Chapter Five
Melissa
Sweat drips down his forehead as he screws the last board into place. Every instinct I have says to go out there, take him some water or something, but I’m not going to do it. For one, the man is certainly unstable, if not outright insane. I mean, he tore out my steps and rebuilt them without saying a word, like he owned the place. Who does that?
I have too much on my mind right now to deal with a man who jumps from being a massive dick to doing nice things and back again like the flip of a switch. It’s the mistake I always make, being drawn in by assholes, but I can’t keep repeating that cycle. It’s not just me anymore. I have another little life to protect.
That doesn’t keep me from enjoying the view from my front window though. It’s a little pathetic, but I watch through a tiny gap in the blinds as he cleans up after he’s finished and gathers up his tools to take home. As if he can feel my gaze on him, he looks right at me, and I drop the blind slat, stepping back with a startled squeak.
Did he see me? Why do I really care? I can look out my own damned window if I want to. Woody dances around my feet, then dives into my lap when I sit on the couch. He may be hyper, but he’s also very loveable, and I could use a cuddle about now.
“Things are going to be hard, Woody. I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m so afraid,” I murmur against his fur. He looks up at me and licks my cheek as if he understands. Maybe he does.
My phone dings with an email alert, and I feel a little of my stress fade as I read the message from the local gallery owner. They want me to come in with some of my new work, so we can discuss working together. I waste no time replying and they get right back to me with an appointment for the next day.
“Well, Woody,” I grin, getting to my feet. “It looks like something is going to go right today. Let’s go decide what to take with me tomorrow.” Yeah, I need to make some friends. I’m talking to a dog like he may actually answer me.
Woody follows me to my art studio, pausing at the door since I usually don’t let him in. “One scratch or tooth mark on my canvases, and you’ll never be in here again,” I warn, before gazing around at my work.
I have been really busy. After all the time that I couldn’t express myself, not out loud or through my art, it’s all come pouring out of me. I want to choose three to take with me that showcase my different abilities. I choose a watercolor of the lake at dusk, and an oil painting of a hummingbird that always visits the feeder on my back deck.
My gaze lands on the portrait of Jeremy. It’s good, but for some reason, it feels private. The pain and humiliation that live within the paint strokes belong to me, but the agony on his face is all his. If it were anyone else, I’d ask them how they’d feel about such a painting being publicly displayed, but I have no desire to talk to him.
Screw it, this is the best work I’ve done in years. I’m taking it. I’ll just let them know it isn’t for sale yet. I wrap the paintings and get them ready to go before heading to the kitchen to make myself some dinner.
A big dinner. The sick feeling has passed, and now I’m starving. My palm caresses my stomach. “I hear you little one. How about a big, fat, frozen pizza?”
Somehow talking to my unborn baby doesn’t feel as crazy as talking to my dog. I feel a little lonely for the first time since Agnes left. I still talk to her often, and I’m happy she’s found someone. I couldn’t resist teasing her about shacking up when she told me she was moving to Florida with Amos.
After dinner, I only make it through a few minutes of television before my eyes start falling shut. I swear, all I want to do is eat and sleep. Woody follows me to the bedroom and curls up at my feet as usual. My last thought before I drift off is Jeremy and what possessed him to fix my steps.
The man is an enigma.
#
I wake feeling energized and ready to get on with the day. After a shower, I take a moment to stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hands wander over my belly that’s now beginning to curve out. Not so much that it would be noticeable to most people, but enough to make my jeans slightly uncomfortable. Maybe I’ll go shopping for some maternity clothes after my meeting with the gallery.
The weather has turned windy and raw, so I choose a warm sweater and comfortable pants. I pop the hatch on my car, stack the three paintings on the porch, and turn to lock the door. I’ve just put the first painting into the car when I turn and slam into a warm chest.
My heart rate triples, and I step back to see Jeremy frowning down at me. “I’ll get them.”
“You scared the tits off me! What are you doing, lurking out here?”
He doesn’t bother to answer until he’s loaded both of the other canvases into my car.
“I was just taking my trash out.” With that, he stalks off, back to his house.
The dude really might be unhinged. Every second he’s in my presence, he seems desperate to get away, as if being near me is torture, but then he does something nice like load my car.
