Mr. Elliott Finds a Family

by Susan Floyd

  “I’ll call you for lunch.”

  With a regretful look back, she turned and walked down the hall to the stairs.

  Once inside her studio, she took stock of what needed to be done. Nothing but painting; she’d already done all the cleaning she could. She studied Party Girls and remembered what Glenn had said about the value in the corner. She’d fix that today— maybe. Tired. The response of the hotel jury rang in her head. And she saw what they saw. Even Glenn, when he was commenting on value, was trying to tell her something was missing.

  She listened attentively at the door, hoping for the sounds of distress, so she wouldn’t have to face the fact that her painting had become so dull. But there were no such sounds. She dug through her files and found some reference photos, hoping to become inspired. But this was no time to be experimental. Time had already ticked away, leaving her with just a month to produce something worth showing.

  She couldn’t use the excuse that she didn’t have paints. The box Fred had sent, the new tubes gleaming, mocked her, and she almost cried with frustration. She took out her slides and studied what she had done before. What was missing?

  Reluctantly, she dug through the box of new paints, squeezed half of the tubes onto a clean palette and authoritatively swirled her brush through the paints. She could at least create a color chart, something to talk to Fred about. He did want a comparison. She’d been making color charts her entire life. Start with a blob of color and keep adding water.

  She looked at her colors and her mind rebelled. She wanted to be downstairs with Bernie, Iris and Christian. She wanted to be anywhere but where she was. She didn’t want to do a color chart. She didn’t want to paint. So she didn’t. She covered her palette with plastic wrap and set it in the corner, feeling like a prisoner as she peered out of her window and watched Christian and Bernie play in the garden.

  A knock on the door startled Beth Ann. She looked frantically around to find something to do.

  “Can I come in?” Iris asked.

  Beth Ann grabbed the palette and pulled off the plastic wrap, snagging three brushes from her paint can. “Sure,” she called as she put a brush between her teeth as if she couldn’t decide which one to use.

  Iris walked in slowly. “I haven’t been up here in so long.”

  “You shouldn’t have taken those stairs,” Beth Ann scolded, taking the brush out of her mouth. “I’ll tell Christian about that at lunch.”

  Iris shook her head. “Don’t do that. I needed the exercise. Bernie’s a little fussy.”

  Beth Ann’s head shot up. “She’s fussy? Do you think she’s sick?”

  Iris laughed. “No, just fussy. She was denied a third fig bar, and now she wants lunch, figuring she can have a fig bar after.”

  Beth Ann laughed.

  Iris looked at the blank piece of paper. “Hard at work?”

  Beth Ann flushed. “I’m a little out of touch.”

  “Maybe if you put some paint on those brushes, you’d get better results,” Iris observed.

  Beth Ann looked away.

  “You haven’t lost it,” Iris said quietly.

  “I feel like I have. I don’t want to paint.”

  “It’s not that you don’t want to paint. You’re scared to paint.”

  “What do I have to be scared of?” Beth Ann didn’t want to have this conversation with Iris.

  “You’re afraid that we’ve taken every little bit of creativity you had. That you have no reserve.”

  Beth Ann was silent. Finally when she spoke, her voice was raw. “What if it’s gone?”

  Iris gave Beth Ann a strong hug. “It’s not gone. It’s just changed. You can’t go back to what you had. You have to forge ahead to things that are new. Movement. That’s what this life is all about. Movement.”

  “Movement?”

  “Movement.” Iris fixed her faded eyes on Beth Ann and Beth Ann squirmed. “Movement.”

  “I don’t really know what you’re talking about.”

  Iris nodded, her eyes full of wisdom. “I think you do.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE NEXT WEEK crawled by for Beth Ann, whose progress in the painting department was depressingly slow. She had at least made the color chart and discovered that this new brand wasn’t inferior to her old ones. She’d had a lengthy conversation with Fred, which made her feel even more like a fraud. She could talk art, she could see art, she just couldn’t produce art.

