by Sofia Tate
I stop for a minute to see if someone reappears, but the space remains empty. I push Ingrid’s driver door once, twice, finally getting in to start her engine, which doesn’t kick over.
“Come on, sweets. Please. It’s been a long day and I just want to get the fuck home,” I plead.
Finally, one more try and the engine roars to life. I exhale in relief.
I back out, glancing up one last time at the window. The curtain is still fluttering as I shift the car’s gear into drive.
* * *
Walking into our house, I kick off my heels at the door. I drop my bag and head to the living room, collapsing onto the couch.
Heavy footsteps sound from the stairs. “Lily?”
“In here.”
Reed appears in my sight, his eyes roaming over my clothes. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“I just had a job interview.”
He sits down next to me, taking my feet into his lap. “And?”
“I got it.”
“That’s great, babe. What kind of job is it?”
“I’m a cleaning lady for some rich family.”
He pauses then shakes his head; his mouth instantly draws into a frown. “Couldn’t you find something better?”
I push my feet off his lap and sit up. “You know what the job market is like around here, Reed. I had to take what I could get. And it pays way more than minimum wage.”
“I suppose that’s all right,” he mumbles. “Want to order pizza for dinner?”
Thanks for all the support, babe.
“Sure.”
He rises to his feet. “I’ll go call it in.”
“Thanks.”
I watch him walk into the kitchen, then stretch out on the sofa and stare up at the ceiling.
It’s fine. He’s probably just tired from work.
I get up and head upstairs to take a long, hot shower and wash the day off me.
Chapter Three
I cross the Rip Van Winkle Bridge from Columbia County to Greene County as I do once a week to visit my mom in Catskill. My heart leaps at the sight of the Hudson River below me, the rolling green hills of the Catskill Mountains in front of me, and a huge smile takes over my face. This is where my heart is.
Ahead of me, a black Jeep Wagoneer with a NURSES ROCK bumper sticker drives smoothly across the bridge. I honk my horn and wave to it. A hand appears from the driver’s side window and waves back, then gives me a thumbs-up. I press my hand down on the horn once more and follow my mom back to our house.
We make the first left off the bridge at the light, past the Thomas Cole house. Thomas Cole was a member of the Hudson River School of painters, and my mom liked to take me there on Sundays to stroll through the gardens and take in the sweeping view. Reed’s parents like to brag to their friends about my house being around the corner from it, the Thomas Cole, but of course, they’ve never actually visited it or my mother’s house.
One more left turn, and I pull in behind my mom in our driveway. It’s a simple two-story white clapboard house with a small front yard. A huge Christmas wreath hangs on the front door, and a single candle sits in each window. I always love how my mom goes all out at Christmas. She started doing this when I was five years old, to make me forget that my father had left us the year before.
My mom gets out of the Jeep, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Under her long winter coat she’s dressed in her nurse’s scrubs and Mephisto clogs, and her hospital badge swings from her breast pocket: JOAN MOORE, RN-HUDSON COMMUNITY HOSPITAL-HEAD OF NURSING-ER. “Hi, sweetpea!”
I give her a tight hug. “What’s going on? I thought you’d just be getting up.”
“They needed me to come in last night because they were short-staffed. Huge ten-car pileup on the Thruway.”
“Was it bad?”
“No fatalities, thank goodness. Come on, I’m starving. You can cook your mom breakfast.”
I wrap my arm around her shoulders. “Deal.”
Walking into the house, familiar smells permeate my nose—cinnamon because Mom bakes to relax, lemon from the cleanser she uses on the kitchen counters, and lily of the valley from the perfume she wears every day, to counter the antiseptic smell of the hospital, and the source of my first name.
I head straight to the kitchen to start cooking, popping bread in the toaster, turning on the kettle for Mom’s mint tea, and then whisking eggs in a bowl for the scrambled eggs.
A sudden knock at the back door makes me smile. “Let her in, Mom.”
