CHAPTER ELEVEN
First, the tedious part. The clients wanted only the walls painted, so Skye and Harvey needed to seal the edges of the doors, windows, floors, light switches, electrical outlets, and ceiling with painter’s tape. In the time it took her to lay tape along the baseboards, Harvey taped off three-quarters of the room. Next, Harvey showed her how to “cut in” using a special brush and a minibucket of paint. She had to practice avoiding splatters, evidenced by the Pollock-esque drop cloth wherever she had stepped, as well as her clothes, arms, and the ends of her hair. Finally, they used the rollers on the walls—a hue she begrudgingly described as “New York Yankee blue” for the male author’s room, and tangerine for the female’s room. Odd color choices for offices, she thought, especially the orange. However, when they finished the second coats for both, she was struck by how vibrant they were, and perhaps a creative type of person needed that.
Harvey worked without uttering a word; Skye figured he was neither shy nor ignoring her but rather was used to working alone, being inside his own head. It was a far cry from the anything-but-silent atmosphere she lived in day in and day out at Top Drawer—pop music blaring through the store’s sound system, constantly greeting and conversing with customers as part of their sales skills, chatting with her staff during the slow periods of the day, the vacuum running at night. She had no time to sit with her thoughts. Perhaps that was why she’d gone so long without really thinking about the things that she had wanted from life; all the outside noise successfully drowned it out. She hadn’t wanted to think about it.
She wasn’t used to the silence, however, and so she made conversation.
“You had mentioned something about kids?” she asked Harvey. “How many do you have?”
“Two. Boy and a girl. Kelly just turned thirteen, and Scott is sixteen going on I-hate-your-freaking-guts.”
Skye chortled, even though a kid hating his dad was no laughing matter. Harvey had a knack for being funny and serious at the same time.
“Why does he hate you?”
“Divorce. Adolescence. I’m hoping he grows out of it.” He paused for a beat. “I suppose this is obvious, but no kids for you?”
She shook her head. She’d never envisioned kids for herself. She could envision marrying Mr. Perfect, along with the perfect wedding and honeymoon and house, but the picture of perfect kids, or any kids, never quite formed in her mind’s eye. The more her parents and Summer had nagged her about it over the years, told her what a gift children were, how a mother’s love was the greatest form of love, the more Skye resisted. In the end, she’d been grateful to have dodged that bullet. Cats were more manageable, she’d decided. And didn’t require student loans. Besides, with her biological clock relentlessly ticking away, what hope was there for her even if she did want them? She certainly couldn’t take care of a child all by herself. At the moment, she wasn’t even sure what her next decision was going to be in regards to taking care of herself.
She’d learned more about Harvey—and Vance—during that hour. How Harvey had grown up all over the country, thanks to being “an army brat,” went to San Diego during his college years, and began his sales career in Denver before relocating to Billings with the company and meeting his now ex-wife, Deborah, shortly thereafter at a coffee shop on a blind date. How Billings was the longest Harvey ever stayed in one place, and how he liked the stability of it. How skillful Vance was at mixing lies with truths—hanging out backstage with Paul McCartney in Seattle (it was later discovered that although he’d gotten his hands on a backstage pass, he’d never gotten past security); turning down a contestantship on The Apprentice (he’d applied online and never got a callback); and the most laughable lie because it was so easy to fact-check: being valedictorian of his high school class. Skye turned crimson as Harvey explained how each myth had been debunked. She’d believed the valedictorian one when Vance had told her—why wouldn’t she?—as well as one about playing golf with some famous football player she’d never heard of, but it sounded impressive. The only consequence of Vance’s canards was Vance getting revenge by either spreading a vicious rumor about the whistle-blower, or some other form of psychological abuse.
“Vance will never use his fists to hurt someone,” said Harvey. “Mostly because he knows he’d get the shit kicked out of him. But also because he’s seen the instant effects of psychological warfare.”
“How has karma never caught up to him?” Skye wondered aloud.
“Beats me,” said Harvey. “But I don’t believe in karma. Some people just get away with murder. Plain and simple.”
