She flicked on the overhead bulb and gazed around at the workroom—the paint-encrusted ladder, the ancient cans and brushes. Even through the dirty plastic that protected it all, she could make out thick dabs of vermilion, splashes of pulsating green, curls of electric blue, and great sweeps of acid yellow. On the drop cloth that covered the floor, tacks and cigarette butts, a lid from a can of paint, other objects that weren’t as recognizable had become encapsulated like beetles fossilized in amber.
Paint was everywhere, but the painting was nowhere. And the man who lived in Frenchman’s Bride wouldn’t leave her thoughts. She struggled to hold back her despair.
“When are you going to end this folly?”
G
EORGETTE
H
EYER
,
These Old Shades
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The apartment above Yesterday’s Treasures was cramped and dingy, filled with furniture that either hadn’t sold or hadn’t yet made its way downstairs. The living area had an exposed brick wall, two tall windows that looked down over the main street, and a sleeper sofa. A plastic shower stall occupied the corner of the old-fashioned bathroom, while the kitchen nook offered up an ancient refrigerator, a modern microwave, and an apartment-size harvest gold gas stove from the 1970s. The apartment couldn’t have been more different from Winnie’s house, and although she wasn’t exactly happy here, she wasn’t entirely unhappy, either.
She carried a cup of Sleepytime tea to the French café table she’d pulled from the display window so she’d have a place to eat, and gazed down on the dark, empty street below. It was nearly eleven, and the stores had closed long ago. The red neon sign for Covner’s Dry Cleaning blinked in the light drizzle that had begun to fall, and a passing headlight reflected off the window of Jewel’s bookstore. Winnie was thirty-two years old and living alone for the first time. Not that she’d been alone for long. It was only her second night.
“This is so dumb!” Gigi had exclaimed when she’d stormed into the shop after school today. “Last night Dad made me do everything. I had to clean up the kitchen after we had pizza, and then I had to take the garbage cans out. He didn’t even help; he just went in the study and shut the door. When are you coming home?”
Winnie had been so taken aback by Gigi’s black outfit and eye makeup that she hadn’t responded right away. Her baby! As much as Winnie had yearned to see the end of her baggy Salvation Army clothes, she hadn’t expected this. What would be next? Tattoos and tongue piercing?
She took a sip of tea. Not even the Seawillows knew she’d moved out, although Donna Grimley, the woman Winnie had hired as her new assistant, was getting suspicious.
On the street below, the traffic light flashed red, and the lone figure of a man came around the corner. He was tall, broad-shouldered, jacket collar turned up against the drizzle. It was Ryan, and her pulses quickened just as they used to when she was a girl. She felt a rush of sexual awareness she hadn’t experienced in a long time and rose from the table so she could get closer to the window.
His steps slowed at the curb. He saw her looking down at him and tilted his head back to gaze up at her. She rested her cheek against the dirty glass and pressed the warm cup of tea between her breasts.
He made a sharp, upward gesture with his thumb. Open the door, damn it, and let me in.
Her breath made a cloudy circle on the window. Once, she would have drawn his initials inside that circle. Now, she pulled back just far enough to shake her head.
His anger spiraled up at her, the anger of an ill-used husband saddled with an ungrateful, hysterical wife. He made another jab with that furious thumb.
She shook her head again. At home, a spare key hung on the rack. Either he’d never noticed or it hadn’t occurred to him he’d need it. Rain glistened in his hair, and his posture grew rigid. He stalked away, his angry strides devouring the wet pavement.
Long after she’d lost sight of him, she continued to stand at the window, cradling her teacup and waiting for the tears to come.
They didn’t.
Sugar Beth overslept the next morning. Cubby and his cronies had shown up again last night—two nights in a row—and kept her awake with their hooting.
“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar . . .”
She hurried to dress, and when she arrived at Frenchman’s Bride, she found a note from Colin saying he had business in Memphis and wouldn’t be back until evening. At the end, he’d written, I’ve made a dinner reservation for us tonight at the Parrish Inn. I’ll pick you up at seven.
Of all the dimwitted notions . . . He had a death wish. Why else would he want to do something so lamebrained? It was one thing for her to work for him—people liked that—but quite another for them to be seen together socially. She’d be leaving Parrish soon, but he’d planted roots here. And no matter how famous he’d become, he was still an outsider. If people realized he’d stopped dedicating himself to making her miserable, he’d lose all their hard-won respect.
She rose and tossed the note in the kitchen trash where it belonged, then gazed down at Gordon who’d just finished his breakfast. “I’ve been doing a con job on myself, haven’t I? Nothing about this affair is going to work.”
He paused in his postmeal stretch to give her his I-told-you-so look.
She grabbed a sponge and attacked the counter. Colin would refuse to sneak around like any sensible person. From his permanent mount on that moral high horse, he’d view the concept of seeing her only for sex as sordid. But who said sordid was always a bad thing? Sometimes sordid was simply practical.
She worked feverishly all day—stocking up on his groceries, cleaning out the refrigerator, straightening the closets. As she went into his office to sort through the household mail, she wished she’d told him yesterday that she’d taken a job with Jewel.
She also wished she’d been able to find a manuscript of Reflections. When she’d asked him if she could read it, he’d told her he didn’t have a fresh copy. She’d said any old copy would do, but he’d put her off until she’d finally told him straight out that attacking Diddie after she was dead wasn’t her idea of fair play. He’d ignored her, and all her snooping since then hadn’t unearthed the manuscript, not even in his computer files. She spotted a printout of the first few chapters of his new book sitting on top of his desk. The red ink staining the pages reminded her of her senior year when that same critical handwriting had streaked the margins of every paper she’d written for him.
She returned to the kitchen and began making casseroles to freeze, just like all the other smitten single ladies in Parrish had done. Finally, she couldn’t postpone it any longer, and she punched in the number of his cell phone.
“Frances Elizabeth here,” she said when he answered.
“I did not know that was your name.”
“Tell it to your shrink.” She settled next to Gordon on the sunroom couch. “Where are you?”
“Almost home. How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Why?”
“Your cramps?”
“Uh . . . all gone.”
But he’d heard the hesitation, and he was smarter than the average bear. “You lied to me! You didn’t have cramps at all. I won’t have it, do you hear me?” He sounded deliciously pompous and decidedly miffed.
“Sorry,” she said, “I was tired last night, and I didn’t want to bruise your ego by rejecting you. Men can be so sensitive. And don’t forget that I have a long history of taking the easy way out.”
“Why am I becoming increasingly apprehensive about this phone call?”
It was hard to put one over on Yogi Bear. “As a matter of fact, I do have a little news to share. But it’s good news so don’t worry. You might even want to pull over to the side of the road so you can do a happy dance.” She stroked Gordon’s fur, not feeling much like doing a happy dance herself. “As of tomorrow morning, I’m not working for you.”