The Lindon Way Art Gallery is housed in a moderate sized building downtown. Nerves set in when I park in their back lot, and I have to chuckle at myself. This was the world I lived in through most of my childhood. I was more comfortable among gallery owners and artists than I was with other teenagers at the time. I grew up with this. The only time I used to be a mass of nerves was during my shows. It’s been a long time with too much isolation, and I just need to pull the bandage off quickly.
A young man sits behind a small desk just inside the doors and barely glances up as he asks, “How can I help you?”
“I have an appointment with Penelope Vindel.”
“Miss Sanders.” A loud, cheerful voice calls. It’s connected to a tall, willowy woman who must be in her sixties. Her silver streaked hair is pulled back into a severe bun, and her lips thin to near nothing as she smiles at me. “I’ve been expecting you. Thank you so much for coming.”
“Hi, please call me Melissa.”
“And I’m Penelope. I can’t tell you how happy I am you’re considering displaying your work in the Lindon Gallery. It’s created quite a buzz around here.”
“Thank you for giving me the opportunity.” I glance around at the work on display. “Are you featuring Impressionist paintings?”
Penelope flashes her incredibly white teeth. “Yes, these were done by J. Kollan. Are you familiar with him?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve been away for a while, and I’m a little out of touch.”
The questions she knows not to ask blink across her forehead. They’re questions I know I’ll have to face, but I have no idea what I’ll say when the time comes. It’s fortunate that artists, by reputation, are often antisocial or even reclusive so it’s often overlooked. But a prodigy who just disappears for nearly four years is bound to raise some eyebrows and set curious tongues wagging.
“No matter! Did you bring some work with you today?”
She leads me back to a comfortable lounge, and I take a seat on a small sofa. “Yes, it’s in my car.”
“Parked in the back lot?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She picks up the phone on the end table and presses a button. “Finn, please bring in the paintings from Ms. Sanders car. We’re in the lounge.”
Penelope and I chat about my work and what I plan to create over the next few months. Of course, some of that is hard to know. I don’t know what will draw my eye and pull me to the canvas.
“Do you have a theme for your next exhibition?” I ask. Who knows if my work will even fit in her planned shows?
“We’re featuring abstract next month.”
“I’m afraid I don’t paint abstracts.”
Smiling at me, she nods. “We’re hoping to feature your work in January, as a separate exhibition. If it’s agreeable to you, we’d like to feature between eight and fifteen paintings.”
Wow. I used to have this kind of clout before, but I honestly thought I’d been forgotten. I expected her to pick one or maybe two pieces to display. That I might possibly sell a couple and feel like I’m really back to work was all I was hoping for. I didn’t expect my own exhibition.
“Fifteen may be out of my reach,” I confess. “I’ve been painting, but not to that extent.”
“No problem. We’ll have a look and decide together what will work.”
The young man from the front desk walks in, carrying my canvasses, and leans them against the wall. “Anything else, Ms. Vindel?”
“No, thank you, Finn.”
Penelope studies the hummingbird painting, then moves on to the lake scene. Her face remains inscrutable until she gets to the painting of Jeremy. I have to admit, with the natural light striking it from the skylight, it’s intense.
“This one. It’s very different from your other work,” she murmurs. “Both from your early days and now.”
I can’t tell if it’s criticism or what, so I remain silent as she studies it at length. “The emotion leaps and grabs you by the throat, but I can’t nail down what he’s feeling. Sadness, certainly, and anger, but there’s a wistful, lost element as well.”
Her gaze meets mine. “This is extraordinary. Your others are fantastic as well, and I’d be happy to feature them, but this, this is the spotlight. Do you have a title?”
“Mistake.” The word tumbles out before I can second guess myself.
“Perfect.”
My feet barely touch the ground when I leave the Lindon Gallery an hour later, three paintings lighter, my mind filled with plans for my next projects. I’ve been on my own for a few months now, living in my own place, making my own decisions, but this is the first time I’ve started to feel a tiny bit like the old me. I’ll never be the girl I was before True Life, but I can be a better version, for myself and my baby.
I’m still learning my way around town, so I use my navigator to point me toward a store with maternity clothes. It turns out to be a place called Mom and Baby Wear. I had no plans to buy anything for the baby yet, but who can resist the adorable little outfits and stuffed animals?
