by Brea Brown
“But—”
“The challenge is… can I make you feel what I’m trying to convey? You’re obviously a harder sell than the average reader, who is not my mom, by the way.”
He winces. “That was a low blow, I suppose.”
Two sort-of apologies in one conversation? I feel obligated to cut him some slack for his trouble. “Granted, my friend, Gus, is an easier sell than the average reader. He cries about everything. I once witnessed him tear up at a toilet paper commercial, because ‘those cartoon bears are just so skip-boppety cute!’”
“‘Skip-boppety’?”
“Gusese for ‘darned’ or the multi-purpose ‘fucking,’” I translate.
He laughs. “Okay, then. This Gus sounds like a character.”
“He is. He would call this whole thing between you and your wife a ‘bajiggity situation.’”
This makes him laugh even harder, but then he stops abruptly. “Wait.” He puts his hand over the blanket on my arm. “Where have I heard that…? Hang on… Gus is a character! Is Gus Jack? Or vice versa?”
For some odd reason, I feel caught. “Uh…” Well, what’s the point in denying it? Writers use real people in their lives as inspiration all the time. “Yes. Jack is based on my friend, Gus. He’s so… colorful. He deserved to be a character in a book.”
Teasing, he asks, “So does that mean you’re Rose?”
“No!” I immediately and adamantly reply. Damn. I meant to be a lot more casual and carefree about it if and when he asked me that.
“I see.”
“She’s really not,” I lie insistently.
“That’s fine. I was simply wondering.”
“Now you know.” I stand and wrap the blanket more tightly around me. “Anyway, I’d better go pack up my stuff and head inside for the night.” I bend over to retrieve my flip flops and nearly topple over on the uneven surface underfoot.
Lucas catches me. “Careful.”
Regaining my balance, I blush. “Sorry.”
“It’s not a problem. I don’t want you to sprain your ankle, though. Maybe I should carry the blanket?”
He reaches for it, but I pull away. I don’t want to relinquish the quilt, although I’m not sure why. “No! I mean… it’s fine. I’m stiff from sitting for so long. But I’m fine now.” I slide my feet into my flip-flops and shake the sand from them one at a time before making my way over the dune in the direction of the gazebo.
I glance over at Lucas, who’s concentrating on his feet as we walk through the sandy grass that gradually gets lusher and lusher the closer we get to the house.
When I peel off to retrieve my writing supplies in the gazebo, he lifts a hand and says wearily, “G’night, Jayne.”
I duck my head. “Night.” Then I head up the steps into the gazebo, where I can see my laptop sitting exactly as I left it. Well, almost. It was open last time I saw it, but now it’s closed.
Chapter Thirteen
I can’t sleep. Normally, I’d write, but for the first time I can remember, I don’t want to write. I want to do something normal. What do normal people do when they can’t sleep?
Watch TV.
I creep through the quiet, sleeping house in search of a television. I think I remember what one looks like. I haven’t owned one in a long time. I don’t watch enough TV to bother with owning one and paying for cable or satellite or any other service. Plus, I can stream online every show I want to watch, like all the period dramas on PBS and BBC and… Ooooh!
I stop in my tracks at the bottom of the stairs to the basement when I come around the corner, only to be confronted by the biggest, shiniest, flattest TV I’ve ever seen.
“Pretty…” I breathe stupidly. Plopping down onto the overstuffed couch, I grab the remote from the low coffee table and study the device. It looks like something designed by NASA for use by astronauts (or at least someone much smarter than I am).
Okay… power. That’s straightforward.
The TV comes on with a soft click. A blue screen tells me to “press OK.” After searching on the large remote, I find the appropriate button. An infomercial blares out at me, “ALL THIS FOR ONLY $19.99! BUT WAIT!”
I quickly locate the volume controls and press firmly on the bottom button until the program becomes little more than a murmur. Holy crap, that was loud. My heart knocks in my chest and thumps in my ears.
