Brush of Shade (3 page)

The furnace
kicked on, whooshing air through the vent that rattled behind her feet. She
gave it a swift kick with her heel. The grate clattered onto the floor. She
tipped her head back and stared up at the ceiling, her lower lip quivering.

I leaned over
the side of the bed and dragged the grate over with my crutch. “Don’t worry.
I’ll fix it later. One of my old roommates at boarding school had a thing for
borrowing mementoes, so she could pretend her family gave a crap about her. I
took to stashing my stuff in a vent.”

Aunt Claire
swallowed hard. “Your parents should’ve sent you home.”

Did she mean
here? She must be confused. Hadn’t she left the valley right after high school
and never looked back? Things were different now. She had me, so she’d have to
stay. The sick feeling in my stomach weighed in on the matter. I hugged my
pillow to my chest.

 She
fiddled with the corner of my comforter, smoothing it into place before sitting
next to me on the side of the bed. “Principal Long seems confident that you’ll
be challenged by the curriculum. Wait till you see the list of clubs and—” She
caught up my hand as I pulled away. “One club, that’s all I ask. Please, it’s important
that you try. After all, we can’t stay cooped up in this drafty, old house
forever, kid.”

 
“We?”
I replied, trying to sound interested.

“I’ve got an
interview in Gunnison for a photographer position on their local paper. It
won’t pay much and the hours could be crazy at times. I’m sorry.”

“People hire me
to watch their kids. I’m a senior in high school. I can look after myself.”

“Yes, of
course,” she replied.

I picked a fuzz
ball off the perfectly serviceable maroon comforter Aunt Claire had dragged out
of a trunk in the attic. “You’re a world-famous artist. You don’t take photos
of football games and the local garden club. We should’ve stayed at my home in
D.C. Several galleries wanted to show your work and I’d already been accepted
to a couple Ivy League schools. If there’s somewhere else that you’d rather
live, it’s okay by me. It can’t be easy for you to come back to this place with
its memories.”

“How kind and
mature of you, dear.” She shook her head. “We’re
Pepperdines
.
When it comes down to it, our desires come last.”

 “That’s
ridiculous. You’ve traveled all over the world. You said it was in your blood.”

“As are other
things. It is time for them to take priority.”

“I’m sorry
you’re stuck with me,” I said, sniffing back tears that I didn’t want to come.

“I’m not. Don’t
you go putting wrong thoughts into your
head.
We’ll
figure things out.”

I wasn’t sure
what things she meant. The sad look in her golden-brown eyes told me to let it
go for now.

She got to her
feet and headed towards the door. “You’ve had a hard day. Try not to stay up
too late. If you need me, I’ve got calls to return.”

“What am I
supposed to do? I finished my book. This place doesn’t even have internet. How
am I supposed to Skype
JoAnna
and update Facebook? I
can’t even tweet in this time-stood-still town since you canceled my phone,” I
said, my tone bordering on whiny.

“Sorry, I need
to get you added to my plan. Write a letter. The roll-top desk in the den has
lovely stationary in the center drawer.”

“Write a letter?
Seriously?”
I plopped back onto my bed and shoved my
MacBook Pro to the side as Aunt Claire shut the door behind her. “Can’t we get
a satellite dish?” I shouted at the closed door.

After deciding
what to wear to school from the limited amount of clothes I’d packed in the
car, I wandered about my room wishing the truck had arrived. Then, I’d at least
have unpacking to occupy my thoughts. Instead, I had pain to focus on. My knee
was sore. If I took a pain pill now it would run out in the middle of the
night. Hidden in the quiet, a sadistic voice waited in my memories of that
terrible night. It didn’t care about my pain or the hollowness of my life. It
claimed ownership. As punishment for my avoidance, it would suck me into my
nightmares, holding me captive until morning.

I pulled back
the curtain and yanked open the window. The crisp evening air washed a light
floral scent across my face. Simple noises of the night
:
chirping, twittering, and
rustling leaves filled my room, shoving my terrorizing quiet off to the side.
My shoulders uncurled and I breathed deeper. Maybe Aunt Claire was right about
a healing quality inherent to this valley. I could still make out the screened
in gazebo in the back corner of the yard, but the evening light was fading
fast. I may have lost the right to be normal, but that didn’t mean I had to be
miserable all the time. I tugged on my sweatshirt and shoes and headed outside.