  Christian, on the other hand, had no such difficulty. He was like a chameleon that changed colors with its surroundings, and after a few days, it was hard to remember what life was like before him. The switch of caretakers went so smoothly neither Bernie nor Iris seemed to show any distress when Beth Ann excused herself from the breakfast table to climb the stairs to her studio.

  Midweek, after twenty minutes of whir, beep, beep, beep, beep, whir, whir, she heard a loud crack and was halfway down the stairs to intercede, when Christian told Bernie in an oh-so-sad voice that the toy—an annoying toy Beth Ann had declared unfixable several months earlier—was broken. It was then, as she stood frozen in the hall, that she realized Christian had his own way of doing things and it created a bevy of emotions inside of her.

  “Boken?” Bernie asked, her tiny voice rising with the inflection of her question, maybe her disbelief.

  “Yes, broken. Can’t be used. Died,” Christian said rationally to her. Beth Ann felt a pleasant shiver run down her back at the deep resonances of his voice.

  “Fix it!” Bernie suggested. Beth Ann imagined Bernie batting her dark eyelashes in Christian’s direction. Who could resist that?

  She heard a couple of rattles.

  Then Christian confirmed his original diagnosis with the somber tone of an emergency room doctor, “No, it can’t be fixed. It died and went to heaven.”

  “Oh, no!” Bernie’s voice was filled with sorrow.

  Then the sorrow turned into heartfelt tears, and Beth Ann could hear Christian say hurriedly, “Maybe I can fix it.”

  “Fix?” The tears were miraculously gone.

  Beth Ann smothered laughter and knew that after Bernie was asleep, they would discuss her incredible powers of persuasion. She looked forward to the evenings, when both Bernie and Iris retired, and she and Christian sat in the kitchen or in the living room or most often, on the steps overlooking the garden and talked. About everything. About the death of her mother, about the desertion of her stepfather. About his experience in boarding school, then military school. His friend, Max. And Carrie. They always talked about Carrie. Carrie wove in and out of their conversations as if they both needed to resolve her life and her death.

  If Beth Ann’s days crept by like stale molasses, the evenings were gone in an instant. She enjoyed Christian’s company so much that it was almost enough to keep her from being disappointed when he made no effort to kiss her again. Almost. As the nights turned hot, Beth Ann found herself tossing and turning restlessly in the daybed, wondering if he felt the physical tension between them or if she simply imagined it. In the mornings, when she was exhausted from her own thoughts, he looked well rested, happy, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was driving her crazy.

  One afternoon while Bernie and Iris napped, she ventured down from the attic, on the pretense of taking a break, and found Christian out in the yard, stripped to the waist, clearing away some dead branches and vines. As she spied on him, admired his nice body, she yearned for the natural ability to draw people, to draw the fine, taut lines of his chest and shoulders, the bands of muscle that flexed as he bent to his tasks. She longed to capture his eyes, the eyes with the ever changing gray irises, that looked just like clouds moving across a stormy sky.

  Iris must have instructed him on what she wanted done in the garden because he moved efficiently from one task to the next, stopping only occasionally for a break and a deep swig of lemonade. In his short stay, he had already rebuilt Iris’s compost pile, constructing three boxes out of old lumber that had been ro
tting at the side of the house. He’d reinforced the shed, and retrained the out of control grapevines to create a small arbor across the shed. A perfect jungle for Bernie to play in.

  He’d also managed to move a large pile of composted cow manure, a welcome and most significantly, free, gift from the Marquez family down the road. Abel often dumped a load from his tractor if he was passing by. Beth Ann still had to make a visit to thank him, and now, she had to thank Christian for moving the pile to where it would be more accessible.

  The garden had never looked so good. The plants seemed to grow faster, their stalks straighter with all the attention, all the care he lavished on them. He’d even mixed up a special mash of alfalfa pellets, dairy compost and bonemeal that Iris liked to use for an early summer feed. Sometimes, if Christian came around to the other side of the house, she could watch him work from her attic window. She’d seen him wash his car and then her truck. He’d even found a can of polish and had managed to pull some shine from her twenty-year-old truck.