Skye suddenly wondered if Vance was capable of actual murder. Or, worse than capable, experienced.
“You must think I was a complete idiot to fall in love with him.”
“Not at all,” he said. “Vance is charming. That’s what makes him good at his job. Hell, even I liked the guy when I first met him—thought he was a good guy to have a beer with at the end of the day. But when he’s threatened by you, that’s when he shows his true colors and destroys you.”
Skye put down her roller. “Do you think I threatened him?” she asked, desperate for understanding.
He didn’t break his stride, didn’t even look in her direction. “I don’t know. Maybe you did.”
“How? All I did was love him.”
“Maybe that’s enough of a threat.”
“But you said he’s still with your wife.”
“My ex-wife,” he corrected.
“She must love him. Why is he not threatened by her?”
“I really don’t know,” said Harvey. “That’s why I paint and don’t do marital advice or therapy.” He finally stopped and surveyed her work. “Looking good,” he said. She smiled in self-satisfaction and appreciation for the encouragement.
For as long as she could remember, Skye Littleton had what she called “vibes” about certain rooms. When she slept over at her friend Vicki Marcowitz’s house in third grade, Skye moved her Crayola box sleeping bag three times before she found the “right” sleeping space. In junior year of high school, when her sister Summer moved away to college and Skye moved into her bedroom, she completely rearranged the furniture and insisted on a new paint color. This room wants to be blue, Skye had said. But not just any ol’ blue. No, it needed to be azure. She couldn’t sleep in the room, or even stand in it for more than a minute, until it was painted. And she replaced the square end table with a round one. And in college, when she shared a dorm room, the first thing she did when she moved in was burn an incense stick. She’d read in a magazine about “smudging” a room to “cleanse the energy.” Afterward, the room seemed brighter to her. And whereas her roommate, Sabrina Collins, had been aloof upon their first meeting, she opened up way more after the incense, and she and Skye had become practically inseparable throughout college. Sabrina had moved to Vermont, but they still kept in touch via e-mails and visits.
Even at Top Drawer, if she was having a bad day or if customers were difficult to deal with, Skye would buy a Yankee Candle, light it, and carry it throughout the store prior to opening or after closing. Which scent she chose depended on the vibe she felt either she or the store needed. Coincidentally, when she did, fewer returns came in, customers were friendlier, and staff performances improved. The last candle she had burned before leaving was “Bahama Breeze.” That same day, she and her staff doubled the previous year’s gross sales, opened two new charge accounts, and the store didn’t have a single return for the remainder of her employment.
Skye didn’t know if these vibes were a quirk or normal, if they were a sign of intelligence or stupidity, or if they even mattered. She didn’t know if the consequences were coincidental or something she assigned significance to. But it was happening yet again. Every time she walked through the authors’ den to use the restroom, she couldn’t help but feel something was off about the room. It was your basic den—TV mounted to the wall, leather sectional, all in various shades of taupe and mocha. Bookcases and artwork. So what was giving her the willies?
She felt boxed in, she realized.
When they finished the job, Harvey loaded the last of the supplies into his truck and checked the rooms to make sure there were no traces of paint spills or smudges; Skye stood in the entrance to the den, staring.
“What is it?” he asked.
“That coffee table needs to go,” she said, pointing at the low table framed by the sectional.
Harvey looked at the rectangular glass top with wrought iron legs. “Looks fine to me,” he said. “Goes with the rest of the furniture.”
“I think that’s the problem,” she replied. “The TV, the bookcases . . . it’s all too boxy. The table needs to be round.”
“Maybe they like the boxy look.”
“They may like it, but it doesn’t feel right in here,” she said. “It’s confining.”
He raised his arms in a can-we-get-a-move-on gesture. “Skye, we just paint. We don’t give decorating tips. Let’s go.”
All the validation she’d felt from Harvey’s encouragement disappeared with his curt dismissal. As he passed her, she followed behind him, squinching her face and mouthing, We don’t give decorating tips in a silent mimic behind his back. On her way out, she passed a photo of the author couple, standing in front of the New York Public Library, her showing off an engagement ring. He must have proposed there. Why there and not in Billings? Would you want to get engaged in Billings? she asked herself.