The mudroom door
opened onto a patio constructed out of interlocking pavers in an autumn blend
of pale gold, russet, and tan that stretched the length of the house. Aside
from the three-foot square brick planters in the corners, the patio was empty
and uninviting. I wondered when the last time was that someone had taken the
time to fill the planters with flowers or had leaned against the wide railings
to take in the view. Aunt Claire readily admitted to preferring life in the big
city to spur her creativity. Dad’s career in the State Department had kept us
in Europe throughout most of my life. I’d never heard him mention growing old
in this house he’d inherited years ago. I’d asked him once about his plans for
retirement. He’d said something about Pepperdine’s never retiring, they just
fade away. I’d figured he was just having one of his melancholy moods, so I’d
let it go.

The peaceful
sounds of the night beckoned. Their soothing balm drew me to the wrought-iron
gate that swung open in response to my light push. Aspen leaves in shades of
yellow and gold fluttered in the breeze, performing somersaults and cartwheels
in their dance towards the ground. Along the perimeter of the yard, burning
bushes and yellow mums weaved a bold tapestry against the thick forest
bordering the sides of our property. The smell of freshly mowed grass wafted
around my face as I strolled down the gentle slope. At the base of the hill,
nestled beneath a stand of aspens, the neglected gazebo waited for the next
generation of
Pepperdines
. Vines had been allowed to
grow and entwine about its windows. The paint was peeling and several screens
were ripped. I frowned at its neglect.

The first step
creaked, but seemed sturdy enough, so I continued up the last two and reached
for the handle. I tugged. The old, wooden door bowed out a bit in the middle
but refused to open. I yanked as hard as I could, popping it loose. I stumbled
off the step, scraping my left hand along the rail, expecting to go down any
second. Thankfully my crutch got wedged against a post, keeping me on my feet
with only a minor loss to my dignity. Not that there was anyone to see. With a
chuckle at my own clumsiness, I relaxed my death grip on the knob and
repositioned my crutch. I hissed and turned my hand over. A half-inch long
piece of wood had come away from the rail and imbedded itself between my
knuckles.

 Teeth
gritted together, I pulled out the splinter. “
Ow
!”
Droplets of blood sprayed the front of my sweatshirt. Ouch, this seriously
stung. I thrust my right hand into my pockets searching for a clean tissue. I
wavered for a minute. It wasn’t like I’d crossed some great expanse. This was
my backyard; I could come down here any time. Still, I’d been wounded in the
process that ought to merit a quick look inside.

I straightened
up and pulled the newly loosened door open. Inside was a hexagonal shaped,
screened-in-room with a high-beamed ceiling. Years’ worth of dirt had
accumulated on the wooden plank floor. I traversed its circumference, careful
to avoid spider webs and the wood trim of the windows. I wanted to linger.
Maybe hunt for my father’s initials that I was sure he would’ve carved into the
wood. Only my hand was stinging and the blood had soaked through the tissue
leaving droplets in the dirt. Plus, my arms felt scratchy, like fine sandpaper
had rubbed across my skin. Probably from the dust I’d kicked up.

I pushed the
door closed just enough for it to catch but not hard enough so it would stick.
The sound of rustling in the bushes didn’t bother me. Our property bordered a
small brook and open country. Nature meant wildlife. I’d seen it in books and
at the zoo. If it wanted to munch its dinner in the bushes, fine by me. The
squeaking of the steps silenced my visitor.

“Sorry about
that,” I whispered.

Nature answered
in what sounded like my name spoken in a raspy voice. My heart jumped to my
throat. I stepped closer to the clump of burning bushes, peering through the
branches. Stupid, this is what the character does in a movie right before
something leaps out to devour her.

“Olivia,” Aunt
Claire called from patio.

Nature resumed
its munching. I shook my head and realized that I was shaking. Obviously my
imagination was in overdrive. Nobody would be hiding in the bushes at the ends
of the earth.
“Coming!”
I shouted. Screw dignity. I
hobbled away as fast as I could.

 “Sorry,
were you looking for me?” I asked out of breath by the time I stepped onto the
brick patio. “I felt like a walk. It’s such a pretty fall evening.” I closed my
mouth before I started to babble.

Aunt Claire
reached past me and closed the gate with a decided clank. “I’d prefer you
stayed out of the gazebo. It’s not been kept up. The wood is probably rotten,”
she explained as though I was five-years-old.

“It seemed
sturdy to me. Remember our agreement, the one where you promised not to hover
so much.”

“It’s been an
emotional day.” The wear was apparent in her voice. “Have you taken your
pills?” Her gaze dropped from my face to fall with concern onto my hand.
“What’s this? You’re bleeding.”

“I got a
splinter on the wood. No big deal.”

“But you’re
bleeding. Get inside,” she ordered. “Your bathroom has a first aid kit.”