When the adrenaline rush subsides, I focus on the remote once more. Channels. Okay. I scan up until I get to the upper channels like HBO and Cinemax. What’s this?
“Oh!” I say out loud as my brain registers that I’m looking at two naked people writhing against each other in an elevator. My finger poised over the channel button, I watch for a few minutes. Hmmm… That actually looks… nice. Well, that may not be the best word for what they’re doing, but it looks fun, in any case. I seem to remember it was somewhat fun. But a lot of work to get to… that… point. Not that I ever did anything like that in an elevator. Or anywhere close to being public. I just mean… Oh, never mind. I know what I mean.
I reluctantly change the channel when watching the two actors (that’s all they are, I have to remind myself) makes me sweat along my hairline. Eventually, I settle on a period piece on the BBC that’s decidedly less sexual but will probably put me to sleep as effectively as a good schtupping. I relax back into the couch cushions and pull my knees up to my chest. There’s something about English accents that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and…
I wake up on my side, having toppled over in my sleep at some point. My muscles are tense from trying to generate body heat in the chilly basement. On the television is a whimsically-drawn cartoon featuring little English characters. The young boy is helping the young girl, Lola, catch a spider from the bathroom sink. She’s thanking him profusely in her adorable accent. “Thank you ever so much, Charlie. You know I’m not keen on spiders.”
Keeping my eyes on the television, I pull a blanket from the back of the couch and lie on my side once more, settling in to watch the clever show. I’m laughing out loud at another adorable yet grownup-sounding line when a voice behind me startles me.
“I never would have pegged you for a cartoon watcher.”
My laugh sticks in my throat, and I stiffen, but I don’t move. Finally, I say, “This is the first time I’ve watched this show. First time I’ve watched TV in months.”
He comes closer, standing behind the couch, looking first down at me and then at the television. “TV rots your brain.”
“Precisely. But this show is smart.”
“It’s a children’s program.”
“Yeah. I guess that’s why it’s smart. Adults don’t require intelligent programming anymore. We’re content with killing our brain cells with reality shows. But this is great.”
He comes around the couch and sits at the other end, where he wedges himself into the corner and leans back as if he’s studying the show for academic purposes. I curl up more tightly to give him some extra space. He crosses his legs, resting his ankle on his knee. I have no idea what time it is, but he’s already dressed, so I assume it’s some normal time in the morning and not terribly early. I’d ask, but I’d rather continue watching the show. I want to know what happens to the spider and if Lola ever learns to be more “keen” on spiders in general.
When the episode’s over, he chuckles and looks over at me. “You’re riveted.”
“I love it. It’s so… quirky. I think I’ve found a new hero in this Lola character.” I stretch and then pull my leg quickly back when my foot nudges his hip.
“Did you sleep down here all night?” he asks, sitting forward and putting his elbows on his knees.
“I’ve been here since about two,” I admit. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“I couldn’t, either,” he shares. “But I sat up in bed, reading. What on earth did you find to watch at that hour? It’s all infomercials and porn.”
I will not blush like a guilty teenager. Riiight… “Uh… Hmm. I think it was
an adaptation of Jane Eyre, if I’m not mistaken. It didn’t take long for it to put me to sleep. Mission accomplished.”
He laughs. “Maybe I should have come down here. My reading wasn’t much help.”
Imagining him walking in on what I was watching for a short time before Jane Eyre makes me blush in earnest. To hide it, I pretend to rub sleepily at my face. “What were you reading? Something for work or for pleas—not work?”
“I was actually doing some research, for personal purposes. Anyway… I guess I should let you get some breakfast and get to work.”
I can practically hear the whip cracking.
Defensively, I say, “I’ll get there. I’ve never needed a task-master before.”
He blinks at me before saying levelly, “That’s not what I meant.”
“I’m sure. The sooner I finish my book, the better, right?”
“For everyone, most of all, you. But—”
“Most of all, you. Then you can give Caroline her house back.”
