Making it Write, page 7
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
I had to think fast. I remembered Maeve’s phone call and what I’d heard her tell someone in the room. ‘I’m part of the cleaning crew,’ I said in a rush of words as I slipped my messenger bag behind my back. I saw his gaze go to my empty hands. ‘I’m just the labor. You supply the cleaning supplies.’
His eyes narrowed as he looked me over and I was glad that I hadn’t worn one of my so-called professional outfits. The jeans and sneakers were perfect. Even so, I slipped out the back door before he could ask any more questions.
What had I gotten myself into?
EIGHT
Rocky came out from his nap place and greeted me as I put my keys down. ‘It’ll be fancy cat food tonight,’ I said, waving the check at him. I had spent the walk home basking in the glow of officially getting the job and getting paid up front, but it was fading already as I thought of the short time I had to complete it. I dropped my jacket on the chair by the door and took the messenger bag into my office. The sun had disappeared behind the buildings across the street and, even with the French doors open between the living room and my office, I could barely find the switch on the glass-shaded lamp on my desk.
I was anxious to look at the notes she’d given me. I pulled out the wad and, as I peeled off the rubber bands, a photograph slipped out and fell to the floor. I glanced at it as I went to stick it back with the papers. It was a kid sitting next to a Scotty dog. I stuck it back in, remembering the story Michael told at the reception about his dog Monty being his best friend.
There was a rumbling feeling in my stomach. I had been so focused on the meeting, uncertain of what the outcome was really going to be after all the false starts, that I hadn’t thought about eating. Now that my hunger had returned, I needed to eat something before I did anything else. When I checked the kitchen, I remembered that I needed to go to the store. Peanut butter and jelly on bread that was past its prime made tasty by a few minutes in a frying pan would have to do.
I had brought the wad of papers to the dining room before I made the food and, once I’d eaten the sandwich and there was no danger of me dripping jam on anything, I took a quick tour through the unwieldy stack and saw there some neatly written sheets, but a lot of pages ripped from a legal pad and a soft-sided notebook that seemed like a journal. I was glad that she would be able to shepherd me through them all.
It was a little overwhelming to think of reading everything at once, so I did the obvious and started at the first page, relieved to note that her handwriting was precise and easy to read.
Five years ago, nobody knew who Michael Angel was and the only time the masses thought of Scotty dogs was probably when they chose the game piece for a Monopoly game. I didn’t even know who Michael Angel was. I did know that Michael Wolinski managed the coffee house and gallery I liked to stop at after work.
We’d become conversation buddies since we both were interested in art. If I’d known he was married, it never would have gone further and I certainly wouldn’t have taken him up when he jokingly offered to show me his etchings. But I was to find out that Michael bent the rules to suit himself in different aspects of his life. I overlooked it all and even helped him cover it up.
He had a room with southern exposure above the coffee house that he used as a studio and ‘etchings’ location. It was furnished with an old magenta-colored chaise he’d rescued from a thrift store. The walls were brick and covered with his paintings. Folding doors opened on a compact kitchen that fascinated me with the way the pieces fit together. Two burners above and a refrigerator tucked below, a little bit of counter space and a bar sink. To me the place was romantic and it became our rendezvous spot.
To say we understood each other, was an understatement. Yin and yang, fingers in a glove, we fit together. I tried not to think about his family and to believe what he said about his wife not being supportive of his artist soul. The divorce was contentious. His wife even threatened me and that was before our fortunes changed.
I didn’t want to be the evil stepmother and attempted to make friends with his daughter Suzzanna to no avail. She was an adult anyway and, simply put, she hated my guts.
I had to live with being a home-wrecker, though I convinced myself that I had saved Michael. That is what he told me over and over.
But life has a way to come back and bite you.
The next page had a title which I glossed over and went right to reading the content. It was a bit all over the place, but it was about the day that changed everything for them. It needed to be rewritten, but it seemed like most of it was there.
The next page seemed to jump back in time and I gathered it was about how they got together.
We’d already met before, but it was just as customer and coffee-house manager. Small talk when I came in. But then I was left with a cup of steaming coffee and no place to sit. He invited me to a chair in the back. I saw his sketchbook and we started to talk about our art. And he told me about a concept he had for a series of paintings.
It was a good set-up, but would need some details. I began to think of questions I’d ask her so I could make it into a scene.
I flipped to the next page and found something about a party.
It was the first fancy party we’d been invited to. No wine in paper cups or an open box of pizza. The house in Highland Park was a mansion and the guests were art collectors more than art lovers. It was all champagne and canapés before an elegant buffet. Michael’s first time being the honored guest. The artist who did those wonderful paintings. Did he ever eat it up. So funny how people hung on his every word. How many times did he tell the story about Monty? All anybody wanted from me was to hear what he’s really like.
It ended as abruptly as the first page had. Both were beginnings, but needed some filling out. It was obvious to me now how she’d gotten the deal for a book. He was a hot artist who was nominated for a national prize. It seemed like a rags-to-riches kind of story and, as she said, it was mostly about him. I planned to tell her, there ought to be more about her. I sat back and took a breath to let it all settle for a moment.