They didn’t look glamorous by any means—neither of them were slim; both were gray-haired and bespectacled, and the woman wore no makeup—nor did they have an air of rich or famous, despite being published authors. Their house didn’t reflect this either. Accessory furniture that probably came from Target. A well-used recliner. Sparse decorations. But the house looked lived in and loved in. Photographs of smiling faces, young and old alike, adorned every room. Books, books, and more books everywhere Skye turned. A kitchen that smelled of baked goods. The engagement photo said it all. Here was a couple who loved more than each other. They loved the life they made. They resided in Billings, but they lived wherever they went, be it a town, city, hotel room, you name it.
She envied them fiercely.
“So what do you think after your first day?” Harvey asked Skye as he drove her back to the Best Western.
“I think I need to soak in a warm bath,” she replied. “For two months.”
Harvey chuckled. “It’s a good workout, that’s for sure,” he said. “You’ll get used to it. How’d you like the job, though?”
“OK, I guess. A little boring.” She instantly regretted that last bit of honesty. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be offensive or ungrateful. I just—”
“It’s OK, Skye,” said Harvey. “It’s OK if it’s just a job to you. There’s not much room for creativity unless you get a say in choosing colors or painting furniture. Then you can have a little fun.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said. “My apartment had all white walls. Landlord wouldn’t let me paint.” She’d tried hanging swaths of colored fabric on the walls in lieu of paint but never liked the look. Also tried to compensate with accents of color on her furniture and accessories—she bought a purple couch cover, for example, and sunny orange and yellow throw pillows for contrast. Bought deep-blue bar stools for her kitchen nook, and even found cups and plates to match. Surprised herself by contrasting hot-pink towels in the bathroom with a black bath mat and a shower curtain with accents of both.
“I really appreciated the company and the help, Skye,” he said. “You did well for someone with no previous training.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Especially for your patience.”
“I’m sorry I can’t pay you more than minimum wage right now.”
She knew he was genuinely remorseful. And she liked that about him. She liked that he was equally sensitive and pragmatic.
“Considering that it’s cutting into your own salary, I appreciate your giving me anything.”
“I hope circumstances change where we’ll both be able to get more work.”
She never recalled a time when she viewed “more work” as a positive thing. Now she welcomed it. Funny how perspectives changed when circumstances changed. In that regard, maybe her life at Top Drawer really hadn’t been as miserable as she’d made it out to be.
Ugh.
The job had taken only four hours; and yet, Skye felt as if she’d worked a twelve-hour shift at Top Drawer during one of their semiannual sale days, or Black Friday.
Every muscle ached. Muscles she hadn’t used since gym class in high school, when she took archery and golf.
In her hotel room, Skye lay diagonally across the bed, on her back, motionless, arms and legs splayed out. Chip lay beside her, content. Everything in the room felt balanced to her, although she hated the pine-green carpeting. Too sad, she thought. Or was she projecting her own state of being onto the carpet? She thought again about the coffee table in the authors’ den. Should she tell the clients about it? No, that would be stupid. After all, who was she to give decorating advice? And what was she basing it on—a “feeling”? She wanted to see what the offices would look like once they moved in their desks and other stuff, though. Imagined them vigorously typing away on laptops or typewriters. Thought it would be neat to know that they were using and enjoying these rooms thanks in part to her, even though Harvey did the bulk of the work, simply because he was faster and more efficient. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad job if she could make a difference. She’d rarely, if ever, felt as if she impacted her customers’ lives. She’d sold underwear. Big deal. What did that do, other than turn on their boyfriends or girlfriends? Only once, when a customer came in following a mastectomy and reconstruction surgery and asked for the sexiest bra-and-panty sets in the store. Skye sent her home with her favorite lacy demi-bras and matching bikinis, one in elegant black and the other in seductive red, and the woman hugged her as she left the store, both of them in tears.
Skye had been in a deep sleep when her phone, resting just above her head, jolted her into a sitting position, annoying Chip, who let out a hiss.