I move to sit up and set my feet on the ground, but only one leg makes it before he grabs my other ankle. “Stop worrying about Caroline. I told you, I’ll deal with her.”
“You wouldn’t have to deal with her, if I weren’t here.” I jerk my foot away from his grasp, sit up, and move as far away from him on the couch as possible.
“But I only have myself to blame for that. I invited you to stay here. And it’s my fault that this house is even an issue. I should have divorced her a long time ago. I’ve procrastinated too long.” He rubs his jaw. “But… I love this house. And once we’re divorced, it’ll go to her, like everything else that I only have because I’m married to her.”
“That’s a shitty reason to stay married to someone you don’t love.”
“True,” he allows. “She has her shitty reasons to stay married to me, too, though. And until now, it’s worked out fine. I knew it wouldn’t last forever, though. Nothing does with her.”
I’d rather not know any of this. I mean, I know couples like them exist, but actually being in the presence of one such couple is extremely depressing. I’m no romantic, but I’d rather be alone the rest of my life than ever be part of a relationship or marriage that’s based more on convenience and tax breaks than love. Maybe I am a romantic, after all. A closet romantic.
“Well, this is uplifting, inspiring conversation, but now that you mention it, I am hungry and would like to try to get some work done, if for no other reason than to decide if it’s worth staying here to try to get any work done,” I snipe.
He stands when I do. “I’m sorry you got involved in this. I am. It’s… complicated.”
The sincerity with which he says it makes it impossible for me to continue to be too bitchy, but I do say, “You know what? It’s none of my business. And I wish you’d quit trying to make it my business.”
“Fair enough.”
“Thank you.” With that, I trudge up to my room to get showered and dressed for what I hope is the most productive day of my writing career, so I can leave my manuscript in his hands as I walk away from this house—and the private horrors it contains—forever.
*****
“I’m not hungry,” I say without looking up at the person who’s entered the gazebo as I continue to type as fast as I can to keep up with the lightning-quick narrator in my head. Plus, I’m trying to beat the storm that’s blowing in off the ocean and should be arriving any minute, if those black clouds are any indication. How symbolic. The constant storm inside that house is why I have to finish this.
The snotty reply, “I’m not offering to serve you,” makes my head snap up.
Oh. Shit.
“Hi, Caroline,” I say as politely as I can muster.
She sniffs. “It’s about to rain, you know.”
“Yes, I can see that. That’s why I’m trying to hurry and finish this chapter,” I hint.
Wrinkling her delicate nose, she asks, “Are you unable to write indoors, or something?”
“Not ‘unable,’ just… not as well.” I tuck my hands under my legs and hunch my shoulders toward my ears. “I like it out here.”
“Yes, well, don’t get too ensconced,” she simpers. “I believe I heard Lucas on the phone earlier trying to find somewhere else to send you.”
My heart drops. “R-really?”
The fake sympathy on her face is sickening. “Yes. Oh… I thought you knew. After he and I discussed it, I assumed he was coming out here to tell you right away. I don’t mean to cause problems between the two of you…”
It’s all I can do not to laugh out loud. At many parts of her claim.
“There’s no ‘two of us,’ for one thing,” I say, but then I realize I don’t want to say the other thing out loud, so I stop before telling her that I think she absolutely wants to cause as many problems as possible.
Inspecting her fingernails, she drawls, “I see the way he looks at you. And just because I’m his wife doesn’t mean you have to pretend. Although the separate bedrooms are a nice touch. How very disciplined of you both!”
When all I do is glare at her, she takes that as an admission of sorts and continues, “A woman like you should be quite proud of herself. Lucas is picky. As a matter of fact, I think you’re the first mistress he’s ever had. And I know that’s not out of some sense of loyalty to me.” She laughs bitterly. “I have to say, though… I’m surprised at his eventual choice.” She looks me up and down.
“Our relationship is purely professional,” I insist calmly. Thunder punctuates my sentence.
“Oh, my. No need to get testy.”
