Once Jamie is gone, I lock the door, including the dead bolt and the chain, and begin a systematic search of my apartment. I hate to think I’m becoming paranoid, but he’s gotten in before. Once, I came home from a late night in the studio to find Charlie locked in the bathroom and Todd naked in my bed, waiting for me. I honestly don’t think he’s here this time, though. If he was, Charlie wouldn’t be following me around the apartment so calmly. He’d be hiding. He and Todd hate each other.
The first time Todd came to my apartment – before I obtained a restraining order – Charlie made it abundantly clear that he didn’t like my ex-husband. Charlie arched his back, his hair rising on end, and hissed at Todd like a tiny, four-legged avenger. Charlie’s my little protector. I’m surprised he took so readily to Jamie. Charlie’s usually a bit cautious when it comes to meeting new people, but he took to Jamie like the man was a giant kitty treat on two legs. Animals are supposedly good judges of character. I sure hope that’s true.
I have a system for searching my apartment. First, I check the small coat closet in the living room. Then I make a quick search of both bedrooms, including the closets and under the beds, then the bathroom, sweeping aside the shower curtain to peer behind it. I shudder at the thought of someone hiding in my shower – that’s just way too Psycho for me.
Once I’m assured that I have no unwanted visitors, I return to the kitchen to put away my groceries. Charlie hops up onto the kitchen counter and bawls at me in the hope I’ll give him a kitty treat. He’s such a pig.
“All right, just one,” I tell him, reaching into the cupboard for the packet of soft cat treats. “But get off the counter first.” I hold the treat near the floor and he jumps down to claim his prize. Then I pat him on the head and scratch behind his ears. “Be a good boy while I go back to work. I’ll see you at dinner time.”
On my way out, I stop to pay a visit to my elderly downstairs neighbor. I knock, and she opens her door dressed in a floral housecoat and pink slippers.
“Hi, Mrs. Powell.”
She smiles at me. “Oh! Hello, dear. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Mrs. Powell qualifies as a sweet little old lady. The problem is, she’s too sweet, and far too trusting. She’d give a stranger the shirt off her back, or the last dime in her pocket, and she’ll let anyone into the building who asks nicely.
“Mrs. Powell, did you let someone into the building this morning? Someone who doesn’t live here?”
She purses her soft, wrinkled lips for a moment, looking a bit confused. Then she smiles. “Oh, yes, that nice young man of yours. Your husband. I let him in. He buzzed my apartment, said he forgot his key.”
Inwardly, I roll my eyes. But I really can’t blame Mrs. Powell. Todd is a master manipulator. “He’s my ex-husband, Mrs. Powell, not my husband. And he’s not supposed to be in this building. I have a restraining order against him. He’s not allowed to be here, okay? If he asks again, please don’t let him in. All right?”
She smiles at me, a multitude of tiny crow’s feet crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Why would you want to divorce him, honey? He’s quite the looker.” She chuckles. “If you don’t want him, I’ll take him.”
Trust me, you don’t want him. “Please, Mrs. Powell, promise me you won’t let him in the building anymore.”
“All right,” she agrees. “But it’s a shame, if you ask me. A nice young lady like yourself needs a husband.”
* * *
I pass the tattoo parlor where Chloe works and wave at her through the storefront windows filled with drawings of some of the tattoos they offer. She waves back as she rings up a customer.
It’s just another block to my studio. As I pass an alleyway between two blocks, I glance down the long, narrow corridor out of habit. Todd’s definitely making me paranoid. I was never like this before. I never felt the need to peer into dark corners or watch my back.
When I reach my studio, I unlock the door and step inside, flipping the “Out to lunch” sign over so it says “Open!”
The front half of the shop smells faintly like acrylic paint, varnish, and lilacs, thanks to the numerous glass vases of freshly cut lilacs decorating the front room. Lilacs are my favorite flower, and I love how the pale purple flowers look against the stark white walls of my gallery.
