You mean, all are Whites here," he interjected, refreshingly unconcerned with political correctness. "Well, not everyone. Besides, I like it. It's a peaceful place. One can relax and enjoy life without much worries."
"That's not my take. I can't wait to get out of here. This stupid little village is boring, kills creativity, and has pretty much nothing to do entertainment-wise."
The corners of Kashi's mouth fell slightly.
Oh no, he's about to lose his smile. "Unless you enjoy tractor pulls and high school football games," she added.
He laughed at her clumsy joke.
Ah, good, the smile is back. Daly chuckled, too; this time she didn't have to try as hard.
"No, really," he said, sobering up for a moment. "This is a wonderful place. Quit comparing to other places and appreciate Oxford for what it is—a nice and simple place, where the living is good."
"I wish I could think of it that way," she murmured, watching the sun set through the window. "I've got to go. It's getting dark, and I have to walk home, so.... Bye. Nice to meet you." She rose, clutching her purse to her abdomen.
She'd only managed to walk a few steps before her ankle flopped to the side, reigniting the pain she'd just put to rest.
"Where do you think you're running off to?" He shuffled over to her, and offered his hand for balance. "It's not proper for a lady to walk home alone in the dark, especially when she is hurt."
"Oh, I'm okay. I just lost my balance."
Kashi clicked his tongue in disapproval. "No, no, no. Those aren't proper walking shoes." He gestured with his chin toward her feet. "I must see you home safely. It's my gentlemanly duty."
Why am I hesitating so much?
Her ankle was killing her, and it would take her forever to get home on her own. Plus, the faster she got home, the faster she could get back to painting.
"Okay." She gave in with a smile. "I accept your offer."
"Then follow me. Your chariot awaits." He pulled on his jacket and rushed over to open the door for her.
She walked a couple paces behind him until he stopped in front of a tiny, two-door coupe. He opened that door for her too.
Daly squeezed into the passenger side with as much grace as she could manage, trying to ignore the quickening pace of her heart.
"Tell me
," he said, turning toward her in his seat and reversing back out of the parking space, "How do I get you home?"
She shifted toward the door. Maybe the extra distance would help calm her frazzled nerves. "Go left here, and then straight until you hit Carroway Street. You'll turn right at the light."
"Okay, that's easy enough." He pulled out of the parking lot. "So, what made you choose to walk so far in this particular pair of shoes?"
"I needed to get out and clear my head, and ended up grabbing these without thinking. They were the closest to the door."
"Bad day, is it?"
"I guess you can say that."
Kashi waited for her to elaborate, but she didn't. "Nothing like a good long stroll to clear your mind. Fresh air is nature's medicine."
She nodded and pinched her fingers together, trying to resist the urge to pick at her fingernails.
He stopped at the light and fixed his eyes on her, a knowing grin creeping across his face.
Turn green, turn green, she urged, focusing on the light instead of the handsome stranger beside her.
Luckily, the light listened.
Kashi turned his eyes back to the road and asked, "So what else do you do for fun, you know, besides walking, and sitting in coffee shops, and not reading the news?"
It's so hot in here. Why can't I breathe?
She fidgeted with the buttons on her door until she found one to roll the windows down.
Kashi was still waiting for an answer.
She cleared her throat and murmured, "I like to create. I'm an artist."
"An artist? That's very high-fi."
"Well, I want to be an artist. I mean, I'm trying to be, but first I have to get accepted to art school."
"I'd bet you're an artist already, Ms. Daly, whether you know it or not. Follow-up question: Are you more of a painter, or a sculptor, or—what are you?"
"I guess painting is my favorite. Although I love to sketch."
He let out a low whistle. "I wish I had such talent. Sometimes I look at a beautiful painting and wish I could make one, too."
"You could do it, if you were given the right tools. Everyone has creative potential. It's just that few realize that potential." If they could keep talking about art, she might be able to make it the rest of the drive home without embarrassing herself any further.
A Colorful Life: Drawn in Broken Crayon Page 3
