by S. A. Wolfe
“Carson, stop being so negative,” Imogene snaps with her hands on her hips. “She may get bored being around your sorry, crabby ass, but Lauren and I are boatloads of fun.”
Carson scoffs.
“Fun! Fun! Fun!” Imogene kicks Carson’s leg three times as she says it. He doesn’t even flinch in pain.
“Whatever. I have to get going.” He gets up and leaves my side. I feel an instant loneliness with his departure. I wish I could run down the steps after him and ask him to take me on a nighttime drive. Anywhere. Anyplace where I don’t have to make decisions. “See you in the morning, Dylan. Bright and early!” Carson shouts from his truck before driving off.
“Great, just what I love, working at dawn on a Sunday,” Dylan says to me. Somehow I don’t think he really minds, though. There’s something brewing between his golden locks besides a pretty face. He likes his brother’s attention and he wants me to notice that he’s needed.
“What could you possibly be doing at dawn?” I ask. “Chop down trees and hunt bears?”
Dylan laughs, but my imagination shows them doing exactly that, swinging axes.
After the dinner is cleared up, the dishes are done and I’m given several more overloads of the history I can’t remember, everyone bids me goodbye. Dylan lingers and is the last to leave.
“If you get scared staying in this big house all alone, just call me. I’ll run right over.” What a flirt. I’ve had plenty of guys hit on me, mostly drunk frat types that want sex, but none as sweet as Dylan. He’s the kind of guy who has always been out of my league. They notice me, but turn away once I mention my major or my work.
Dylan would fit in at the Hamptons with a pretty, pedigreed girl on his arm who excels at society benefits and interior design.
“Bye.” I push him out the door.
“You can’t get rid of me. I’ll be back tomorrow,” he calls out into the night.
Sleep does not come easily. The country makes its own kind of racket that’s different from the city, yet even louder. Crickets chirping, owls–or something–hooting and buzzing insects outside my screened window. The moon casts dark shadows across the bedroom and I am amazed that I slept here as a child unafraid. Of course, then the house was full of people; Aunt Virginia, my mother, Carson and Dylan in the rooms next door. There are no humans within a mile of me now and it terrifies me.
I keep my mind busy with things I must do. I’ll need to call 5 Alpha and ask about an extended leave from my job and health coverage. I need to call Kate and Marissa to let them know I’ll be gone awhile and that I’ll mail my rent check to them. Call my parents and scream at them, or alternatively, never speak to them again. I need to go to the bank in Woodstock and sign papers for the account Aunt Virginia left in my trust. Fix this house up and decide if I need to sell it. I rethink that idea and consider Dylan, his attractiveness as well as his evident interest towards me and what I might be able to have if I stayed here longer.
I continue to mull the same thoughts and ideas over and over until the room brightens a bit and I know it will soon be sunrise. The last things I think of in my big, lonely house are wishing a subway line ran under the foundation so its rumbling vibrations could lull me to sleep and Carson Blackard’s blue eyes waiting for me to answer him.
Are you okay? No, Carson, I’m not, but my aunt says you can fix anything.
Seven
A wet, grunting sound persists in my dream. I am at a party back in New York. The guests are not people I recognize and more than one guy has asked me to dance even though there isn’t any music playing. I am walking away from the party and down a hallway, but someone is following me and there’s that wet grunting sound again. I know I’m dreaming when I become very analytical in my dreams. Sometimes I can force myself to wake up while at other times it’s like I’m heavily sedated and I don’t have the will to pull myself out of the drugged-like state.
Something warm and wet touches my leg. No, licks my leg. I pry my eyes open and, in that moment, I see a lump of blubber with giant jowls resting next to my leg. He is panting with a thread of saliva hanging from his mouth. He grunts, shakes his head so his spittle hits my face and then plops his head back down on the bed as if he is satisfied with his new owner.
“Ah, you must be Bert,” I say to the bulldog.
His eyes perk and he glances at me upon hearing his name.
“I bet you are the worst roommate,” I say groggily and decide to go back to sleep.