The front room is my showroom, where I display completed paintings for sale, postcards, maps, and posters. The wood floors are original to the building and burnished a deep, warm whiskey color from years of use. The wall to the right is exposed red brick, and the two other walls are painted white. The front is all glass, which lets in lots of natural light. The high ceilings make the space feel larger than it really is, and the pipes and ductwork that run along the ceiling are painted a matte black, giving the place an urban, industrial feel.
Paintings of all sizes, from tiny postcard size up to large wall paintings, are displayed throughout the gallery, hanging on the walls, and propped up on shelves and display counters and little tables. I paint abstract landscapes, so there are lots of blues and teals suggesting bodies of water, the greens of foliage and grasses, and lots of browns and ochre and creams depicting rock formations and sandy beaches. My inspiration comes from Lake Michigan, and nearly all of my paintings depict some aspect of the lake. During the warm months, I spend hours combing the shoreline, collecting bits of sea glass and staring out across the vast expanse of water.
I head through a curtained doorway to the rear half of the shop, which is where I paint. While the front half is kept neat and tidy for the benefit of customers, the back half is my private workspace, and it’s anything but neat. Table after table is filled with various canvases propped up on easels, big and small, all in various stages of production, from initial pencil sketches to partially-painted canvases to varnished paintings that are ready to go. There are glass jars filled with brushes of all sorts and sizes, jars of water for cleaning, and lots of wooden palettes for mixing paints. Large wooden tripods lining the walls hold the larger canvases.
I have a mini fridge back here, a microwave, a well-worn brown sofa that doubles as a comfy bed on the nights I stay too late to walk home, and a tiny, bare-bones bathroom with a shower. All the comforts of home.
I check on the commissioned painting that’s going home soon to its new owner’s dentistry office. He’s scheduled to stop by any minute for a final inspection and to pay the balance of his bill. I grab a cold drink from the fridge and sit down to wait.
At just a few minutes before two, the jingle of the little bell hanging over the front door announces the arrival of a visitor. I head to the front of the studio to greet my client.
As I pass through the curtained doorway, I halt mid-step to stare at the man standing just inside the shop. “You’re not supposed to be in here,” I say, swallowing hard. My heart starts pounding, but I take a deep breath and force myself to remain calm.
“It’s a free country, Molly,” Todd says, a snide smile on his face as he ambles into the gallery.
“Not for you, it isn’t. In case you’ve forgotten, I have this little thing called a restraining order. If I call the police, you’ll be arrested.” I sigh, tired of this game of cat-and-mouse he insists on playing. “Just go, Todd, please. I’m expecting a client any minute. I don’t have time for this.”
He saunters toward me. Dressed in a tailor-made, navy suit, white shirt, and cobalt blue tie, with his blond hair brushed back, he looks perfectly respectable, but I know firsthand that looks can be deceiving. He didn’t look quite so respectable when he was shoving his cock into his assistant’s vagina on my living room sofa. I still can’t get the image of his pale white butt bobbing up and down out of my head.
I’d put up with a lot from Todd over the last couple of years we were married, but I drew the line at infidelity.
“Molly,” he says, his voice low and deceptively smooth. He’s using his courtroom voice on me, as if I’m a member of a jury he’s trying to convince of something. He reaches out to tuck my wayward brown hair behind my ear. It used to be an affectionate gesture on his part, but now it just feels threatening.
I flinch and step out of his reach. “Todd, just go. Please.”
He gives me his winning courtroom smile. “Molly, baby, please don’t be like that. I just want to see you.”
I hate when he calls me baby. It’s so passive-aggressive coming from him. I shake my head. “Well, I don’t want to see you, so go.” I have to bite my tongue to keep from adding “please.” I’m tired of playing nice with him.
His smile fades. “Look, you know Mindy and I are through. She’s out of the picture, gone for good. I admit I made a mistake. Now I just want you to come home. Let’s put all the unpleasantness behind us and pick up where we left off.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Where we left off was with you having sex with someone else in our home. No, I don’t want to pick up where we left off. We’re divorced, and I have no intention of coming back. I have a new life now, and I’m happy. So just go, please.”