“It’s just a
cut, not major surgery.” I held the door open and waited for her to step
inside. To my surprise, she turned and scanned the backyard. I let the screen
shut and waited, watching through the mesh as she leaned heavily on the gate.
My sensible side argued that she was probably recalling a favorite moment from
her childhood. The side of me that had seen one too many scary movies wasn’t
exactly convinced. She tilted her head to the side like she was straining to
hear something. I held my breath and listened, too. Her body jerked ramrod
straight. I overheard anxious words spoken to an empty yard.

“I don’t care if
the pact is binding. Not her. Do you hear me?
Not her, not
yet.”

I fled to the
safety of my room. I wanted to believe in the sensible explanation; only I
couldn’t rationalize away my aunt’s strange words. I locked my bathroom door
and collapsed on the edge of the bathtub. Had someone been out there, and had
he called my name? A chill came over me. Grief made people do and say strange
things. Coming home under these circumstances would upset any normal person;
for a sensitive, free spirit like my aunt it was bound to be harder. So what
did it say about me? I rocked back and forth, clutching my arms. Had the stress
of the move, the wake, and the idea of a new school triggered a relapse? But
things had been going so well. I’d achieved normal for most of the afternoon
and had actually felt stirrings of interest beyond the hole in my heart.

The words I’d
all but convinced myself that I’d imagined during the accident returned to
haunt me. They were disturbingly similar to the ones I’d imagined my aunt
speaking. I found myself still turning them over in my head as I climbed into
bed several hours later. Honor what pact? I pulled the sheet under my chin and
clung to normal. Sleep folded over me, leaving the question for another day.

A legal-sized
manila envelope was propped against our front door when I got home from school.
I turned the envelope over. There was no return address or postage. That meant
it wasn’t the sale papers from the closing of my old house. Not that it
mattered. She wasn’t going to change her mind. On the bright side, this time
next year I’d be away at college. My hands unclenched, and I tossed the envelope
onto the counter.

My calculus
homework only took a few minutes to do. I’d already covered that section at my
old school. Next, I pulled out this semester’s required reading for English
class. I sighed heavily. Transferring schools often created overlaps. This made
what, my third time reading
Hamlet
?

The doorbell
chimed off key while I was putting dinner in the oven. I headed for the front
door, hoping the moving truck had arrived.

“Hi!” Trent
said, flashing a devastating smile that I was surprised he was wasting on me.
Between his thumb and index finger dangled a slip of paper.
“Class
rank and SAT scores as promised.
Can I come in?”

I shrugged and
swung open the door narrowly missing his nose. “I’ve got to work on dinner,” I
said, giving myself a way out.

He followed me
into the kitchen and headed over to the oven. “What are you having?” Without
waiting for my answer, he pulled open the door. “Mrs. Moore’s lasagna is to die
for.”

“I take it
you’ve had it before?”

“Oh, yeah,” he
said, practically salivating. “Her son, Bradley, and I go way back to
kindergarten maybe even younger. Our moms had some sort of pregnancy classes
together.”

I tried to
picture him as an adorable five year old, but I couldn’t get past the muscles.
Get over it, I ordered myself. “Did you stop by for a reason?” I asked somewhat
curtly, trying to hide the desperate loneliness of being dateless and marooned.
For all I knew, he was a lifer, while I had plans that didn’t include this town
or the people in it. Keep to the plan. No flirting just because he’s got a hot
body. I yanked open the refrigerator and took my time rummaging around, waiting
for my cheeks to cool.

“I’m offering an
alternative to the bus tomorrow. Do you need help finding something?” he asked,
suddenly standing next to me.

I banged my head
on the freezer door and stifled a curse. “School, yeah, I could use a ride,” I
mumbled.

“There’s a car
in the drive.”

I pulled back a
corner on one of the foil wrapped packages, releasing the distinctive aroma of
garlic. “Here take this.” I shoved the garlic bread into his hands. “Slide it
on the top rack of the oven while I make some lemonade.”

Aunt Claire came
through the garage door just as I poured the powdered drink mix into the
pitcher. A startled look crossed her face when she spied Trent opening cabinet
doors.

“Good evening,
Miss Pepperdine.” He smiled at my surprised aunt before turning back to me.
“Olivia, where are your water glasses?”

“Next cabinet over.
Aunt Claire, this is Trent. We had lunch
together at school today. He stopped by to offer me a ride.”

“So I take it
school wasn’t too horrible today?” she said, sounding cautiously optimistic.

“The jury is
still out.”

“I’m here in
hopes of swaying her opinion,” Trent said, his boyish grin softening the
tension in my aunt’s face.