I hear the sound of the screen door opening and excited voices fill the kitchen. “Add two more eggs for me, Lil.”
A hint of patchouli wafts up to my nose. My best friend and next door neighbor since I was ten—Skylark “Sky” Rose—hugs me with one arm as I keep whisking.
I shake my head at her. “How have you gotten this far in life and your parents still haven’t figured out that you gave up being vegan?”
“Because I come to your house to indulge in the forbidden fruits of meat, eggs, dairy, and sugar. Have you ever tried fair trade dark chocolate? Blech! Tastes like sandpaper.”
Sky’s parents, Bodhi and Haven, own the only health food store in town. The Bountiful Earth attracts the hippie and bohemian demographic from across the river in Hudson and even farther south, from Kingston and Woodstock, because they’re known for being legit organic, earth to table, and all of the other buzzwords associated with being one with the planet.
It took my mom some time to get used to them when they first moved in, especially one day when she was mowing the lawn and Bodhi was outside sunbathing nude. She didn’t mind him and Haven practicing tai-chi every morning with the dawn, but putting your junk on full display in front of your neighbor, who had a young daughter? Let’s just say there’s now a waist-high partition of bushes between our two houses that discreetly keep things hidden but still maintain the friendly neighbor vibe between us and the Roses.
I glance down at Sky’s arms. “New tat?”
She runs her hand over her right forearm, the black-chipped polish on her fingernails contrasting the indigo blue of the fresh ink illustrating an ocean wave. “Yeah, it calms me down. Brings me back to my place of Zen.”
“Mmm, I know the feeling,” I observe, my mind flashing to The Lovers. “How’s Kane?”
Her face softens with a warm look, the one she always gets whenever her boyfriend of two years is mentioned, who she met when he came to pick up his sister from the yoga studio where Sky works in Catskill. He rode up on his Harley, shoved his helmet under his arm, and dropped it the second he laid eyes on Sky’s brilliant red silky hair and bright green eyes. “He’s lovely. We’re going out for a ride later. So, what’s going on with you?”
Mom comes in, dressed in her sweats and wool socks. “My thoughts exactly. Talk to us while we set the table.”
I pour the egg mixture into a heated pan, fluffing them as they cook. “In a nutshell, my ESL class was taken away from me because of budget cuts.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. But I know you’ll find something. You always land on your feet,” Mom offers in encouragement.
“Funny you should mention that, Ma. I’m still going to be teaching in the spring, but only as an after-school tutor. So I went to the career services office on campus, and I took a part-time job as a cleaning woman.”
“See!” Sky exclaims. “You’re a rock star. Getting a job so quickly, especially with the lack of jobs in this area.”
Sigh. That’s the kind of reaction I wanted from Reed.
I grin back at her. “Thanks. And the best part is that it’s going to give me a sweet paycheck in return. It’ll help me pay off my student loans quicker.”
“That’s awesome, honey. And how is Reed handling it?” Mom asks.
“Well, he’s not thrilled at the prospect of me not being the good girlfriend waiting for him when he gets home with his robe and slippers.”
I hear my mom loudly plonk the plates down on the
table. “You’re shitting me!”
Yup, that’s my mom. Joanie Moore. The strongest woman I know. Made of steel with a kind soul, but curses like a sailor. A single mother who doesn’t put up with anything or anyone that messes with her kid. And I love her for it.
“No. I wish I were.”
I hear the metal of cutlery clatter as Sky sets the utensils next to the plates. “Ha! Next thing you know, he’ll want you barefoot and pregnant at twenty-four, ready to pop out the perfect 2.5 blond, blue-eyed kids.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Skylark,” my mom concurs. “Now what about your job? Palmer couldn’t do anything?”
I continue fluffing the eggs. “It was a school board decision, Mom. He had no choice. He was actually really sorry about it.”
She nods at me. “I get it. Okay, so tell me about this cleaning job.”