His expression darkens and a muscle in his jaw starts twitching. I can see his Mr. Nice Guy persona slipping. “You can’t blame me for what happened, Molly. Any man would have done the same in my situation.”
“That’s bullshit! Not all men respond to a wife’s illness and loss by screwing their co-workers. You told me you were okay with my treatment decision. I might have reconsidered if you’d been against it, but you said you supported me. It wasn’t until after the fact that you decided you couldn’t live with the consequences.”
Todd’s gaze drops to my chest, and he scowls. I have to fight not to cross my arms defensively over my chest. From the outside, my body appears the way it always has. But he and I both know my outward appearance is just an illusion. I’m wearing a bra fitted with two prosthetic breast forms. My real chest is flat, with scars that are still healing.
I hate him for making me feel self-conscious, for acting like I’m defective now, less of a woman. I hate him for it, and I hate myself even more for letting him get to me. I have to force myself to keep my arms firmly at my sides, refusing to give in to my insecurities, and I lift my chin. I’m not ashamed of my choices or the way my body looks beneath my clothes. This is me now! And I’m okay with that.
He looks away. “I thought you would have reconstruction.” He makes a vague motion toward my chest. “You know. I just assumed – plastic surgeons can do amazing things with reconstruction, Molly. They look just like the real thing.”
I shake my head. “I never said I was having breast reconstruction surgery. I prefer to go au naturale. I told you that. This is my body now. Like it or not, this is me.”
He shrugs off my statement. “I thought surely you’d reconsider once you saw what you looked like.”
My face burns with humiliation. “What do I look like, Todd?” I say, anger getting the best of me. I can feel my blood pressure skyrocketing. “You tell me, what do I look like?”
Without warning, Todd grabs my arms and hauls me against his chest. I’m disgusted by the feel of his erection digging into my belly.
“Enough of this, Molly,” he growls, gritting his teeth. “Stop being ridiculous! You’re coming back home with me, and that’s that. You’ll have the surgery, and everything will be fine again.”
He leans forward to kiss me, and I struggle to put some space between us.
“Let me go,” I hiss, turning my face away from his. I’ll die before I let this man kiss me again.
The door opens, and in walks my client. I close my eyes in relief as Todd lets go of me and steps back.
“Is this a bad time?” Dr. Hewett says, eyeing Todd and me warily.
I smile at the man. “No, it’s a perfect time. Come, let me show you your painting.”
Ignoring Todd completely, I walk my client to the back room to show him the painting. He’s seen sketches and photos of various stages of the painting in progress, but this is the first time he’s seen the final result in person. I lift the sheet off the four-foot high canvas, trying to hide the fact that my hands are shaking. I can only hope that Todd has left.
“Oh, wow,” the young man breathes as his gaze eats up the painting depicting his favorite Lake Michigan landmark – a spot where the lake washes up against a high cliff wall formed from layers of sedimentary rocks built up over millennia. “This is so much better than I dreamed it would be. Thank you, Molly.”
Absently, he hands me an envelope containing a check for the balance due.
“You’re very welcome,” I say. “I’ll have it delivered and hung in your office by the end of the week.”
He nods, his head bobbing up and down eagerly. “Thank you.” Staring contemplatively at the painting, he presses his hands together as if in prayer. “I was thinking if the painting turned out well, I’d have you do two smaller companion pieces to hang with it.” He looks at me. “That would look nice, wouldn’t it? Can you do that?”
I nod. “Sure. I’d be happy to. It might be a few weeks before I can start on them, though. I’m rather booked up at the moment.”
“That’s all right,” he says, staring at the painting. “I’ll wait.”
After my customer takes his leave, I use my phone to deposit his check into my bank account. Gazing at the updated account balance, I smile. I’m not only making enough to pay the bills, but I have a nice safety net accumulating in my bank account. Finally, after a year on my own, I can breathe a little easier.