Violent pounding underneath my bed jolts me awake. Hera doesn’t have earthquakes, at least not ones accompanied by hammering and sawing. The commotion makes my bed jump and Bert and me with it.
“For the love of sarsaparilla!” I shout, now fully awake.
“Hey, good,” Carson says, appearing at my door. “You got your country on. Glad to see it. Now get up or you’re going to suffer much worse.”
“What the HEY are you doing down there?” I yell.
“Dylan and I are finishing the library shelves, Babycakes. Nice to see you and Bert getting along so well.” He smiles and leaves.
“Why do we need bookcases?” I yell after him. “It’s the digital age, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Bert looks at me with his tired, red-veined, droopy eyes.
“It was a pretty good comeback.” Bert merely closes his eyes and feigns sleep.
I realize I have been sleeping on top of the covers in a skimpy, sheer white T-shirt and bikini panties which means Carson got a good gander at my almost naked body. Either he wasn’t impressed or he was being polite about it. Somehow, I doubt he’s the polite type.
I put my long hair in one of those messy top knots with curls and frizz spiking out; the kind of grab-and-go do that is always a no-no in public, however, women do it anyway. I do it because, really, whom do I have to impress? After a quick hot shower, I throw on a pair of very short cut-off jeans, a green tank top and some flip-flops. The house doesn’t have air conditioning of any kind and I already feel the oppressive heat of an early summer day coming on.
As if he knows I’m in charge now, Bert automatically jumps off the bed and follows me downstairs to the second floor where the construction nightmare is taking place. Dylan is the first person I see when I walk into the library and I quickly regret not fixing my hair and putting on some make-up. He’s up on a ladder with wood planks and a drill in his hand.
“Good morning, gorgeous.” He gives me a big smile.
“Hi,” I reply back, wondering if I should go back upstairs and make myself more presentable, however, that would be too obvious.
Bert grunts, snorts and waddles over to Carson who is across the room sanding boards. He kneels down and pets Bert. “Hey, little buddy.”
“I assume you brought Bert here this morning and put him in my bed?” I say to Carson.
“We brought him with us, but he ran upstairs and let himself into your room.” Carson begins roughhousing with an eager Bert.
“He was probably hoping to find Ginnie,” Dylan adds. “And when he didn’t, he must have searched the other bedrooms. Then he saw Sleeping Beauty and decided to join her.”
Carson lets out a snicker at Dylan’s flirting, but I don’t mind. I like the flattery. I smile and bat my eyelashes at Dylan until he laughs. Carson frowns at me and throws his work gloves on the floor. “Dylan let’s break for lunch,” he says curtly.
“Lunch?” I ask. “I was just going to put on a pot of coffee and make some breakfast.”
“Listen, Babycakes, you’re going to have to rise earlier if you want to keep up with what goes on around here. We started at six to prep these boards at the shop and now it’s almost noon, so we need to eat lunch,” Carson says.
“It’s Sunday,” I retort. “Who does construction on Sunday? In New York this is when we go out for brunch. You know; eggs, pancakes and mimosas.”
Carson isn’t amused and brushes by me on his way downstairs. The contact of his bare arm against mine is electric. Carson turns back
enough to catch me suck in a quiet breath. He doesn’t look too composed either before walking out of the room. What was that? My body and brain don’t react to men like that.
“He’s grouchy. Don’t take it personally. I’m sorry we woke you, too. I wanted to let you sleep in, but Carson wants to stick to his rigid schedule.” Dylan climbs down the ladder and removes his gloves as he approaches me.
“It’s okay. I should have gotten up earlier. I need to learn my way around this house and inventory my aunt’s possessions. That sounds very insensitive of me, but there are so many books and canvases and wine.” I am amused at the idea of me being a wine collector.
“It can wait.” Dylan lifts a strand of hair off my face. It is an intimate gesture that sends those sweet shivers down my body. I wouldn’t mind a summer fling for once in my life. He is simply too cute. A part of me wants him to kiss me now, fast and furiously. He stares at me intently and for a moment I think he’s considering it, too, but then he pulls his hand back. “Get your breakfast and meet us on the porch.” I suppose my admonishments from the previous night have forced him to use some restraint and avoid a kiss.
