by Brea Brown
Yeah, but only because no one would care if he dropped dead at his desk…
I blush as if she can hear my thoughts. “Oh. Well. I’m fine. Just… thinking.”
“You’ve been working so hard this morning. Maybe a rest by the pool will do you some good this afternoon,” she suggests as she efficiently scoops up the remnants of my sandwich. “Would you like me to make you another sandwich?”
“No,” I say in answer to both her statement and question. “Thank you, but… I’m going to get back to it. I think… I mean, maybe I know how I’m going to write something.”
Not here, though. Swiftly I rise and hurry in the direction of the gazebo, despite my worry that I'll frighten off the words if I move too suddenly. They’re like skittish, capricious butterflies that have honored me with their company.
Based on this morning’s work, though, I know that they’ll still be with me by the time I get to the gazebo. I’ve felt this way before.
Chapter Ten
“And who is this?”
I can’t place the haughty voice with the harsh Boston accent. It isn’t Paulette, and it certainly isn’t the voice of the fire chief who was describing to Rose what had happened to her family in the second chapter I’ve pounded into my laptop keys since lunch.
With what amounts to a surprising amount of effort, I lift my head on my stiff neck and blink at the silhouette before me. I see hands on hips, elbows flared, and massive sunglasses pushed on top of a cascading mane of dark hair. My shoulder muscles creak as I move from my hunched-over position for the first time in hours.
Before I can decide if I’m going to introduce myself to this stranger, I see the familiar shape of Paulette catch up and hover at the gazebo steps.
She answers for me, “This is Jayne. Luke invited her to stay.”
I still can’t see any details of the stranger’s face, but it’s clear by her tone that she’s looking down her nose at me. “How… generous of him. And ballsy… in my house.”
Recovering from my writing stupor, I stand so that I’m not looking into the sun bouncing off the shiny wooden floor. Reflexively, I offer her my hand, even though I think she’s insulting me, and it’s slightly absurd for me to uphold niceties if that's the case. But an introduction is definitely in order, if for no other reason than to disabuse her of the ludicrous assumptions I think she’s making.
“Hi, I’m Jayne Greer, one of Lucas’s… writers.” I falter on the last word, not sure how to describe myself. Client? Not really. Project? More accurate. Thorn in side? Ding, ding, ding!
“I’m sure you are,” she replies snarkily.
“And you are…?” I verbally nudge her like a mother hinting to a child that she needs to mind her manners.
Paulette nervously interjects, “Oh! Goodness me! Where are my manners? Caroline, this is Jayne Greer… er, which she already told you… and Jayne, this is Caroline O’Shea-Edwards, Luke’s… er, right… That is...”
“His wife,” Caroline O’Shea-Edwards supplies smoothly and smugly. “At least, legally that’s still the case, last time I checked.”
“Oh! How nice!” I utter with all the fake enthusiasm of a reporter who’s trying her hardest to make a report about Congressional budget talks sound exciting and glamorous and like something she’s interested in. Truthfully, I’m trying not to laugh. What I want to say is, How absolutely hilarious that Lucas is married, and to a nightmare like you. But I manage to simply smile into her ice-cold gray eyes.
My smile fades, however, when she says in an equally-phony voice, “Yes, well, I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you’re going to have to leave.”
Paulette and I speak at the same time.
“Okaaay…”
“What?! Wait. Caroline, Luke said—”
“I don’t care what he said, and neither should you,” she snaps, turning her full attention to the housekeeper. “The house in town is being repainted, and I can’t stay there. This is my house; my daddy gave it to me; and I have the right to stay here whenever I want, no matter what promises Lucas has made to complete strangers. What is this, some sort of charity for him? If he uses the house for ‘business’ x-number of days, we get a tax write-off, or something?” She tosses her glossy chestnut hair over her shoulder and thrusts her pointy nose into the air and her designer purse into Paulette’s arms. “You can put that in the yellow room for me.”