I turn off the gas, lifting the pan, and spoon the eggs onto the plates. “It’s…interesting.”
“Why do you say that?” Sky asks.
“Well, it’s in this old crumbling mansion on a hill not too far from Cottage Grove. The woman who takes care of the house is very nice. Emilia. Older with silver hair. And I haven’t met the owner. But it’s part-time, only twice a week, and it pays unbelievably well.”
“Sounds creepy to me. But I guess if the money is that good, then you should do it,” Sky says.
Mom sighs. “I suppose that’s all right. But what I don’t like is Reed’s reaction. He has a huge stick up his ass. I don’t know what you see in him.”
Not again.
My shoulders drop at the sound of my mother’s disapproval, something she’s done before when it comes to Reed.
“Mom, please. Not now.”
She reaches out to touch my shoulder. “He doesn’t deserve you, honey. You know you can always come to me if you need any help financially. And this will always be your home, so if you ever feel like cutting the cord with him…”
“I’ll hand you the scissors,” Sky ends my mother’s thought.
I shut my eyes in frustration. “Look, you two, I love that you’re worried about me, but he loves me. And I’m fine now since I got the job. For the little work I’ll be doing, the salary is very decent.”
Am I going to have this argument for the rest of my life?
The whistle of the kettle jolts us, thankfully interrupting them. “Mom, please. Don’t forget we’re still spending Christmas Day with you, so I hope you won’t bring all this up when he’s here.”
“Okay,” she sighs. “I’ll let it go for now because I’m starving. And then I can tell you all about the patient who had this thing sticking out of—”
Sky cringes in disgust, while I hold up my hand to my mother, palm facing front, my shoulders hunching in distaste. “Yuck! Mom, we’re about to eat.”
She laughs. “I know. I just wanted to bring you back, sweetpea. I promise I won’t bring Reed up again. I only went on about him because I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Same here,” Sky agrees with a mouthful of egg.
I kiss Mom on the cheek, then bring my arm around Sky’s shoulder to embrace her. “I know. Thanks, you guys. I love you both.”
“Love you too, honey,” Mom replies. “Now tell me who I have to call on the school board so I can read them the riot act for fucking with my kid.”
I embrace her once more and smile to myself.
My mom, Joanie. The nurse warrior.
Chapter Four
Dipping the wet mop in the bucket, I pull it out and slap it down on the tiled kitchen floor on the first day at my new job. The job where I’ve only met Emilia, the combination caretaker/estate manager/personal assistant; I don’t even know what her official title is. This is my second task of the day. My first was to vacuum the rug in the upstairs hallway with the antiquated cleaner she’d shown me when I was here for the interview, and then I fully understood why the previous maid tripped bringing it down the stairs. It’s one of those models with a round base on four wheels. I make a mental note to ask Emilia if the owners could possibly upgrade to an upright one at the very least.
Emilia steps out from her office off the kitchen. “I’ll be leaving soon to run to the post office and pick up something for dinner. Will you be all right until I return?”
“Sure, but doesn’t the owner have a chef on staff?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “What can I say? He prefers my cooking. And he doesn’t like having more staff than necessary.”
I nod my head in understanding. “I see. Do you need me to do anything else?”
She shakes her head. “No, that’s all that needs to be done today. I don’t want to overwork you on your first day, to the point where you quit.”
“No chance of that,” I reassure her, thinking of the ridiculous amount I’m being paid for so little work.
“Good. If you want, you can leave after you finish and I’ll see you in a few days. You can just shut the front door behind you when you go.”
“That would be great. Thank you. I’ll see you then.”
After a few more swipes across the floor, I assess my work and decide the floor is spotless. I wring out the mop and leave it in the laundry room to dry out, dumping the dirty water into the sink.
Stretching my aching back, I head from the kitchen to the living room. I sit down on one of the worn couches and lean back, sighing loudly to myself. I take only a minute to relax because otherwise I’ll fall asleep on the spot.
