by Sandy Lowe
“I…don’t know…”
My boots slide off. My socks are greyish green underneath.
“You want something to drink?” she asks.
“Okay. Water.”
“Just water?” She starts down the stairs, floating like an angel. “I was about to order dinner. You’re welcome to stay, if you don’t have plans. My treat.”
“Pfft, I guess so!” That was rude. So is this: “I don’t get it. Why do you work if you’re rich? Is it like…some kind of social experiment?”
She glares at me but smirks as she leads me into the gourmet kitchen. “I pay rent to my parents. They insist. They didn’t want me growing into one of those snooty trust fund kids that take money for granted.”
I sit on one of the stools by the granite counter and ask, “What do your parents do?”
“They’re research scientists, but they both worked their way through college. They didn’t have everything handed to them on a silver platter.” She takes a bottle of water from the fridge and passes it to me, then opens a drawer and takes out a stack of menus. “What do you feel like? I’m in the mood for Thai.”
I feel like I’ve walked into another dimension. “Wait, you had a job interview?”
She nods as she flips through delivery menus. “For an internship. My parents warned me I’d have trouble finding work with a master’s in art history.”
“They wanted you to be a scientist too?”
“Or an engineer.” She shrugs.
“So why the job in landscaping?”
Another shrug. “It’s fun. You get to work outside, work with your hands, see other people’s houses—or at least their yards. Meet some interesting people.”
She bites her lip as she stares at the Thai menu.
“But if you get the job, the internship, then you’re leaving us?”
“It doesn’t start until September. Now tell me what you want. Should I order for you?”
I’m bewildered. This house is overwhelming. And seeing Pip all gussied up… I mean, it suits her better than khaki shorts and T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up, but still. It’s an adjustment.
And in the back of my mind, I’m seeing dollar signs. Ka-ching! Ka-ching! Ka-ching! Like three bright red cherries on a slot machine.
“I should go.” I twist the cap on my water bottle and leave it on the counter. “I’m not dressed for dinner.”
Pip laughs. “What are you talking about? We eat meals together every day.”
“Yeah, lunch,” I say. “Dinner’s different.”
“It’s just delivery. We’ll eat over there, in the breakfast nook.”
“Padded bench—I’ll stain the fabric with my work sweat. You’ll never get the stink out.”
“Take a shower if it makes you feel better.” Pip grabs me by the wrist, and for the first time I feel her strength. I never knew she had it in her. “Devon. Stay. Please?”
I can smell the day’s work on me. I can smell the flowery sweetness of Pip’s perfume.
This isn’t right…but I can’t leave her.
She’s beaming like you wouldn’t believe while she gets me fresh towels and shows me into the guest suite. Her clothes wouldn’t have fit me when I was twelve, but she finds a pair of her mother’s track pants and one of her father’s T-shirts for me to put on when I’m squeaky clean.
I spend longer in the shower than I should, trying to figure out this struggle that’s going on inside me. Part of me wants to be here, stay here, eat what the rich people eat. Another part of me is anguished by the thought. Why? I don’t know.
All summer I’ve been oblivious. Now I see it. I see the sparkle in Pip’s eyes. She’s into me. The lunches, the following me around like a puppy…it all makes sense now. And then I see this house! The girl’s loaded, or at least her parents are. I’ve won the lottery with this one.
So why do I feel so…anguished?
Her parents’ clothes are clean and fresh and smell good enough to eat. I towel-dry my hair and make my way downstairs as Pip pays the delivery driver.
“Here, I’ll take those,” I cut in, taking the bags of food from her and carrying them to the kitchen. “Jeez, how much did you order?”
“I like leftovers,” she tells me. She’s already set the table in the breakfast nook. It looks out over a beautiful backyard.
“You’ve got a pool?”
“Yeah, we don’t really use it. Oh, I should have offered you a swim instead of a shower! I didn’t even think.”
“I don’t have a bathing suit anyway.”
“Well…that’s okay.” She sits across from me chewing her bottom lip. Beautiful mouse. She’s something special, too good for the likes of me.
Suddenly I know why I can’t get settled, why I’m irritable and uncomfortable. “You were talking about you!”
She meets my gaze, but she doesn’t get it. How do I explain?
“Yesterday,” I say. “When you said about the Millington daughter, when you said girls like that don’t go for dykes like me, not for the long haul. I can be someone’s dirty secret, but not someone you bring home to mumsie. You weren’t talking about the Millington girl at all. You were talking about you.”
Now she gets what I’m saying. I watch her expression shift from blissful to pissed. She lifts plastic take-out containers out of paper bags and slams them on the table. “Is that really what you think of me?”
I’m in trouble, but I’m not sure why.
“You think I’m one of them? Me and the Millington girl, two peas in a pod? Oh, I got extra snap peas, by the way, because I know they’re your favourite.”
“Thanks…”
She growls. “I can’t believe you would put me in the same category with them. On the same planet, even!”
“With the Millingtons?”
“Yes, with the Millingtons!”
“Well, you do live right down the street from them.”
“I may live in a big house, but I am not a silver spoon trust fund brat. In case you haven’t noticed, I work for a living. I work just as hard as you.”
“Yeah, but…”
“But what?”
“Well, I mean, you really don’t have to.”
Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
“Like, really?” I ask. “What’s the worst that would happen if you didn’t pay your rent? Your parents aren’t going to throw you out on your ass. I mean, they’re just not.”
Pip purses her lips, then sits down heavily on the bench. For a tiny girl, she makes a big bang.
She starts opening dishes and angrily putting serving utensils in each one. “Go ahead,” she says coolly. “Serve yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, because sorry is always the answer.
“For what?”
“For…”
“I work hard, Devon!” Her eyes brim with tears, but she blinks them away. “Every day I’m trying to prove myself to you, get you to notice me, but it’s like I don’t even exist. All you see are these society ladies who haven’t done a day’s work in their lives! What’s so great about them?”
“Their money!” I say. “Their money. Not them. They’re horrible. Do you know how they treat me? How condescending they are?”
“Yes!” Pip says, half laughing. “I’m right there beside you. I get it too. I get it ten times worse!”
I hadn’t noticed, but I wasn’t about to argue that point.
She sits quietly and bows her head, and I’m not sure whether she’s saying grace or collecting her thoughts. “Let’s just eat, okay?”
“Okay.” I watch her across the table. “I’m sorry, Pip.”
“What for this time?”
I wait for her to meet my gaze before saying, “I’m sorry for not noticing. I’m sorry for not seeing you.”
She flicks her wrist like it’s nothing, but I see that smirk growing across her lips. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been so subtle.”
“I don’t think you actually were. Making me lunch
every day? I should have clued in.”
“It’s been my pleasure,” she says, looking deep into my eyes. “It’s been my absolute pleasure, Devon.”
Dammit, I’m grinning like a fool. I just can’t help myself. “Will you be at work tomorrow?”
“No,” she says, and before I can ask why she reminds me, “Tomorrow’s Saturday. I’ll be in on Monday, fresh as a daisy, ready to work.”
I don’t think I can wait that long to see her again. Two whole days? I’ll have to ask her out tomorrow night. Not sure what rich girls do with their weekends, but we’ll figure something out.
When Pip looks down at my plate, she rolls her eyes. I haven’t put anything on it. She asks, “Do I have to do everything around here?”
She’s smiling as she leans across to load me up with Pad Thai. “Tell me the truth, Devon. If you had to choose between love and money, what would you pick?”
“Both,” I tell her. “Why choose when you don’t have to?”
Pip bites her lip as she dishes out some rice. When she gets to the eggplant, she stops. “Oh. They always put a lot of garlic in this dish. Maybe give it a miss?”
“Why?” I ask. “I’m not allergic.”
“I know. Only…I was thinking…” She looks so embarrassed, so shy and insecure. “I was thinking you might want to kiss me later. Kissing and garlic don’t mix.”
She doesn’t even look at me, but she seems to be in actual physical pain as she waits for an answer.
On the inside, I’m rolling my eyes, thinking: Is this for real? This posh girl wants me, and I want her back. Is Pip the magic ingredient my life’s been missing?
“Yeah, you’re right,” I tell her. “No garlic for me.”
Love Unleashed
Karis Walsh
Lydia St. George hurried downstairs to the ground floor of her 1930s Craftsman-style home, pulling her blond hair together and securing it in a haphazard bun with a big clip. She grabbed her camera kit and slowed to a sedate walk as she came out onto the porch. She made it to the sidewalk at the exact moment four large dogs and two tiny ones passed by the tall shrubs lining her yard.
Perfect timing.
She laughed and wove through the web of leashes connecting the yapping animals to her neighbor four houses down. Lydia didn’t even know her name—having christened her D.W. for Dog Walker in her mind—but she knew her schedule to the second. She often managed to cross paths with D.W. on her way to work, although her job as a freelance photographer didn’t require her to be at the office at a precise time. She made her own schedule for the most part, and she liked it to coincide with D.W.’s.
“How’s the reno going?” she asked. She always kept their conversations limited to small talk, about their houses or the weather, preferring not to get more involved than that with anyone right now. Her effort to keep a little distance between them—keeping D.W. in the realm of fantasy and not reality—was helped by D.W.’s inability to stop and chat with her six charges pulling frantically on their way to the park, or the nearest fire hydrant, or wherever they went on these walks.
“The kitchen is almost finished,” D.W. said, standing next to Lydia with her arms spread wide, pulled in different directions by the dogs. Her brown hair glimmered with reddish highlights in the rare Washington sunlight, and her cheeks were pink from the stiff breeze coming off Puget Sound and swirling around Seattle’s Queen Anne Hill neighborhood. Eyes as green as cool jade were quick to show expression, whether it was humor as her dogs entangled her feet or joy when she talked about her house, unlike Lydia, who had often been told she was a closed book. “I’m painting it a soft rust color, and the cabinets will be deep yellow with brushed gold handles.”
“Sounds lovely,” said Lydia, more to prolong their talk than because she was convinced it was a true statement. When D.W. talked about the paint she used in the various rooms she had redecorated, she used words like soft and pale, but the result still sounded like a riot of color to Lydia. She’d renovated her own house three years ago, when she still worked in finance and had money to spend, but her palette choices had been contemporary and neutral. The contrast was reflected in their clothes as well. Although Lydia didn’t have to conform to a certain dress code in her career, she stuck with the business casual clothes in which she felt most comfortable, like her pressed dark denim jeans and crisp white button-down shirt and brown corduroy blazer. D.W. was enveloped in a puffy lime green ski jacket, with faded, frayed jeans and bright red sneakers.
“I like the way the house is coming along,” D.W. said with one of her killer smiles. “It’ll keep me broke but happy.”
Lydia smiled in return, mesmerized by the curve of D.W.’s lips, until she realized she had been silent for too long. She held up her camera bag. “Well, I’d better get to work. Have a good walk.”
D.W. let the dogs pull her down the street a few yards before she called over her shoulder. “You should come see it sometime.” She had turned her face forward again before Lydia could read her expression.
Go into D.W.’s house? Where they’d be alone, and talk would become more personal? In Lydia’s dreams. Well, quite often in her dreams, in fact, but not in real life. She got in her car and sat for a while before starting the engine. This was the first time either one of them had made an overture reaching beyond the confines of their patch of sidewalk. Did it mean anything more than a polite gesture?