  Now, she was captivated by the play of muscles across his bronzed back as he moved the debris to the compost. The sight made her pick up her sketchpad and start to draw, trying to capture his masculine grace on the page. His clean profile, those sensuous lips, his head cocking to one side as he kept an attentive ear to the baby monitor—propped in the crook of the cherry tree—occasionally glancing at it, telling her he must have heard a shift in Iris’s room or Bernie babble in her sleep.

  With excitement pounding in her chest, Beth Ann returned to the attic and stared at the sketches. Movement. This is what Iris had been talking about. Movement. Eagerly, Beth Ann started to draw, focusing on Christian in her mind’s eye, seeing his lean frame bend to his work. With a confidence she had thought long gone, Beth Ann sketched on the watercolor paper and then began to paint, to put color on the white. She used the entire range of colors—from the bright alizarin crimson dots for the tomatoes beginning to ripen to vivid sap green for the vines. Soon the colors and the desire to capture what she’d seen filled her mind, replacing the paralyzing dread she’d come to associate with her attic workspace.

  That night, when she flossed her teeth, her eyes bleary with fatigue, her brain still whirling with what she had accomplished in just that afternoon, she suddenly noticed the sparkling commode, a tile floor that gleamed to the very corners and grout so white that someone must have used bleach and a toothbrush. Her heart tender, Beth Ann basked in Christian’s support. Because he did such a great toilet, because he took such good care of Bernie and Iris, she was able to rediscover a part of herself that she thought had died with Carrie. And she loved him for it.

  ONE TUESDAY MORNING, exactly three weeks after Christian had first arrived, the commotion underneath her feet made her stop painting. It hadn’t started out so bad. Some unfamiliar noises, the sound of trucks in front, the opening and closing of vehicle doors. She couldn’t resist peeking out her window, but the trucks were parked in such a way she had no way of reading their side panels. Again, there was a great deal of noise and banging and loud men’s voices, none of which she could identify. Not to mention Bernie’s loud but happy shrieking.

  As Beth Ann tried to pinpoint a precise shade of violet, another loud clank shook the bungalow. Unable to concentrate, Beth Ann pounded down the stairs and found herself face-to-face with two of the biggest men she had ever seen in her life.

  “Howdy, ma’am,” one said with a tip of his hat.

  “Excuse us, ma’am,” mumbled the other.

  Beth Ann went to look for Christian. He was in the living room, an impressive sight even in his casual T-shirt and jeans directing several other men through a sea of gigantic cardboard boxes. Bernie screamed with excitement as she tramped from one box to another, screeching more loudly, if possible, to hear the echo. Iris sat in the corner out of the way, watching the action, grinning from ear-to-ear.

  “Who are Tweedledee and Tweedledum?” Beth Ann demanded in a low whisper, craning her neck to glare at him, appreciating how tall he was, and how good he smelled. A masculine, spicy scent. She took a step back and bumped into a box. His hand shot out to steady her and Beth Ann blinked at the contact, especially when he didn’t let go of her elbow once she was balanced. Instead, he pulled her close to him in an almost intimate embrace and whispered in her ear, his poker face on, “It’s a surprise. Go back to work. Everything is taken care of.”

  Beth Ann looked around and surveyed the mess, her voice doubtful. “It doesn’t look like everything is taken care of.”

  “Go back to work.”

  It was as close as it could be to a command without being a command. Something that should have caused Beth Ann to bristle yet didn’t. She was having too much trouble focusing as the subtleties of his cologne, his warm hand on her arm and his sensuous mouth, so close to her ear she could feel his breath tickling her earlobe, penetrated her fuzzy brain. Why, oh, why wouldn’t he just kiss her?

  Beth Ann firmly pulled herself out of his grasp, took a step back and shook her head to clear it. “I can’t with all this racket. What is going on?” She started to go toward the kitchen.

  Christian caught her arm again, and she was suddenly aware how strong he was as he firmly but gently kept her from moving closer to the kitchen. “Do you trust me?” His eyes searched hers, his gaze keen.