“I’m not being testy. Even if I have a right to be, considering how offensive you’re being.” So much for finishing this section. I sigh as I make my backup copies and pack up my stuff.
Feigning contrition, she says while watching me, “Please, don’t be offended. That wasn’t my intention. I simply wanted you to know that I know what’s going on—Lucas has never offered to have any of his other authors stay at his precious beach house—and that I’m okay with it.” Now, ultra-casually she adds, “As long as… Well, I’m going to have to be perfectly blunt with you now. As long as you don’t get any ideas about marrying him, because—”
“This is ridiculous!”
She talks over me. “Because O’Shea’s do not get divorces. And now that we’re expecting a baby, it’s even more out of the question. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure he upholds our marriage contract. ’Til death do us part.”
The thought of my marrying Lucas—of even wanting to marry him—makes me laugh out loud. “You’re crazy, lady,” I tell her as I loop my laptop bag’s strap over my head. “Lucas and I can barely be in the same room together ten minutes without arguing. He sent me here to get me away from him and to finish my manuscript as quickly as possible so I’d stop being a pain in his ass. Period.”
“If you say so…”
“I do. Now, excuse me. I guess I need to go find him and figure out what’s going on. Thanks for the heads-up.” I edge past her and down the gazebo stairs.
As I’m crossing the lawn to the back patio, the lackadaisical raindrops suddenly find a purpose: drenching me. I’d run, but flip-flops aren’t good running shoes. As a matter of fact, I’ve sprained my ankle before trying to run in wet flip-flops, and my laptop is protected by its bag, so the worst that will happen—if I keep calm—is that I’ll get a little wet and will have to change my clothes. Big whoop. But there’s something about a downpour that makes me panic. Maybe it’s the lack of control. Mostly, I think it’s the wet clothes. I don’t like wet clothes.
When I finally make it inside the doors that lead to the kitchen, I’m soaked through, and my hair is dripping onto my shoulders. Paulette looks up from where she’s preparing sandwiches for lunch and laughs at me.
“I was afraid you’d wait too long to come in. Best get out of those wet things. Lunch’ll be ready before you are,” she says in her typical mothering fashion.
T
o be safe, I slide my laptop out, before the rain can soak through its bag, and carry it over to the sink, where I grab a towel, wrap it up, and carry it under my arm toward the kitchen door. “Have you seen Lucas lately?” I inquire. “I need to talk to him about something.”
“Not before you eat, surely!” she declares firmly. “Anyway, I’m sure he’ll be down for lunch any minute now. That man doesn’t skip meals when I’m around.”
I’d rather not talk to him about my situation in front of anyone else, especially not Caroline. And if I’m leaving, it’d be nice to know right away, so I can pack before lunch and be ready to go. No sense lingering longer than necessary. If I’m no longer wanted here, it’ll only be awkward. More awkward than it already is. Yikes. That’s hard to imagine. Plus, if he hasn’t already found somewhere else for me to go, he needs to save his energy. I’m not a shelter dog that he impulsively brought home and now feels guilty because he’s decided he doesn’t have room in his life for me. He doesn’t need to find me a new home. I can check into a motel. Or go back to Gus’s.
Yes. As soon as I’m finished talking to Lucas, I’ll call Gus and tell him I’m on my way back, if he’ll have me. I’ll cook his favorite dinners every night, like a good non-wife.
I’m deeply strategizing, my head down, as I stride briskly down the hall to “my” room to change my clothes, when I run into something—or more accurately, someone—hard and unyielding.
“Oof!” I barely manage to hold onto my laptop as it slides against the dry towel under my arm and threatens to crash to the floor.
“Jayne! What the fu—I mean, watch where you’re going!”
“You bumped into me!”
“I absolutely did not. I stepped from my bedroom and saw you barreling toward me but had nowhere to go, since I can’t melt into the wall. If you had been looking up… What happened to you?” He puts a hand on my upper arm and fingers the drenched cotton of my t-shirt sleeve.
I step away from him. “I got caught out in the rain.”