My impulse is to buy the whole damn place, when I don’t even have the nursery started yet, but I restrain myself and settle for starting a registry. I don’t have any friends other than Agnes, and she’s in Florida, so I’m only doing it to keep track of what I want when the appropriate time comes.
They give me a little scanner gun, and it makes it so real, choosing a crib and furniture, décor, and supplies. I don’t know the sex, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not a fan of pastels, and the bright blue and white color scheme will work equally well for either gender. Once I have everything on the registry, I choose a few pairs of maternity pants, each a little larger than the last. My shirts still fit fine, and I can probably find some large sweaters that I like better online, so I forgo those for the moment.
The only item other than the clothes that I actually leave with is a little moon shaped lamp. It was just too cute to pass up.
Right next to the Mom and Baby store is a donut shop, and if that isn’t a perfect place for such a business, I don’t know what is. The smell wafts over to me and the decision is made. The baby wants donuts.
So, maybe the baby doesn’t need two dozen donuts, but they all looked so good I couldn’t pass them up. When another lady with a protruding belly walks in, accompanied by a man, she looks at the bag in my hand, and we both chuckle. Yeah, great place for a donut shop.
While the girl behind the counter boxes up my donuts, I watch the couple. The man dotes on her, having her sit and making sure she’s comfortable. It sends a wave of sadness over me. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Two people united in their joy over a new life.
Maybe it’s the hormones, but self-pity sinks in. I’m missing out on that experience. There’s no one who loves me to help me tie my shoes when I get too big to bend over, no one to send out for tacos and ice cream in the middle of the night when I’m overcome with a craving, no one to hold my hand and tell me everything will be okay.
All those special moments to come; the first time I feel a kick, finding out the gender, and seeing my baby for the first time will all be spent alone.
Stepping out into the sunshine, I try to shake off the gloomy feeling. After all, today has been a good day, and I’m far more fortunate than most. Like my sister, who is still under their control with no desire to be anywhere else.
When I pull into my drive, Jeremy is sitting on his porch, and I make a sudden decision to take him some of the donuts, since I really did go way over the top. After all, he did fix my stairs, even though he was weird about the way he went about it. I don’t have a problem with strange people. They’re often the most interesting. As long as he doesn’t pull that drunk asshole act again, I can deal with him.
I pop the hatch on my car and pull out the bags of maternity clothes. When I turn around, he’s standing beside me again. I’m going to get the man a damned bell. “Would you stop sneaking up on me before you give me a stroke!”
“You can’t give someone a stroke.” His gaze falls on the Mom and Baby bag, and he takes it from me. “I’ve got it.”
“Thanks, but I can manage.”
His lips press together, but he doesn’t reply, just carries the bag to my door and waits on me. “You shouldn’t be lifting anything while you’re pregnant.” Damn, am I big enough he can tell? I have to laugh at myself. I’m carrying a bag from a maternity and infant shop. Not hard to figure out.
I dig my keys out of my pocket. “Yes, I’m aware. That’s why I wasn’t out here bench lifting. It’s a five-pound bag.”
He hands me the bag, and I set it just inside the door. Woody streaks out onto the porch, yapping and licking me as if I’ve been gone a month instead of a few hours. I fasten him onto the lead that’s tied to a tree in the front yard, so he can relieve himself and stay out from under our feet.
Jeremy starts back toward his place without a see you later or kiss my ass or anything. Talk about mood swings. My shower can’t go from hot to cold that quickly.
“I have donuts!” I call, once again showing off my stellar social skills.
He turns, and I swear for just a split second, his lip tilts up. Almost a smile. I lean in my car and pull out the top box of donuts. “My eyes were a little bigger than my stomach, and I got too many.”
He takes the box and opens it, stuffing a glazed ring in his mouth like a starving child, and a giggle spills out of me.
“Thanks,” he says, but his gaze is pointed behind me. “Your gutter is clogged. The water is running down the wall. It could cause water damage or flood your basement. I’ll clean them out tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to. I can hire someone.”
He shrugs. “Got nothing better to do.”
Okay then.
“Thank you. Maybe I can make you dinner in exchange,” I offer, trying to extend a delicate branch of friendship.
Swallowing the donut, he shakes his head and snaps that branch in half. “Not necessary.”
He turns and heads back to his house, leaving me standing in his yard wondering what the hell it is about this sullen, rude man that has me so fascinated.
Maybe I’m just a masochist.