A sharp rap at my front door startled me and I went to gather the papers up and put them in the sideboard before I answered it. I assumed it was Sara. She was always curious about my work, so if she saw a pile of papers, it would be awkward not to tell her about the project.
She was dressed in mom clothes and had Mikey with her. With my Sherlock Holmes skills of deduction, I knew that meant she wasn’t looking for an escape with some cooking wine and girl talk. As an extra incentive, she was holding a plate covered in aluminum foil. I couldn’t see what it was, but whatever she’d brought smelled delicious and a lot more appealing than another round of peanut butter and jelly.
I brought them inside and she let Mikey loose. I wondered what he thought about being in a place that looked just like theirs but different. He went right back to the dining room and an old doll house. It was handmade and more of an art piece than a toy, but I let him have fun rearranging the toy furniture.
Sara took a seat on the couch in there where she could keep an eye on Mikey while she and I visited. I put the plate of food on the dining table. ‘How about some coffee?’ I said.
She leaned back and let out her breath as she thought it over. ‘Coffee is good, but wine is better. I don’t usually have it when Mikey’s with me, but since there are two of us to keep track of him …’ She looked at me expectantly.
As soon as I handed her the glass of dark red liquid, she urged me to eat while the food was still warm. I uncovered the plate to find spaghetti in a thick marinara sauce with a piece of garlic bread. I dug in and discovered it was as delicious as it smelled. ‘This is great, thank you,’ I said as I twirled more of the noodles on my fork.
‘Somebody had to make sure you didn’t starve. It’s hard when you’re cooking for one,’ she said with a smile. Between my living alone and being a vegetarian, she was always concerned about my eating. If she’d seen how empty my refrigerator was at the moment, she would have been frantic.
‘I think I know what happened to Ben,’ she said. And suddenly I understood the reason for her visit was more than the spaghetti delivery. ‘He’s been incommunicado. I finally called his landline and a woman answered.’ She let the tension build for a moment before she continued. ‘I went right for it and asked who she was.’ There was another pause, this time punctuated by an unhappy sigh. ‘It was his ex-wife, Ashleigh, or as I call her Assleigh. She was all friendly and saying how we had to get together. She wanted to see Mikey and how much he’d grown. No mention that she’d abandoned my brother with no explanation. I wanted to grill her about that and what she was doing there, but she got off the phone fast.’
Oh. I suddenly had a hard time swallowing and my appetite disappeared. Ben had never given me too many details about the demise of his marriage, just that his wife’s leaving had been a total surprise. He’d had no idea there was anything wrong, which had to do with why he’d taken it so hard. He didn’t say it exactly, but I took it to mean that it made him lose confidence in himself. The way she’d left him without a word had devastated him and probably left him vulnerable to taking her back. I wondered what she’d told him. But did it really matter? If she was back, it meant that the break between us was irreparable.
‘Have you talked to him?’ I said.
‘Not yet. It just happened.’ She drank some more of the wine. ‘I’m so upset with her. How can she just drop back in like that and expect us to act like nothing happened?’
Mikey seemed unconcerned with our conversation and had moved all the furniture out of the doll house and dropped a car in that he’d brought with him and was driving it around the rooms.
She saw that I’d stopped eating and her face fell. ‘I should have let you finish eating first before I told you. I’m sorry.’
I felt bad that she felt bad and forced myself to have another forkful. ‘What about the writing group?’ I asked. She shrugged.
‘I hope he doesn’t leave it,’ she said. ‘No matter what you said or really didn’t say, I know there’s something going on between you. I hope he doesn’t mess that up.’
‘If his wife is back, I don’t think she’ll approve of our friendship.’ I had tried to say the words calmly, but I still choked a little.
When Sara left, I tried to go back to Maeve’s pages. I looked through more of them. I sincerely tried to read them over, but the words didn’t register. My mind was stuck on the news about Ben. I was about to call it a night and give up trying to get through anymore when the tone on my phone notified me that a text had arrived. It was from Maeve. She was anxious to get started and asked me to come the following afternoon so we could go over everything from the beginning. It forced me to pull myself together and stop thinking about Ben, which is what I wanted to do anyway.
I spread the papers out again and took the beginning that Maeve had written into my office. I found the postcard of The Scotty in the Sleeping Garden and propped it up next to the computer for inspiration.
There was just something about the image that made me want to look at it. The expression in the dog’s eyes looked out at me, seeming to see into my heart. The way he seemed to almost smile gave off a message that everything would be all right. Gazing at the reproduction, I understood the appeal of the paintings. It was more than a stylized rendition of a dog. It stirred the viewer’s emotion. I laughed at myself, thinking I was starting to sound like an art critic.
I read the page over again and, rather than attempt to rewrite it, I wrote down a number of comments about things to ask Maeve before stopping for the night. I was keyed up by it all and spent a long time crocheting – long enough to finish the black border on the sunny yellow granny square and to begin another. With the combination of stitches and colors, it would look like a sunflower in a square when I was done. The hook moving through the yarn worked its magic again, and when I went to bed I fell into a deep sleep.