It was Julie.
Skye looked at the clock—she’d been asleep for almost as many hours as she’d worked. It was about eight o’clock in Rhode Island.
“Hey,” said Skye, groggy.
“Hey, girl!” said Julie, oblivious. “How’s life in cowboy country?”
“OK, I guess.” It occurred to her that she had yet to see someone in a cowboy hat or boots, although she saw pickup trucks everywhere she went.
“How did it go with the painting job?” Skye had told Julie all about Harvey and her new employment.
“Fine. I mean, it’s a job. It’s painting. Hopefully it’ll lead to bigger and better things.” She knew she was sounding nonchalant, ungrateful, dismissive. But for some reason she needed to keep quiet about her bigger plans, even her best friend. Like if she said anything, it might not happen. She remembered her former college roommate, Sabrina, who spent her downtime knitting. Skye once asked her what she was making, and Sabrina was quite evasive. If you keep opening the oven door, the cookies never get baked, she’d said. You’ll see it when it’s ready to be born. Or baked. Maybe this was what she had meant.
“OK. So tell me all about Mr. Marvelous!”
“Who?”
“This Harvey guy. Is he cute? Rugged? He’s certainly been good to you.”
“Oh.” Odd that Skye hadn’t immediately made the connection. A wad of tension balled up in her abdomen. “Yes, he’s been a really good friend so far. He’s nice, I guess.”
“What does he look like?”
“Imagine Tony Stark wearing flannel. And no goatee.”
Julie squealed, “Oooooo, lucky you!”
“Jules, don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t go there. I’m still missing Vance. I can’t even look at another guy that way, much less think about one.”
“Skye, you have to move on. How do you know some cosmic force didn’t bring this guy into your life on purpose?”
“Because I have no such luck.”
She huffed. “OK, fine. Tell me about Billings.”
Skye fought off a yawn. “Billings is very different from Warwick.”
“How so?”
“Well . . . you should see the sky, for one thing. It just goes on and on. And the rimrocks,” she added after a beat.
“The what?”
“This big wall of—never mind. It’s just different.”
“How are the people?” asked Julie.
She realized that aside from Harvey and cashiers and customer service people at the car rental, she barely interacted with anyone, and that depressed her even more. She liked to be around people, generally speaking. One reason she’d been able to stay at Top Drawer for so long. “They’re nice enough, I guess. I haven’t met many.” She changed the subject. “I’m so dying for a coffee milk, though.”
“No sir,” said Julie. No sir (pronounced suhhh) was Rhode Island slang for no kidding or no way! and Skye lapped it up. “I’ll have to send you a care package. Hey, everyone here misses you. Your sister asked me if I’d heard from you. How come you haven’t checked in with her or your parents?”
Skye’s heart panged with longing. She didn’t think anyone would even notice she was gone. She swallowed hard, shoving tears into her throat. Felt like she was exiled, imprisoned, sent to live on another planet with no way home. She repeatedly stroked Chip, happy she hadn’t left him behind too.
“I just can’t face them yet,” she said.
“You’re your own worst enemy, you know that?” said Julie.
The comment took Skye aback. It wasn’t her fault her parents made her feel less-than with every comparison to Summer. Nor was it her fault that Summer soaked every bit of it up and acted like she was better than Skye and everyone else—not even acted. She was better, dammit. Damn well near perfect.
“Gee, thanks, Jules.” Julie started to apologize, but Skye cut her off. “I have to go scrounge for dinner. Talk to you tomorrow.”
She knew she’d just hurt Julie by blowing her off so quickly. But Julie had hurt her too.
Then again, maybe Skye was so hurt because Julie was right. She knew all Julie’s secrets. Julie knew just about all of Skye’s. But Julie, despite her own love-life struggles, at least had a bit of job security as an insurance agent. Julie had had more boyfriends than Skye. She also had a house. And a newer car. And a trimmer figure. Maybe Skye was afraid that, like Summer, Julie had bested her at life, or that Skye had lost a long time ago. And that was no one’s fault but her own.