She apparently thinks she’s finished with me. Which is fine, except I don’t appreciate being dismissed. I clear my throat. She turns around and look me up and down as if she has no idea who I am or how I appeared in front of her.
“Hey,” I begin with a casual wave, as if to say, It’s me again; still here. “The thing is… I mean, I know this is your house—well, I don’t know that, but you say it is, and I don’t have any reason to question that—but the thing is…”
Now I’m stuck. What is the thing? The rational part of me is screaming for me to pack as quickly as possible and get the hell out of here. But the creative side of me is sobbing, begging for me to figure out a way to stay in the only place in which I’ve been able to write for weeks. And not simply write. Write well. Write inspired. But telling something like that to a person like Caroline O’Shea-Edwards is probably the fastest way to get evicted. She’d kick me out for the fun of it.
Desperately, I toss out a lie. “The thing is, I was getting ready to leave… tomorrow. Yep. Today was my last day.” Sure. That works. I mean, I can pull an all-nighter. I can type all my handwritten copy into my electronic manuscript, get a few hours’ sleep, and be on the next train (taxi? Ferry? Bike?) to Boston in the morning, when I can deliver the finished product to Lucas. Lord knows I don’t want to be in the middle of what sounds like a house-custody battle between the scariest couple on the planet.
Unmoved, she says drily, “Good. Then I’m not cutting your visit too short. I’d feel so guilty about that…”
I pretend to misunderstand her and act relieved. “Yeah. Exactly. So, I’ll leave in the morning, as planned, and then you’ll be rid of me. Thanks!”
Before she can object, I gather my things and practically run into the house after Paulette, who’s already upstairs in the “yellow room,” which—funnily enough—is what I’ve been calling simply “my room.”
I stop short. “Oh. Yeah. I guess this room is yellow. She wants to stay in here, huh?”
Paulette doesn’t pause in her frantic stripping of the bed. “Yes. Of course. Whatever’s most difficult. I’m sure she came up here first to see which room was taken before deciding it was the one she wanted.”
Without thinking, I circle to the other side of the bed and pull the sheets from the corner furthest from Paulette. “Yeah, why doesn’t she sleep in the master bedroom?” I wonder, taking advantage of the housekeeper’s uncharacteristic show of disapproval in a bid to get more information.
But the moment’s passed. She seems to remember her “place” and merely purses her lips so hard they turn white. Then she says, “Never mind. I’ll help you pack.”
Even though I’m a little hurt she’s not acting more regretful at my imminent departure, I recognize where her loyalties lie—with the family who pays her.
“Actually, Caroline said it’s okay if I stay one more night. So I’ll move my stuff… wherever you think is best.”
She stops moving to smile at me. “Oh, good! I’m so glad you’re not rushing off today. It’s not fair, anyway. You’re not finished with your book, are you?”
I shrug sheepishly. “It’ll be okay,” I say unconvincingly. “I’m almost there.”
A scowl fleetingly crosses her face, but then, just as quickly, it returns to a state of blank innocence, and she stoops to gather the bed linens in her arms. “You can move across the hallway into the lilac room, if you like. It’s the closest.”
It’s not like I have a ton of stuff to move, since I haven’t technically unpacked (I’m getting used to living out of suitcases), but I’m all for conve
nience. The few items that have made it out of my suitcases—laptop, cell phone, MP3 player, paper and pen—now go back in one of them before I zip it and wheel it with its identical twin across the hall into the “lilac room.”
And it is very that. Lilac, that is. Subtlety wasn’t an object in the interior design of this bedroom. It’s color-themed in a way the “yellow room” never seemed to be. In addition to everything being a light purple, including the wood furniture that at first glance looks white but is, on closer inspection, a very faint hue of, yes, lilac, there are silk approximations of lilacs and lavender in cut crystal vases scattered throughout the room. There are even framed prints of lilacs on the walls and a few dried cuttings in shadowboxes. Well, the good thing is that I can’t picture anyone having sex in this room, which seems more fitting for a grandmother. The only thing I can picture someone doing in here is having a virtual allergy attack.