The weather had grown gloomy again, but I barely noticed. After all the ups and downs with Maeve, it was settled. She had hired me to help her with the manuscript. She had a publishing deal, had paid me up front and she was even giving me credit. All was good. I was excited about getting started. I loaded up the pages I thought we’d discuss and headed out.
I’d probably be retracing these steps a lot, I thought as I turned on Harper. Even with the drizzle that had started to fall, I could feel myself smiling. I was embarking on a writer-for-hire dream job. I liked Maeve, was fascinated by the dog paintings and interested in finding out more about Michael. And there was the tantalizing thing she’d said about a surprise ending.
The drizzle had almost stopped by time I reached the rambling lavender house with the fish-scale siding. I rushed up the front stairs and rang the bell. When there was no answer, I began to think I might have gotten her instructions wrong. It was no wonder with all the secrecy and confusion. A gust of wind blew across the covered porch, pushing against the door, and it slipped open. So maybe the plan was for me to let myself in. It felt strange to just walk inside, but if that was what she wanted, who was I to say. Though, honestly, I didn’t like it. I called out hello a few times with no answer.
I assumed she was up in the attic room and expected me to join her. I was glad to go up the front stairs. They were carpeted and easier to navigate. My footsteps were silent as I went up to the second floor.
It felt a little eerie and almost like I was an intruder as I went down the hall to the closed door leading to the attic. But, I reminded myself, Maeve had set up the appointment and must be expecting me. When I stepped on the first stair, I called out hello a few more times so I wouldn’t startle her when I suddenly appeared in her sanctuary. I hated to call it an attic. It was such a charming space. When I reached the top stair, I walked right into the main area. The light coming in the windows was low due to the gloom outside, and the room was lost in shadows. There was no sign of Maeve and I continued to check around. The door was open to the bathroom, making it obvious she wasn’t in there. I opened the door to the storage room, calling out hello again. The shade was pulled down on the window in the room, making it even dimmer than the main room. Everything in there seemed covered by sheets and it appeared to be a room of ghosts.
Then it occurred to me that she had probably heard me and been going down the back stairs as I was coming up the front ones. I walked through the main room again, pulling out my phone to take some pictures to keep for reference when I was working so I could add some specific details when I described it. In the process my messenger bag clipped the table and hit a cup. When I checked for damage, I saw the handle had broken off. I was embarrassed at my clumsiness and remembered how much she liked the vintage cups. Breaking one was hardly the first impression I was going for.
I noticed a bottle of glue on the table and thought I could stick the handle back on but, in my haste, the squeeze bottle slipped from my hand and landed on one of the wheeled chairs. I panicked and came up with a new plan. I’d get rid of the broken cup, take another from her supply and put it on the table. I had the same exact cups and would bring one of mine on a subsequent visit and slip it in with the others. Unless she had a lot of people up there at once, she would never notice that one was missing. The point was to get rid of evidence quickly. To keep it all together, I pulled the sheet of paper it was sitting on around it, careful not to spill the liquid in the bottom. Feeling frantic, I stowed the mess at the back of one of the cabinets against the wall. I quickly grabbed another cup from the counter and put it on the table, relieved that it now looked just as I’d found it.
Thinking she’d pop up at the top of the stairs, I gave it a moment. But when she didn’t, I went to look for her. I took the back stairs, expecting to find her waiting for me in the kitchen, not realizing I’d gone to the front. The back stairs were even darker than before, thanks to the gloom outside, and I took my time going down them. I was relieved when I got to the landing with no mishap. Calling out more hellos, I turned to descend the last few stairs that went into the kitchen.
I stopped with a start. There was something draped over the short staircase. A floral blanket maybe? I stepped around to the side, preparing to pick it up, and then saw it wasn’t a blanket at all. Maeve was sprawled over the landing with her head where the last step met the kitchen floor. I dropped the messenger bag and rushed to her side, calling her name and asking if she was all right. There was no answer, not even a moan. Then I saw the gash on her head and a small amount of blood on the step. It gave me hope she’d just been knocked unconscious by the fall. I pulled out my phone and punched in 911.
Everything became a bit of a blur as I let the paramedics in the front door and the place suddenly swarmed with uniforms. I showed them where she was and hung out in the corner by the sink. I expected them to do something like wave smelling salts in front of her and then help her to her feet, but it wasn’t happening. Something about how slow they were moving seemed ominous.
A pair of cops came over to me and started to ask for information. The adrenalin was still pumping through my body and I was on automatic pilot as I explained who I was and why I was there. They took me into the dining room and told me to stay there.
It was hard to tell how much time had passed when I heard someone come in the front door yelling for Maeve. Michael Angel rushed toward the kitchen with his daughter following close behind.
His gaze stopped on me sitting at the table. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded in a surprised tone. He looked at me hard and there was a flicker of recognition. ‘You’re the cleaning person from yesterday.’