She shrugged out
of her coat and sniffed. “Smells good, I’m starving. Trent, would you like to
stay for dinner? We can celebrate my new job with some cake for dessert.”

I gaped at her,
the spoon motionless in my hand, feeling my face getting warm. How could she
ask him without consulting me first? I didn’t even know if he had a girlfriend.
Odds were in favor that he did, considering his good looks and football jock
status.

“The powder
mixes better when you stir,” Trent said, taking the spoon from my hand with an
amused smirk. “I’d love to stay for dinner.” He patted his pockets. “My phone
is in my car. While Olivia pours the lemonade, I’ll call home.”

“I’ll just pop
upstairs and change my clothes,” Aunt Claire said, putting out three plates.

Well, it could
be worse, I thought, while I waited. Trent could’ve said no or Aunt Claire
could’ve had a fit about a boy in the house. Those particular ground rules we
hadn’t covered, yet.

Dinner went
smoother than I expected. Aunt Claire rambled excitedly about her job
throughout most of it. When she’d exhausted that subject, she turned to me and
said, “Olivia, you should have Trent take you around town, so you can get to
know your way. Your mom’s letters mentioned
your
after
school job at an art gallery. Maybe a shop on Main Street is hiring?”

The bite of
delicious lasagna I’d been chewing suddenly tasted like asphalt. My throat
shrunk, refusing passage. I stared at the chunk of garlic bread on my plate,
watching it soak up the sauce while trying not to think of my before life. I
grabbed my lemonade and took too big of a sip and ended up choking. Both my
aunt and Trent stared at me, probably thinking they should call nine-one-one. I
wondered, as the lump finally made it down my throat, if they had a
nine-one-one system here or was the crime rate too low in Podunk.

“We don’t have
art galleries to speak of, but we do have several touristy shops that sell
pieces from local artist. I’ll take you around after football practice
tomorrow,” Trent offered.

Maybe a new
activity would finally stamp out the haunting quiet. I thrust that gloomy
thought to the side. At least a job would fill up some empty hours until
bedtime. Aunt Claire touched my wrist to get my attention. She looked worried.
Crap, another failure-to-cope-moment. “Tomorrow would be great,” I replied,
forcing some enthusiasm into my voice.

Trent cleared
his throat and shoved back from the table. “Dinner was delicious. Thanks for
having me over, but I should go. I’ve got homework.”

“Yes, of course.
I’m sure Olivia has homework to get done, too,” Aunt Claire said.

Sadly, no.

“Trent, thank you for helping Olivia out today.”
Aunt Claire
scrunched up her forehead and asked, “I didn’t catch your last name?”

“Cassidy.”

She leaned
forward, her eyes scrutinizing Trent’s face. The sudden tension in her jaw
accentuated the tiny lines at the corner of her mouth. “That’s right, you’re
Mark’s son,” she said in a guarded tone.

“Yes, ma’am.
My father went to school with Olivia’s
parents.”

“I’ve not
forgotten. Mark was always one for getting things stirred up, although he
managed to stay just a hair away from crossing the line that might get him in
trouble with the law. Ethan wasn’t quite so lucky. My father used to give him
quite the earful. One summer, I think it was his senior year, he had to build
the gazebo out back by himself.” Her eyes narrowed and she said not to kindly,
“I do hope you haven’t taken after your father. Olivia’s not into
those
things
.”

I about dropped
my fork. Trent backed away from the table with his plate tipped and the sauce
beading unnoticed along the edge. Something about the way she’d said, “
those
things” made me wonder if she was talking about
something besides adolescent mischief. I should’ve asked for a backstory on
this place. The last thing I felt up to coping with was old high school drama.
“Lighten up, he offered me a ride to school. Not the chance to ride in a
getaway car.”

“It’s my job to
watch out for you. Just because I’m not your mother, I don’t want you thinking
there are no rules,” Aunt Claire retorted, revealing her recently unearthed
strict side.

“My mom wouldn’t
treat me like a child in front of company. Save the drama until I’ve actually
done something. Not that I would.” I limped across the kitchen, took Trent’s
plate, and deposited both of ours in the sink. “Come on, Trent. I’ll walk with
you out to your car,” I announced, grabbing my crutch from where it rested
against the wall in the corner of the room.

“Sorry about
that,” I said as soon as the front door closed. “This whole parenting thing is
new for my aunt. Personally, I think she’s created this mental checklist that
she’s going through line by line to make sure she’s done everything a parent is
supposed to do. I think having you at the house threw her off. She had to skip
ahead a few pages.”

“Well, since
she’s already flipping pages, we might as well give her a reason. Would you
like to go to a movie with me on Friday?”