Well, it’s only for one night, so who cares? The bed is another one of those high numbers that requires a tiny set of steps in order to climb onto it, and the percale sheets under the white eyelet comforter are probably every bit as soft as the ones in the “yellow room.” To be sure, I walk over to it and run my hand under the covers. Yep. Six-thousand thread count. Approximately.
Now a faint ringing makes me snatch my hand away from the bed, as if I’ve been caught doing something naughty. It takes me a second to figure out it’s my suitcase making the noise, and then I realize it must be my cell phone ringing, which reminds me that I have to break the news to Gus that he won’t be able to come visit here this weekend. That’s going to be an unpleasant conversation.
As I’m unzipping my bag and reaching in it for my phone, Caroline swoops past my door and turns into the room across the hall. She’s saying to a trailing Paulette, “…but then you disappeared on me! Anyway, while you’re at the store, make sure you pick up some lobster, shrimp, and steaks for grilling out. Not too many… it’ll only be me, but I’m craving surf and turf. None of that aged beef, though. I’m not sure I can handle that in my delicate state. As a matter of fact, maybe seafood’s not a good idea. Too much mercury…”
“Hello? Jayne? Are you there?”
I’ve been so intent on eavesdropping that I haven’t had the brainpower to multitask and say anything after hitting the button to answer my phone. Now my brain reminds me that the caller ID told me Luke-Ass was calling, and that the proper greeting is:
“Uh… What? I mean… I’m here!”
Or not. But it’ll do.
He chuckles nervously. “For a second there, I thought I heard… someone else… and was afraid I’d dialed the wrong number.”
I try to tune into our conversation and block out Caroline’s continuing loud debate with herself about whether or not to eat seafood (“or is it only shellfish and sushi I’m supposed to avoid? Too many rules! I’m dying for a lobster tail!”). Finally, I close the door and retreat to the end of the bed, which I lean against with my hip.
“Sorry. I was distracted,” I explain succinctly.
“Not too distracted, I hope,” he replies lightly. “Someone tells me you’re doing a lot of writing.”
Without the usual annoyance and frustration fueling it, the statement, “I wish you’d stop using Paulette to spy on me,” comes out sounding as mundane as a request for him to copyedit something I’ve emailed to him.
“I’m not spying! I’m simply getting information from someone else so that I don’t have to bother you.”
“Spying.”
“Semantics. Anyway, how’s it going?” He sounds the happiest I’ve ever heard him. Which puts me on my guard.
“Fine. Almost finished.”
“You are?! That’s great!”
“Yeah.”
When I don’t expound, he prods, “Well…? Are you happy with what you’ve written?”
“Does it matter?” I retort.
“Sure. To some extent. Do you think I’ll like it?”
“No.” I’m deliberately being difficult, because I don’t trust his motives for asking. I mean, who is this guy, anyway? Now I find out he has a wife? What about the buxom Blanche? Does she know about his wife? Because, really, I don’t care. But I bet Blanche would. Is he playing her?
“What do you mean?” he asks, refusing to let me get away with monosyllabic answers, his smile no longer audible. “Please don’t hand me any more crap and try to pretend like that’s the best you can do so that I’ll leave you alone and publish your book, as-is. It doesn’t work that way. You’ll work on it until you get it right.”
Hackles: raised.
“I don’t think it’s crap, okay? It’s damn good.”
“Oh. Well, good.”
“I don’t know if it’ll be up to your standards, but that’s a whole different story.”
I hear him take a deep breath and then exhale. After a few seconds, he says, “I’ll take what I can get right now. So, when do you think you’ll be sending me something?” Before I can answer, he rushes on, the enthusiasm back, “Or, I have a better idea! I’ll come there this weekend, and we can look over it there. I could use a weekend at the beach.”
“Perfect,” I say sarcastically. “Only I won’t be here this weekend. Would you like me to leave the manuscript with Mrs. Edwards?”
The silence that greets my question is so complete that I think for a minute that we’ve been disconnected and he never heard the question at all. Which would be a pity, because I’m pretty proud of how seamlessly it fit into our conversation.