When I sit up, I notice something through the French doors, a large object right in the center of the lawn. Emilia never said I couldn’t go outside. I carefully turn the handle on one of the doors, listening to it creak as I pull it open and step through.
The backyard is wide and empty except for the object, which turns out to be a sculpture of a naked man in a seated position, crouched over and cradling his head in his hands. To my left there’s a huge outbuilding in the shape of a barn, with a tall roof and wide doors that resemble ones that would usually be on a garage, and a long enclosed passageway that connects to the main house.
I slowly approach the sculpture. I take in the man’s broad back, his long fingers as they cup his head, his muscled thighs tight under his chest. Something about it moves me; it seems so familiar, just like that sketch in the house, the pain and anguish of the subject akin to The Lovers.
It couldn’t be…
I search for an artist’s signature but I can’t find one.
Maybe the house belongs to a wealthy art collector?
Suddenly, sounds of something being pounded and deep grunts divert my attention to the barnlike structure. I step the few yards to the building and quietly knock on the door. I give it a minute, but nobody appears. I slowly push the door open, and when I do, my jaw drops and my eyes widen at the sight in front of me.
It’s not a barn at all. It’s an artist’s studio. Scaffolding and ladders are scattered everywhere. A huge hydraulic lift takes up an entire corner. Boxes marked SCULPTING CLAY line one entire wall. Another wall holds various tools, like brushes and knives. Long wooden tables are covered in newspaper, charcoal pencils, and sketchpads.
But what takes my breath away are the pencil drawings hanging on a string right by the door, preliminary sketches of The Lovers…
Oh my God.
This house.
The “S” hanging over the front gate.
Those sketches in the house.
The sculpture.
I think…the owner of this house might be Grayson Shaw.
And the man hunched over a mound of clay, pounding it into shape right in front of me, barefoot and clad only in a pair of ripped jeans, is him. It has to be. Grayson Shaw.
I can’t look away from him. The rippling muscles of his back. His well-defined arms as they work the clay into submission. His skin, slick with sweat. His dark brown hair, which seems to slightly curl on top. I’m enraptured by the grunts that emanate from him with each movement.
The artist a
t work.
I’m mesmerized.
I can’t believe…
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I jump at the sound of his voice.
His dark brown eyes sear into mine, molten with fury. But then I gasp—one side of his face is beautiful, with chiseled cheekbone and lips, but the other is marked by three long scars starting from his forehead and extending all the way to his chin.
My entire body starts to shake and my mouth goes dry. “I…I…Are you Grayson Shaw?”
“Get the hell out of here!”
With my heart pounding against my chest, I rush out of the studio as fast as I can. I fly through the French doors into the living room, slamming into the sofa, grabbing it to keep myself standing as I pant for breath.
“Oh my goodness! What’s happened?”
I look to my right, where Emilia is standing. I point toward the backyard. “Is he…was that…”
The older woman exhales, then purses her lips together as she nods in silent understanding. “You met him, didn’t you?”
“If you’re talking about the man in the studio, then yes.” I finally catch my breath. “Emilia, do I work for Grayson Shaw?”
She exhales again. “Yes. Do you want to quit now that you’ve met him? Judging by your state, I’m assuming he did not treat you kindly.”
My face turns red at her assumption. “He was…he was angry. I interrupted him in his studio. But I won’t quit. Emilia, I need this job. Is he going to fire me for bothering him?”
Emilia inhales deeply, taking a few steps toward me, and pats my shoulder. “Leave it to me. I’ll smooth things over. Why don’t you go home? I think you’ve had enough for one day.”
My shoulders drop in relief, my hands and legs still shaking.
Thank God. I can’t get out of here fast enough.
* * *
Grayson
Run.
That’s what they all do.
I can’t blame them.
I’m a freak show.
I slide the gloss over the piece that arrived this morning. Thank God for the local artists’ colony, which is always willing to pick up my pieces for baking; otherwise I’d never be able to do it myself.