“A movie?”
I bit my lower lip and glanced back at the house.
“I’m not sure if my aunt is ready for that,” I answered, speaking faster. We’d
reached his black Mustang. I aimed for the driver’s side door, but he stopped
and leaned against the hood with his ankles crossed.

“Look, if you’ve
still got a boyfriend at your old school, just say so.”

“It’s not that.”

“Really?
You’re too pretty not to be some lucky guy’s girl,
especially during senior year.”

“We broke up.”

“A long distant
relationship would be tough.”

I stared down
the drive, clenching the ribbed neckline of my chenille sweater in a tight
fist.

“I get it. He
wasn’t interested, but you’re still into him?” Trent asked.

I thought of the
pile of pictures of my ex with him cut out of the shots. All those pieces had
made satisfactory whirring sounds going through the shredder. That relationship
was better relegated to my large pile of pain where it would hopefully be lost
for eternity. In a voice a hair deeper than normal, I answered, “More like he
bailed. Things like tragedy, injuries, depression, and withdraw weren’t his
scene.”

Trent kicked at
the grass creating a divot. “I say forget the jerk.”

“Maybe you
didn’t understand. I drove him away.”

“The guy was an
ass. You were grieving.” He patted the hood next to him.

 “I’m still
grieving,” I replied, stretching the sweater out of shape.

He rubbed the
hood. When I didn’t budge he said, sounding a bit frustrated, “We’ll go as slow
as you need while you ease into valley life. I’ll pick you up at five. We’ll
grab a quick bite at the diner and then head over to the six o’clock showing.
We can hang out after with friends. No pressure, just plain old fun.”

A movie was safe
enough. If it got to be too much, I could space out or ask to be taken home. He
was staring at me with an intensity I hadn’t experienced for some time. I
swallowed hard feeling lightheaded and not just because the air was thinner
here. “Alright,” I relented.
“But nothing gory or scary.”

 He
grumbled. “Not a chick flick.”

“I’m sure we can
compromise.”

“The theater is pretty
small. We’ve only got two choices.” He sighed rather dramatically, and I knew
I’d won. He pushed off the car. “Homework calls. See you in the morning.”

I continued to
wave until his car disappeared around the curve towards the end of our long
drive. When I turned around, the curtains in my aunt’s room fell closed. I
groaned; it was time for another one of her chats.

The following
morning, Aunt Claire posted a schedule on the refrigerator. I noticed my date
with Trent had been penciled in on Friday. I took that as a good sign. Next to
the schedule was a list of phone numbers. At the top was Aunt Claire’s work
number. After that she’d listed the school, the local doctor’s office, followed
by the pharmacy, and several names of people I was probably introduced to at
the service, but didn’t remember.

She passed me
the milk along with a piece of paper. “I’ve written down the names of a couple
stores you might want to try today for a job.”

“The tourist
season is pretty much over,” I replied with little interest.

“The fall colors
always bring out the weekenders.”

Milk drowned the
generic bran cereal. “I don’t know if I want to work yet. Hopefully tomorrow
the truck will be here. We’ll have lots to do with unpacking.”

“I won’t have
you here alone all day.”

“I’m at school
all day.”

“You know what I
mean.”

“Is this is
about me going out with Trent on Friday? We talked about that last night.”

She put her
spoon down and sat back in her chair, looking me over. “We’ll continue to
discuss the Trent situation.
Tonight maybe.
As for the
job, Dr. Long and I firmly believe it will help you adjust. Have you been
taking your pills?”

“You’re already
having conversations about me with the local doctor? Give me a break; we just
got here. Stop treating me like a child, or worse, a patient,” I snapped,
pushing back from the table. Her lips flattened, forming two white lines. I
remembered the woman across the table was no longer the fun aunt that used to
bribe me with toys to buy my love. I blamed the stress of grief and responsibility.

Nails that had
lost their glossy shine from their expensive manicure, tapped the butcher block
surface of our scuffed up kitchen table. She wet her lips and leaned forward.
“I’m concerned. I hear you get up every night.”

“New place, new
noises,” I replied, trying to shrug it off by scooting my chair into place.

“Screaming in
your sleep isn’t normal.”

I ducked my head
and stirred my cereal.

“Sweetie, it
will get better. Dr. Long recommended a psychologist.”

“I’m not ready
to talk about my feelings to another psychologist or grief counselor.”

“I’d like you to
see Dr. Long so he can monitor your recovery.”

I clanked my
spoon on the lip of the bowl. Soggy cereal plopped into the pool of milk. “It’s
just going to take time for me to rebuild strength and gain flexibility.”