As I’m about to hang up and wait for him to call me back, he says, “Shit. Tell me she’s not there.”
“That would be a lie, unfortunately.”
“When did she get there? Sonofa… Sally!” he yells a little bit away from the phone but not enough that it doesn’t hurt my ear. I hear Sally’s faint response in the background. “Get my wife on the phone for me right now… No, not my cell phone, obviously, since I’m currently holding that one to my ear; my desk phone. Let me know when you have her.”
“Listen, I don’t want to get in the middle of anything,” I say, trying to talk as quickly as possible before a call goes through to Caroline, who’s still right across the hall, dictating an endless grocery list to Paulette. “I just thought you should know that I’m leaving.”
“Well, where are you going to go?” he asks hotly and then doesn’t wait for an answer. “When did she get there?”
“About a half hour ago. And I’ll go back to my friend’s apartment until I find something more… permanent. Or I could go back to Indianapolis, and we can conduct our business through email and phone.”
At least in Indy, I’ll have my blankie and my candle, so I know I’ll be able to write. It’s no seaside mansion, but it’s better than Gus’s place. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, actually.
Unfortunately, I don’t want to go back to Indiana at all. It’s not better than Gus’s place, if I’m being honest with myself. Not at all. It’s lonely. I know hermits aren’t supposed to feel lonely, but I didn’t feel a gaping hole in my life when there was no one there. Now that I’ve had the company of Gus and Paulette, people who seem to care about me, for reasons unknown (although in Paulette’s case, it’s probably more a matter of her being paid to care), I don’t want to go back to my solitary existence, no matter how comforting the familiar surroundings would be at first.
How did this get so out of control? I naively thought that I’d pop into Boston, meet with Mr. Editor, and then my book would get published, all in the span of a week or two. Okay, maybe not quite like that, but I did think it would be a lot tidier than this.
This is a business trip turned vacation turned writing retreat turned reality TV show.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he orders firmly.
“Well, I’m not going anywhere today, but she wants me to leave in the morning,” I explain.
“No. You were there first.”
“It’s her house.”
“Umm… well, legally, maybe. But we had a deal. SALLY!”
I jerk the phone away from my ear and mouth, “Ow,” while he asks Sally if Caroline’s on the phone yet and then tells her to clear his schedule for the rest of the afternoon when she tells him Caroline’s not answering her phone. I’ve never heard someone actually give the order to “clear his schedule” before. In real life. Not on TV. It makes me snort back a giggle.
To me, he says, “I’m on my way. Don’t move.”
“That could get very uncomfortable. Even more uncomfortable than I already am, stuck in the middle of… whatever this is. My foot’s already falling asleep in this position.” But when he insists and then hangs up without a goodbye, I have to admit that a tiny piece of me is glad I may not have to leave. A big piece of me. As a matter of fact, I’m pinning all of my hopes on Lucas using his considerable intimidation skills on his wife to get her to go away. My book kind of depends on it.
Chapter Eleven
Oh, the yelling! It’s been going on for over an hour now. Paulette and I have shared an entire pot of tea (so much for sleeping tonight), sitting across the table from each other, mostly avoiding eye contact, but every once in a while unable to resist wide-eyed looks at each other in response to what they're saying in the next room. It’s probably not right to eavesdrop, but since I have a fairly high stake in this, I feel justified.
Lucas and Caroline, of course, have no idea we’re in here listening. I was going to wait out in the gazebo, but on my way through the kitchen to the back door, Paulette snagged my arm. She put a finger to her lips and pointed to the wooden table, which she had set for tea for two. Snack and a show. I didn’t protest for a single second. I mean, this is riveting stuff.
Unfortunately, they haven’t gotten around to discussing me yet.
They’ve been too busy screaming at each other for things dating back to their engagement. It’s a wonder the two of them ever got married. And it was a mystery why they’re still together, until Lucas interrupts Caroline in the middle of an old grievance about a broken gravy boat and says:
