by Mia Carson
“Remy, wait!” Callie yelled, chasing after her. “Come on, I’m only looking out for you.”
“Yes, because you have the best history of having successful relationships,” she yelled back. “Damn it, Callie, do you and Matt even know anything about each other? Every time you talk about him it involves sex!”
Callie’s face reddened and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Of course we do.”
“From that look on your face, I’d say you don’t. Maybe you need to stop worrying about my life and worry about your own. Everyone needs to stop worrying about my life!” She threw her arms in the air and walked into the crowd again, leaving Callie standing open-mouthed behind her.
Remy walked around the rest of the festival, buying the few pieces she’d picked out, and left the address for them to be shipped later. She called for a cab and fumed in the backseat the whole ride home. Stan and Louis were still gone when she arrived, so she barricaded herself in her studio, blaring music from her phone, and glared at the wire sculpture.
Callie’s words cut slashes into the perfect images she had of a future with Stan and Louis. Worried her anger would ruin the piece, she picked up a blank canvas, her paints and brushes, and let her anger drive her hand. She wanted to hear the words from Stan’s mouth, to hear he loved her as she loved him. Several times, she’d wanted to confess her feelings, but something stopped her every time. Callie only repeated what Remy already considered nearly every morning she woke up in that house. Her hand cramped, and she stretched it, squeezing more paint onto her palette. Her gaze drifted across the room to the painting of her and Stan making love in the garden with new life blooming around them. A single tear slipped from her eye, and she wiped it away hastily.
Paint covered her hands and face by the time she heard loud knocking and paused her music. Making sure she was smiling, she opened the door. “Hey, how was the zoo?” she asked Stan.
He leaned heavily on his cane, exhaustion on his face, but his grin was genuine. “Fantastic. I brought you a present. Louis wants to give it to you, though.”
“Great, I’ll be out in a second,” she said and tried to close the door.
Stan moved his cane in the way. “Remy? Your eyes are red.”
“Huh? Oh, my allergies are bad today,” she lied, wiping again at her eyes as if they itched. “I just have to put my paints away.”
“Lunch with your friend go okay?” he pushed, not moving his cane.
Laughing brightly, she waved away his worry. “Perfect. I bought you and Louis some pretty neat art pieces. I promise, everything’s fine. I’ll be right out.”
He frowned but nodded and stepped back. She closed the door quickly, leaning her back against it and hanging her head. Tears pricked at her eyes again, and she sniffed hard, wiping her face and tapping her cheeks.
“Get ahold of yourself,” she hissed, annoyed. “If he doesn’t then he doesn’t. You’ll move on like you always do, even if you’re in love with the bastard.”
The words hung in the air. Her eyes landed on the painting she’d spent the last few hours working on. Pushing off the door, she walked towards it, covering her mouth with one hand as her eyes widened in shock. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she sank to the floor in front of the painting. Eventually, Stan would come back, wondering why she was hiding. Rubbing the sleeve of her sweater over her face, she found her feet, covered the painting with a sheet so it wasn’t visible from the door, and walked out of the studio, leaving her pain and sadness behind.
Stan groaned as he rubbed his face with a weary hand and glared at the clock. It was nearly three in the morning, but he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes shut. Since he had given Remy that room for her studio, she hadn’t once locked the door to keep him out. When she opened the door that afternoon, she didn’t even let him see what she was up to. Her face was splattered with paint, and the fake smile twisted his gut. Something had happened. Throwing off the blankets, he reached for his cane and climbed to his feet.
He peeked out his door, listening, but the house was silent. As silently as he could, he crept down the hall, his cane’s tapping echoing around him, until he reached Remy’s studio door. He half expected the door to be locked, but the handle turned and the door swung inward. He flipped on the light and glanced at the wire sculpture across the room, but she hadn’t touched that at all today. Instead, he saw the sheet draped over a canvas. Guiltily, he glanced over his shoulder, but Remy was upstairs, sound asleep. Stan closed the distance between himself and the sheet, lifted it gently off the easel, and stared. The sheet fell from his numb hand and he stumbled back a step at the range of emotions covering the canvas.
“No,” he whispered, his eyes searching every inch of it for color. None appeared in the midst of the black and grays. “Damn it.”
His hand gripping his cane, he forced himself closer, studying the images before him. The image was of a man and a woman, both with hearts dripping black in their hollow chests. Their hands pressed towards one another, but something blocked them, kept them apart. That was only the left side of the canvas. He shifted to see the rest of it and saw the same form of the woman huddled on the ground, dead flowers surrounding her and the heart shattered in her hollow chest. The man was far off in the distance, but there was no heart in his chest. Nothing. Stan ground his teeth. Was this what she thought of them? That he did not love her at all?
Anger flooded his chest, and he slammed his cane into the floor. That morning when he left, she was happy, smiling, and full of a love he sensed in her hand as she clung to him before he climbed into the car. She met with her friend and something changed. What was it? He didn’t know her friend or have a number to call her to ask what they’d talked about that crushed Remy’s heart.
Stan studied the painting until the room lightened with the first hint of morning. He covered it hastily in the sheet and ducked back into his room as a set of steps sounded on the stairs. Pressing his ear to the door, he heard Remy muttering under her breath and the studio door open. He counted to ten then went, ready to confront her about what he saw. Except when he spied her, he saw a paintbrush in one hand covered in white paint. She glared at the painting on the easel and swiped the white paint across it. With each stroke, the painting vanished from view until it was nothing but a blank canvas. She set the paintbrush down, smiling to herself. He backed away, then made sure his steps were louder before he stood in the doorway, smiling.
“Morning,” he said, faking a yawn.
“Oh, morning,” she replied, looking sheepish.
“Working this early?”
“No. I had to take care of something from yesterday. I’m starting over on a project.”
The light was back in her eyes as she sauntered towards him in her sleep shorts and tank top. Her arms wrapped around his neck and brought him down to her lips for a kiss.
“Hmm, bacon or sausage this morning?” she asked.
“How about you let me make breakfast. Pancakes?”
“Oh, those do sound good,” she agreed and kissed him again.
He hugged her close, lifting her off her feet as she squealed with laughter. “You know, Remy, I care about you very much,” he whispered.
She stiffened for a split second in his arms before she hugged him back. “I know.”
“Good, that’s good.” He leaned back to see her smiling. “Breakfast, then?”
“Breakfast.”
She slipped her hand into his, and they strolled to the kitchen, ready to start another day and make ready for Halloween night. Stan watched Remy all day, searching for signs she was pulling away from him, but her laughter was real as she helped dress Louis as a pirate and Stan as Captain Blackbeard. She dressed up as Grace O’Malley, another pirate, and the three set off through his neighborhood as soon as the sun set. Several neighbors were quite pleased to see Stan out and about, and only one glared openly at him and Remy. Melody. She almost didn’t place any candy in Louis’ bucket, but Stan held it out with a great wi
de smile and thanked her loudly. More parents and kids waited behind them, so she had no choice.
“Happy Halloween,” he told her happily as they left her front porch, her glaring at them the entire time.
When Louis had hit all the houses Stan could walk to, he told him to keep going with Remy, but they both refused to keep doing it without him. Back at the house, they turned on the original Mummy movie and ate candy. Louis fell asleep between them on the couch, and Stan stared in awe at the resemblance his son had to him. It was uncanny, sometimes. He glanced up and saw Remy watching him. The doubt on her face nagged at the back of his mind for the next few days.
He hoped it was nothing, but as the days stretched on into November, she pulled away from him bit by bit. Their afternoon tumbles in bed grew more infrequent, and whenever he was with Louis, she kept herself busy getting the garden and flowerbeds ready for winter or in her studio. Thanksgiving was fast approaching, and he finally gave in and announced to his parents he and Louis would be coming over that night for dinner. He asked Remy if she wanted to go with him or spend time with her own family.
“We do Thanksgiving on the Saturday after,” she told him with a shrug. “If you want me to go, I’ll go with you.”
“Why would I not want you to go?” he pushed. They lay in his bed, Louis at his final day of school before his four days off for the holiday, but they barely spoke.
“I mean, it’s a holiday. Some people consider that to only be with family.”
His brow furrowed and he hugged her closer to him. “You’re pretty much family, Remy. You are more than welcome to come. Louis and I would be thrilled to have you there.”
“Then I guess I’ll go,” she said, giving in.
“If something was wrong, you’d tell me, right?” he asked, tracing his fingers along her cheek.
“That was our deal. You know I would.”
She lied, but he could hardly argue when she kissed him, and a moment later, they were both breathing hard as she straddled his body, riding hard and slow against him. Her touch was different—desperate, as if she clung to these few moments with him.
As if she was getting ready to say goodbye.
He sat up, holding her to his body as they made love in the late afternoon sun, the chill from the window brushing against their heated skin. After the holiday, he planned on sitting down with Louis and talking to him about Remy, about her not being his nanny anymore but an actual part of the family. If Louis was okay with it, he would confess his love to Remy. He only prayed he wouldn’t be too late.
14
Theresa decided to make a surprise visit the day before Thanksgiving, and Remy heard them talking to her in the living room. She was finishing dishes from that morning, humming to herself and lost in thought. Callie had tried to call her several times, but she ignored her friend and even stopped taking calls from her mom. Abbey had sided with what her friend had told her, and in all her voicemails, she told Remy to think really hard about what she was doing.
The messages from her mom were harsher, though, worried she was being selfish and what this would do to two people Remy cared very much for. Stan watched her like a hawk, his touches more tender and his kisses lingering as if he wanted to tell her something but couldn’t find the words. The bags under Remy’s eyes grew bigger with each passing day as sleep eluded her, and she stayed up late in her studio, working on finishing the wire sculpture her heart was no longer in. The voices died down in the living room, and she heard steps wander upstairs. The last dish rinsed and in the drying rack, Remy wiped her hands and figured she would do a little more work before lunch. The work usually helped clear her mind, but lately, all it did was muddle her thoughts even more.
“Oh, Theresa, you scared me,” she said when she walked into her studio and found Theresa standing there. “Is there something I can help you find? I thought you went upstairs with the boys.”
“No, Remy, but I think you and I need to have a talk,” she said seriously.
“Why? Is something wrong with Louis?” she asked, rushing to Theresa’s side, but when she saw what the woman stared at, she stopped dead. “Theresa.” The painting of her and Stan making love in the garden was right there for her to see.
“I hope this does not reflect something that is currently happening beneath this roof,” Theresa said firmly. “Louis and Stan have a very fragile relationship. Anything could throw that out of balance. I have seen much progress, but I do not think Louis is ready to see his father with a woman, especially a woman who he has come to trust as the nanny and nothing more.”
Remy gulped, wringing her hands. “He doesn’t know about it.”
“I suggest you keep it that way and that you find a new place of employment.”
“What?” she snapped in disbelief.
Theresa sighed. “I have seen this time and again. A child winds up with a parent who then starts a relationship with a woman or man, and the child can’t handle it emotionally. What happens if you two don’t work out? Louis will be in the middle of any fallout.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” Remy argued.
“Yes, he would, whether you want him to be or not. You have to think of the child, Remy. I understand not having any of your own makes this hard, but—”
“How dare you?” Remy seethed. “I might not have a child of my own, but I have been a nanny long enough to know how to take care of them. I always—always—put them first, especially Louis.”
“I see, and do you always leave your studio door unlocked?” Remy’s mouth worked, but all she managed was a nod. “Many of your works are quite lovely, but some of them are inappropriate for a child of his age to see. I won’t write this down, but consider this a verbal warning.” Theresa patted Remy on the shoulder as if she hadn’t just told her to give up the man she loved. “Have a good holiday, Remy.”
“You too,” she replied on reflex.
Theresa left the room, closing the door securely behind her. Remy wandered numbly towards the wire sculpture, tracing her fingers up over the face of the man with no face to the woman he held in his arms. The wings would never be finished, not now.
“Remy?” Stan asked as the door opened.
“Yeah? Theresa leave already?” she asked, not turning around yet.
“She just did. I have somewhere I have to go, a last-minute thing.”
“What’s going on?” She moved to him, and the resolve in his eyes let her cling to that last hope that he would say the words she needed to hear.
“I got a call from the hospital. The brother who was in a coma woke up a week ago and is coherent now. I’m going to see him and put this to rest once and for all,” he explained.
Don’t let him see you fall apart. He has his own issues to deal with.
“Do you want us to come with you for moral support?” she asked, but he was already shaking his head. “We’ll keep ourselves busy here. Go do what you have to do.” She rested her palm against his cheek, her chest tightening when he leaned into her touch then kissed her palm.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Stan limped down the hall, walking with his back straight and head held high. She wanted to follow him but forced herself to stay behind.
“Bye, Stan,” she whispered when the front door closed. “I’m sorry.”
Not today, but soon, she would have to leave. It would kill her to stay in this house with him and not be able to hold him or kiss him. She would never last.
She would have to leave.
The hospital was busy. Stan let the sounds of the surrounding people fill his ears so he wouldn’t let his own thoughts deter him from what he came here to do. Dr. Price told him if he ever had the chance to speak to the man who did this to him, he should take that chance to forgive the man and let the issue rest for good. Closure, that was all Stan needed to truly put the accident behind him and finally heal from the inside out.
A few people stood by the door Stan needed to go through. He kept his face down so t
hey wouldn’t notice him, but he only managed two more steps before one of the men stepped forward.
“You—you’re that rich guy,” the man grunted.
“Stanford Wellington, yes,” Stan replied. “I’ve come to visit with James.”
“James? You came here to see James?” the man shouted, and half the floor fell silent.
The door was thrown open and an angry, gray-haired woman stalked out, planting her body in the doorway. “You bastard. How dare you show your face here?”
“I’ve come to speak with James, please,” Stan said calmly.
“He does not want to speak with you. Get out.”
“Would you mind asking him?” Stan pressed. “It’s quite important I talk to him.”
The woman yelled at him again, but a weaker voice called from inside the room. She whipped around, her gray hair flying, and Stan spotted a pale man, his face skinny and hair lank, sitting up in bed.
“Ma, let him in,” James repeated from his bed.
“You can’t possibly want to talk to him,” the woman urged, but James spotted Stan and waved for him to come in. “James, please. He killed your brother.”
“No, he didn’t,” James grunted sadly. “Ma, you have to stop this.”
“James,” Stan said and held out his hand. “Pleasure to officially meet you.”
James shook his hand weakly, smiling sadly. “They said you were in a wheelchair. I’m happy to see you walking around.”
“And I’m happy to see you are awake.”
James smiled sadly. “I am too. Why are you here, man? I would’ve thought you wanted nothing to do with me.”
“I didn’t, but I still needed to come.” Stan glanced at James’ mom still fuming on the other side of her son’s bedside. “I needed to come to say I forgive you for the accident and I am sorry for your brother.”
“You should be,” the woman snarled, but James held up his hand.
“Ma, enough! Jesus, I was drunk and driving the boat, all right? This guy had nothing to do with the stupid shit I did. If you want to blame someone for Derek’s death, you blame me and leave him alone. Got it?”