The kitchen is in the back on the east side of the house. The remaining morning light still fills the room, making it bright and cheery. It’s a dated kitchen, not one of those high-end jobs where you can entertain and feed your guests at the same time. Some of it must date back to the late 1800’s, like the wooden slat walls. There’s also a large, stained and slightly chipped porcelain farmhouse sink, a round, oak table with four mismatched, ladder-back chairs and one of those small, round-edged refrigerators from the 1940’s that hums loudly and is inefficient at keeping perishables cold.
While most things are out of style, Aunt Virginia did at least invest in an expensive eight-burner Viking range and an elaborate coffee and cappuccino machine. I can’t cook, however, I sure do love infusing my body with high doses of caffeine.
There are a few bags of gourmet coffee beans on the counter along with a grinder and, having worked at a coffeehouse while I was in college, I manage to figure out how to work the complex coffee machine fairly quickly.
The fridge is stocked with local farm eggs, cream, butter, pre-cut carrot and celery sticks and apples, which tells me Archie must have made sure I had some staples. The cupboards are the same honey colored stain as the walls. I search through them and find granola, bread, peanut butter, jelly and a few cans of chicken noodle soup. Underneath the counter I find bags of dog food. Bert sees my discovery and then trots over to the far wall where, below the rotary phone with the long dangling cord, there are two metal dog bowls. Bert nuzzles one and returns to me with a mouth full of dry, crunchy nibbles.
“Good. It looks like someone knew enough to leave you food and water. Just so you know, I’ve never owned a pet, so you’ll have to speak up if I forget to feed you.” Bert keeps chewing while he looks at me as if we have a perfect understanding of one another.
As my cappuccino finishes gurgling and frothing into my waiting cup, I grab an apple and then take my breakfast out the kitchen door that leads to the porch on the east side of the house. As I walk outside, I find Dylan and Carson seated not far from the door at a bistro-style table with three chairs. How quaint. I get to dine with the two giant lumberjacks, I think to myself as I carefully juggle the oversized mug and apple over to the table. Dylan jumps up and pulls out the empty chair for me as Carson continues eating his sandwich without even so much as looking at me.
“Is that all you’re going to eat?” Dylan asks.
“I’m fine. I’m still stuffed from all the food yesterday. Really, an apple is all I need.”
“Let me go make you an omelet,” Dylan offers.
“Shit. She does quadratic equations for a living, she can manage on her own,” Carson snaps.
I am touched by Dylan’s attentiveness and keenly surprised by Carson’s awareness about me. I know my aunt kept them informed about my life, but to think Carson has been making a conscious effort to understand my work is a little mind-boggling. He’s a little too aloof or cocky to be interested in me, so it must be Dylan’s attention towards me that irritates him, as if I’m undermining their work schedule.
“I’m trying to be polite.” It’s the first time I see Dylan register anger. “You could try it.”
“You can find your way around the kitchen, right?” Carson asks me in a measured tone meant for his brother.
“I’m fine; thanks for your concern,” I say and drink my coffee.
“We need to get back to work.” Carson directs to Dylan, although he’s looking at me. He grabs his paper lunch bag and can of soda. “Come on,” he barks to Dylan.
I gather I’m a thorn in Carson’s side. I don’t know why and I don’t care. I kind of like that I annoy him.
Dylan looks flustered. We both expected to have this opportunity to talk, yet Carson is the taskmaster. I pretend to not care that they are leaving my company unexpectedly, so I take my cell phone out of my pocket and try to look very busy.
“Sorry for rushing off. If you want company, come hang out in the library.” Dylan winks.
“Knock it off.” Carson smacks the back of Dylan’s head.
“Shit. What’s that for?” Dylan rubs his head.
It’s pretty evident that Carson isn’t keen on me hanging out with Dylan.