She drove south to Belltown. Spending time with D.W. was a brush with beauty. Lydia felt electrified by her, energized for her day. She was convinced most of the magic was in the myth, however. They were as different as their decorating choices would suggest, but their costly, run-down houses, like the rain falling on them most autumn days, was something they had in common. Lydia knew D.W. had inherited hers from her grandparents. Otherwise how would she be able to afford a million-dollar neighborhood on a dog walker’s budget? Lydia couldn’t imagine she made much more than the average teenage babysitter, but she never asked about anything as personal as money. She herself was barely able to afford the home she had once bought so easily. Fueled by stories in the media about high-powered executives who gave up their fancy jobs to pursue some passion like cooking in the French countryside or raising alpacas or growing organic herbs. Everyone in those stories—in front of the camera at least—seemed thrilled by their decision. None of them said how much it sucked to dip into a dwindling savings account every month when they paid the mortgage. Lydia loved her new work, but she missed her old paycheck more than she cared to admit to anyone but herself.
Broke but happy, like D.W. had said. The former all the time, the latter most of it.
Lydia parked in the garage and took an elevator to the Emerald City Photographs offices. She was one of several freelance photographers the company used. Even though most of the others claimed to want to move into the fine art side of photography someday, when they’d be featured in galleries and sell prints for thousands of dollars, competition for the more commercial shoots and commissions was fierce. Lydia had been at the top of her field one day and the bottom of this new one the next. She was still clawing her way up. Unlike the others, she had no interest in the artsier side of her medium. She loved taking pictures of everyday life on the city streets and finding just the right angle to show off a mountain or lake or ferryboat. Some people might say the wordcommercial with a sneer, but she was proud of what she did. She saw the beauty in the world around her, and she had a gift for capturing it at the exact right moment.
No matter how good she was, though, her photos needed to be seen before they’d be bought. And in order to be seen, they had to make it past her boss. He had his favorites among the freelancers, and she hadn’t become one of them yet. She was determined to do so. Mainly because her bank account was rapidly losing its padding.
“Hi, Mr. Jenkins,” she said, popping her head in his office. “Have any jobs for me today?”
“Lydia, come in. I was hoping you’d be here today. I have something bette
r than a job in here.”
She went inside the office, skeptical about what could be better than more work and more money. Jenkins was sitting on the floor behind his sofa, and she could just see the top of his balding head and his metal glasses over the back of it.
“A box of puppies,” she said. How appropriate for the office, she added mentally. She walked over and sat on the couch. She supposed she should comment on their looks, like she would if a new mother showed pictures of her kid. “Um, they’re cute.”
“Aren’t they? Do you want one?”
Yep. Should’ve seen that coming. Lydia frantically searched for a reason to say no. She didn’t have a landlord to forbid pets, and her yard was fenced and big enough for one of these little things. Allergies? A long-held fear of dogs after being attacked when she was five? She had a couple of small scars from skateboarding accidents that might do as proof.
“You were the first person I thought of when the wife said I had to give them away. You take such fantastic pictures of dogs, I knew you had to be an animal lover.”
“Oh, well…who isn’t?” Lydia watched the box teeter back and forth as the puppies cascaded over one another, all wagging tails and grinning faces.
Jenkins continued. “And if you take one, we can have family reunions. I’m sure my Sophia would love to have her baby visit as often as possible.”
Aha. Lydia had been looking at this from the wrong angle. If she took one of the puppies—and how hard could it be to take care of one?—she’d have an in with the boss. An invitation to his house, a chance to chat about her ideas for photo shoots. What better way to break into the old boy’s network than by adopting one of the old boy’s dogs?
“Sure, I’d love to have one.” Lydia tried to decide how to choose from the mass of squirming animals. One small white dog with brown ears sat squished in the corner as if disdainful of all the play and fuss around him. He stared at her and she could see his small bottom teeth. She pointed at him. “That one.”
“Excellent choice. He’ll never be a show dog with his underbite, but he’s smart as can be. He’ll be a great companion.”