THREE
With all the people coming and going through the museum and gift shop, the twelve-hour shift was passing quickly. Summer hours in effect, the museum would stay open until ten. She’d tidy up the counter and be home by eleven. Her boss, Jacob, had made arrangements for her to use the sedan again, and for that she was grateful. It made her nervous walking alone late at night.
Silvercreek was a small, sleepy harbor town until summer. Then the population exploded and, like many places, there were bad streets next to nice areas. Only a few weeks ago, a body was found floating in the harbor, and ever since then, she’d been extra vigilant as she walked the fifteen blocks to and from work, jumping at the smallest sound or crossing the street when a man looked at her in a certain way.
On her way to the break room, Mellie detoured for a much-needed fix. Her favorite painting was by Childe Hassam, a prolific impressionist painter from America, and depicted a woman relaxing on the porch, kicked back on a sofa, reading. Most people were here for the temporary Rodin exhibit, so she had the entire gallery to herself to sit and soak up the scene before her.
Feeling refreshed, she crossed the hallway, where lately another piece had captured her interest: part of a temporary exhibit by Frederick Carl Frieseke, the painting was quickly becoming her new favorite. It was on loan from the North Carolina Museum of Art, and entitled The Garden Parasol. The title alone made her want to sink into the work and swim through the colors.
Every day she passed the piece, never failing to stop and notice some new detail. The artist had spent many summers as a neighbor to Monet, in Giverny, France. By now, Mellie practically knew his bio by heart. The artist had used his wife for this painting, depicting the woman out in the garden reading when she was interrupted by someone, and the look as the woman glanced up from her book always stopped her, made Mellie want to dive inside the painting and take the woman’s place. The reader, of course—no way would she want to be the person who interrupted a reader. She knew all too well what it felt like to be lost in another world only to have someone call her name and rip her out of the story, blinking, taking several minutes to come back to her everyday existence.
The way the artist captured the sunlight and the colors was nothing short of astonishing, while she struggled on a daily basis with her pottery houses. And while painting and pottery were different, the level of mastery, the feelings the work evoked, was something she was afraid she’d never achieve, much like her aunt, whom the family only whispered about.
Why did artists choose the subjects they did? It was fascinating to catch a glimpse into their minds. For instance, in this piece, why did the artist choose to focus on the little moments in the private lives of women, instead of on landscapes, like many of the impressionists? As she pondered the man behind the work, a vibration from her pocket had her looking around, even though she was alone in the gallery and knew no one could’ve possibly heard the sound. The notification on the screen made her blink several times.
It wasn’t possible. There had to be some kind of mistake. One of his frat buddies playing a sick joke, or maybe Greg had his account hacked?
But the more she read and scrolled through the posts and comments, the more her stomach heaved, the hair around her face damp, and Mellie swallowed convulsively as the saliva pooled in her mouth. The man she had been so sure was going to propose tomorrow…had updated his status on his Facebook page.
And the worst thing of all? The page practically shouted he was in a relationship with Melinda Beeler. Not Melissa Evers. There were gushing comments and a string of heart and kissy face emojis from her. To make matters worse, there was a picture of them together on a sailboat out in the harbor, heads thrown back, laughing as the wind whipped their hair in their faces, holding hands and looking very much in love. It was taken earlier today.
Melinda. The horrible witch she and her friends talked about, the one who was infamous for stealing other women’s boyfriends. Melinda was never interested until the guy was taken, and quite frankly, Mellie and her friends couldn’t understand how she’d managed to pull it off so many times. Were guys today so insecure, always looking for the next thing, that they were so easily turned?
Or was it that Mellie and her friends were somehow flawed, making it easier for Melinda to steal their boyfriends? Or maybe the fault was actually with the men? After all, maybe it was something missing within them. They weren’t happy or didn’t get enough attention as a child, so they kept moving on to the next woman who showed them affection and stroked their ego.
Was the A/C on the fritz again? As she fanned herself, Mellie’s fingers shook, the screen blurred, and a drop of liquid hit the glass protector. No, Greg hadn’t been “stolen”— that implied he had no control over what happened, and one thing she knew? It took two.
Honestly, if he’d really loved her, no other woman could have made a play for his affections. There must have been some problem in their relationship he hadn’t shared because she thought they were the perfect couple. A niggling thought crept in, but she swatted it away before it could land, unwilling to think she could have missed something, been blinded all because she liked feeling smug she was in such a great relationship with a wonderful, successful guy. Phooey.
But social media as the breakup medium? What a dirtbag. This was way worse than when her friend Amy had received a breakup via text, though now that Mellie thought about it, maybe not quite as bad as Claire’s last guy. She’d never heard a word; the guy simply ghosted away, ceasing all contact, too much of a coward to tell her it was over. It took her coworker a month of frantic calls, texts, and stalking his social media posts to figure out what had happened.
A strangled sound escaped from deep within as Mellie hunched her shoulders, pulling the smock up over her mouth to muffle the sound. A group of school kids, maybe fifth grade, tromped through the hallway, laughing and talking, glancing at the art but not stopping. A teacher’s voice echoed off the marble as she called to the kids to keep moving to the Rodin exhibit.
A few whispers and snickers followed as Melissa made her way to the restroom. What did they know? Wait until those preteens had to live through the heartbreak and the trials and tribulations of dating. It wasn’t for the faint of heart.
Fast-walking the rest of the way, she locked herself in the stall at the far end and leaned back against the cold metal, the handle digging into her lower back as she put her feet up on the wall, desperately willing herself not to completely melt down, at least not until the last woman in the bathroom left.
The sound of running water echoed off the tiles, then the door opened and there was blessed silence…well, except for the sniffling and tears. Another bad choice. What was wrong with her? Wait until her brothers found out. Mellie cringed picturing the looks of pity and the comments about yet another one she couldn’t reel in. Her parents were happy together, married over thirty years, and still looked at each other with love in their eyes. Theirs was the kind of relationship she yearned for with every fiber of her being.
Even the black sheep of the family, Aunt Jilly, had found love. Four times and counting. One night, when they were all on vacations in the mountains, sitting in front of the fire in their PJs, her mom was a little tipsy and talked about her sister. Afraid to break the spell, Mellie stayed still, eager to hear about the infamous Jilly.
Her mom said her sister had been madly in love with her first husband, and when he died, Aunt Jilly had declared there was only one soul mate in the world for her and he was gone. Though she smiled through her tears, and six months later had said her husband would have wanted her to be happy, so for him she’d try and find happiness. But she still hadn’t found anyone else she deemed her soul mate, so was it true?
Was there only one person for each of us? And if so, had Melissa lost her chance? Or if Greg wasn’t her one and only, who was? How would she find him? What if he were in Australia and here she was in Maryland? Head pounding, she blew her nose again, resting her cheek on the cool metal of the bathroom stall.
Not wanting to risk running into the kids again, she sat there, letting the minutes tick by, grateful that classes were almost over and tomorrow was Sunday, so no antiquing. She could wallow all day. Now she was out a boyfriend and no longer a plus one. Mellie would have to go alone to the big family event, endure the comments and jokes, watch them shake their heads that at the advanced age of twenty-five she was still alone and couldn’t hold on to a man. It was enough to make her want to crawl into a bowl of cookie dough and never come out.