“Oh, don’t worry,” I say, trying to smooth things over. “I have plenty to do. I have people I have to call; you know, work, my friends.” I hold the dead phone to my ear as if I’m waiting for someone to answer. The battery is completely drained, but I keep holding the phone to my ear like a fool.
“She doesn’t want to be in the same room as the sawing and hammering,” Carson says, holding the kitchen door open for Dylan who reluctantly leaves. I give him a little parade-wave good bye without taking the stupid cell phone from my ear.
Before Carson closes the door, he leans back out. “If you need to make a call, you’ll probably have to take ten paces off the porch to get service.” I nod while remaining extremely committed to following through on my fake phone call. “And by the way,” he continues. “I found your phone charger on the second floor, so I put it on your dresser this morning while you were sleeping.” Then his mouth curves slightly at the corners and I know the jig is up. I put my dead phone down on the table.
“Thanks. You’re a peach.”
He chuckles as he leaves me alone with Bert.
“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this country life, Bert.”
He is sprawled on the floor at my feet as if he’s overcome by fatigue. Looking at him makes me tired and I get the feeling that this is pretty much what Bert does all day.
“My aunt should have named you Hangover.”
Eight
I head back up to my room and plug my phone into the charger, which Carson not only left on my dresser, but also plugged into the wall socket buried behind the dresser. How he moved the heavy furniture this morning without making a sound is beyond me. Thinking of him standing inches from my sleeping body leaves me slightly breathless. I have a brief thought of him looking at my naked body that was completely visible through my see-through T-shirt. Oh my, as Archie would say.
Next, I head to Aunt Virginia’s painting studio, which is on the second floor at the back of the house. It is separated from the library by the playroom that is sandwiched between them. The playroom was created the summer I stayed here and it is where my dollhouse and other artifacts of my shared childhood with Carson and Dylan still reside.
I only take a quick glance around the room, wondering what I should do with all the board games and baskets of toys lining the walls. Why did my aunt hold on to these childhood items all these years? The toys and our beanbag chairs on shaggy throw rugs are evidence of the times when we were sequestered inside by rainy days. I don’t want to spend time going through each and every item that will only bring back the happier memories I’ve been expected to forget.
No sooner do
I think this when another vision returns, Carson picking up after Dylan and me while telling us to start behaving. I also recall following him around a lot, demanding answers to impossible questions. I remember Carson being incredibly patient sometimes, letting me help with his Lego models or having me stand on a chair next to him while he made us sandwiches.
I know I’m intelligent. Everyone has always overused the “you’re so smart” phrase with me. The I.Q. tests my parents have made me take tell me I’m a genius, so how have I let my brain block out my memory of these people and this place?
The pounding from the library becomes deafening again, so I head in the opposite direction to my studio. Aunt Virginia was a tidy artist. Her oils and acrylics are stored neatly on a worktable along with clean brushes organized by size and material, horse hair and synthetic. About a dozen of her large, finished canvases lean against two walls.
I open my large portfolio case and take out eight of my finished paintings. I tack them on the bare walls with poster putty so they won’t get damaged. I know other artists wouldn’t do this, but I don’t really consider myself an artist and I can be very careless with my pieces. For me it’s all part of the process. I enjoy making something I like to look at. It’s about expressing myself through paint in ways that I cannot communicate through language. Perhaps that’s why I have trouble with the rules of dating. I have neither the patience for nor the comprehension on how to speak to men.
I scan the walls filled with my paintings and am pleased to be surrounded by familiar images I’ve created. There are two empty wooden easels and a large drafting table in the room. I set my watercolor paper on the drafting table, and study a handful of my charcoal and ink drawings that I will enhance with watercolors.
My current project is a young woman in a ballerina costume and combat boots. She stands in the middle of a busy section of midtown New York City with cars and pedestrians passing by and skyscrapers looming above. An old man who could be homeless or just tired and haggard is standing next her with an expression of defeat. The young woman appears to be enraptured by her surroundings. Her arms float at her sides as if she is dancing while her long, puffy ballerina skirt twirls.