  “That you’re not tearing down my house?” She reverted to sarcasm to keep her heart from pounding out of her chest. Three more men emerged from the kitchen, and she tried to see what was going on, but was thwarted when the swinging door closed. She hated having no sense of control over what used to be a fairly well-run household. Bernie was screaming, her living room was torn to shreds. Well, not really. But it looked torn to shreds. This was almost worse than when he’d told her Bernie had inherited DirectTech.

  “That I’m doing something nice for you.” There was reproach in his voice.

  “Well, that depends on what that something nice is.” She felt the subtle pressure of his hand and tried to think straight.

  “I just got you a few things to make your life easier.”

  “TV!” Bernie yelled.

  “A TV?” Beth Ann shot Christian a surprised glance and then looked behind him, only now noticing that he was standing in front of a fifty-inch color television set, the remote control balanced neatly on top of it. She pulled out of his grasp again, this time positioning herself well away from him as she asked in as calm a voice as she could muster, “Why in the world would you get us a TV the size of Maryland?”

  “Well, actually, that’s for me.” He gave her a boyish grin. Beth Ann tried to be the immovable object to his irresistible force as he continued, “I’m going nuts not knowing what’s going on in the world. I’ve got to at least have access to CNN.”

  “Well, the cable is very limited in this area,” Beth Ann informed him. “We’re really, really rural, you know.”

  “That’s why I got the satellite dish, too.”

  “Satellite dish?” Beth Ann, as if in a dream, heard herself yelp.

  “Just a little one. You know a fifteen-inch one. You’ll never see it on the roof.”

  “I don’t want Bernie watching TV twenty hours a day.”

  “Bernie won’t be watching TV twenty hours a day,” he assured her with a slight twinge of annoyance to his voice. He pointed out, “But it might be nice for Iris. They have lots of old movie channels and I thought it’d keep her mind occupied during, you know, those times.”

  Beth Ann felt as if her mind was imploding. How could he do this? Without even talking to her first. He couldn’t say he didn’t have the opportunity. Just last night, they’d talked until two. She shot the new television an angry glare. It was a monstrosity. Her antique walnut curio cabinet with all her precious collectibles was almost completely obliterated by the width of the screen framed in conventional television black. Oh look, honey, a television with a little living room to go with it. There went their evenings. No more talks.

  Beth
Ann swallowed her remorse and turned it into anger. “What in the world made you think—” She couldn’t get the words out of her mouth.

  “All done, sir. The dishwasher’s hooked—”

  “Dishwasher?” Beth Ann watched two men start to gather up all the boxes and toss them outside. To her relief, her living room reemerged. But that didn’t make the television look any less obscene. Tweedledum reached for the final box, but found Bernie, legs and arms akimbo, glaring proprietarily at him from inside. He took a step back, said, “We’ll leave that one, sir,” and gave Beth Ann a wink. Beth Ann reluctantly smiled as Bernie sat down, rolled onto her back and worked her way through a variety of syllables just to hear the echo.

  Christian thanked him and with a handshake, Beth Ann saw that he passed both of the big men neatly folded bills. Other men tramped out with toolboxes and loud calls to each other. She heard truck doors slam and motors start up.

  Tweedledee looked down, his eyes lighting up at the denomination. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir. If you have any problems, sir, just give us a call. Ma’am.” He tipped his hat to her again.

  Christian nodded and saw them to the door.

  “Dishwasher?” Beth Ann hissed. “What did he mean, dishwasher? We’re not even plumbed for a dishwasher—”

  A man wearing Joe’s Plumbing across his chest came out of the kitchen. “That wasn’t that hard. I

  just hooked the dishwasher up to the sink. I replaced that old garbage disposal like you asked and—”

  “Garbage disposal.” Beth Ann had to sit down. They hadn’t had a working disposal since she was in high school. Bernie came out of her box to climb into Beth Ann’s lap. Beth Ann pulled Bernie close, but traitorous Bernie hopped off the couch and back into the box. It was easy to see where her priorities lay.

  “Hello, ma’am—” the plumber nodded to her and continued explaining to Christian “—replaced all the pipes. Good thing, too. They were ready to bust anyway. All as good as new.”

  “Thank you,” Christian said graciously, and gave him a generous tip as well.