CHAPTER SEVEN
Harvey and Skye walked down to the end of the street, where a boxy, ocean-blue Toyota FJ Cruiser was parked. He opened the passenger door for her, brushed the seat off, and she climbed in, meeting the smell of paint fumes. Harvey started the car, turned off the classic rock that assaulted their ears, and drove Skye back to the airport to check on her missing luggage first. The airport wasn’t far—“just on top of the rimrocks,” according to him—and they made conversation along the way.
“So why did you get into painting, aside from the relaxation part of it?” she asked. The small talk was paying off in that she’d calmed down quite a bit. She needed a level head to figure out what to do next.
“I was burned out in my other job.”
“Pharmaceutical sales, right?” she asked, recalling their conversation on the plane.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s how I know Vance. He tried to steal my clients, undermine me at meetings, one-up me every chance he could get. At least half my misery was caused by him. And then, after he stole my wife, all of it.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, as if she’d been partly responsible. As if she were the one who had brought Vance into his life. Or, at the very least, brought Vance back. She was still raw from her morning confrontation—his complete lack of empathy, the ice in his eyes—and shivered.
“I had a lot socked away in savings and investments, however, and despite paying alimony and divorce lawyers, I was able to walk away and take the risk of starting a business that was a little more personal.”
“Do you get a lot of work?” she asked.
“Enough. Sometimes I go from house to house and do a room here, a room there, or something like a piece of furniture. Other days I’m doing entire levels, basements, garages, you name it. I’ve only been at it for about a year. I’ll probably be closer to thirty this year. Maybe even more.”
“Thirty thousand?” Skye blurted. How did one live on thirty thousand dollars per year?
“You sound like my ex-wife.” He said the words with a half-smile, but Skye could still feel a nip. “Sure, the six-figure salary from pharmaceuticals was great. But the ulcers the job gave me weren’t, nor were the hours, the soul-selling, the blatant politics, and the fights I got into with my ex on a weekly basis because I was so miserable.”
“I just . . . I don’t know, for that kind of money, I would have put up with it,” said Skye.
“Easy to say when you’re on the outside.”
She frowned. “I’d say it no matter what. I’ve never made more than forty-eight thousand a year.”
“That’s a good salary,” he argued.
“For here, maybe, but not in Rhode Island. Not when you’re on your feet all day and putting up with customers’ nonsense and part-time staff earning minimum wage calling in sick or quitting on you with no notice. Not when decent two-bedroom apartments go for twelve to fifteen hundred dollars a month, and that’s after a first, last, and security. Not to mention gas and car insurance and taxes and all that stuff. A six-figure salary? I’d put up with abusive coworkers, marathon hours, whatever it took, as long as I could come home to a beautiful house in a nice neighborhood in a car I didn’t buy off someone from Craigslist after scraping the last of my savings.”
“I get that,” said Harvey. “But I’m telling you, more money means more headaches. I’ve got college funds, the kids’ expenses, and insurance up the yin-yang, and that’s on my current salary. When I was still married, sure, we had a nice house, but we also had a mortgage, property taxes, maintenance fees, utility bills, repairs—and with a house, you’re always repairing or replacing something. My job required a lot of travel, so I needed a good car, not to mention something high class since we’re in sales and need to impress, good business suits, a top-of-the-line laptop and tablet, and first class if we flew anywhere. The company refused to let us fly coach. Crazy. We at least got travel expenses reimbursed, but still. Total waste.”
“Sure,” she said, “first class must be awful.” She rolled her eyes. “I can see why you quit.”
She’d gone too far with that last remark, she realized, when Harvey clamped his lips and rolled his eyes. He said nothing until they reached the top of the hill and circled a roundabout.
“We’re here,” he said.
“I appreciate your picking me up and giving me a ride here,” she said. “Really, I do. And I’m sorry for what I said.”
“It’s fine,” he said, although she wasn’t convinced of his sincerity. “Are you going to rent a car too?” he asked.
“I guess I should,” she said. “At least until I can make a new plan of action. I think I’m going to try to make a go of it here. I mean, I came all this way, didn’t I? Seems like a complete waste to turn around and go home. Besides, what would be better revenge against Vance than my staying here?”
“That’s the spirit,” said Harvey. He seemed friendly again. “Well, in that case, I’ll get going, unless there’s a reason you need me to stay.”
“No, I’m good,” she said. “Thank you, again. I really needed a friend this morning.”
“Well, you’ve got one in Billings now,” he said. She took in the words like hot chocolate, could actually feel them coating her insides, soothing and warming them. Vance’s sweet nothings had always felt like firecrackers shooting off inside her. She’d gotten high off the intensity. Had he ever comforted her, though, the way Harvey just had—with a simple act of hospitality? At the moment, she couldn’t recall any instance in which he had. But why compare the two? Vance had been her lover, or so she’d thought. Harvey was just . . . well, a friend, she guessed.
Skye entered the airport—it was a fraction of the size of TF Green and especially Minneapolis—where her two suitcases were waiting for her as if she’d left them behind rather than their being misrouted. They contained what she’d saved of her spring and summer wardrobe, shoes, cosmetics, blow dryer, and other such sundries. She was suddenly grateful that the luggage hadn’t arrived on time, imagining herself trying to lug two large suitcases, a carry-on, her purse, and Chip in his carrier, all by herself. The rest of her life was en route via moving truck and was scheduled to arrive the day after tomorrow. She rented a car for one week—groaned when she saw the total dollar amount, but figured it would be easier to have a car for her employment search rather than rely on public transportation or Uber drivers or cabs, which was also costly. She hoped she’d find something soon; staying at the Best Western long-term wasn’t feasible either.
Next, she found a supermarket—Albertsons—and stocked up on food and pet bowls and a disposable litter box for Chip and microwavable meals and soft drinks for herself. When she came back to the hotel, Chip practically howled, as if to say, How could you leave me here?! Skye scooped him up and carried him to the bed, apologizing profusely. She knew the feeling. She wanted to howl the same question to Vance. Cradling the tabby, she rocked him and pet him under his chin and spoke softly to him until he was content and wriggled out of her arms to the plastic sack of food. She took out one of the snack pouches and dumped a few of the nibbles on the bed. And while he occupied himself, Skye leaned back and fought tears. She wished someone would do the same for her—cradle her in his arms, stroke her hair, and tell her everything was going to be OK.
Maybe she was crazy to stay in Billings. She’d certainly been crazy to leave Warwick. She realized that now. Or maybe, just maybe, it would have been crazier to stay in a job that didn’t please her and in the shadow of a sister who could do no wrong. Maybe it was time to stake her claim.
She had to start somewhere.