copyright © 2016 aubrey brenner
all rights reserved.
no part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. the exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
this book is a work of fiction. names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
editing: j & j
book design: aubrey brenner
book image: www.stock.adobe.com
to mom,
maybe you’ll actually be able to read
this one without blushing.
content
background
foreground
muted
staining colors
sketch
palette
shade
mixability
translucent
primary colors
complementary colors
warping
middle ground
realism
abstract
secondary colors
cast shadow
blending
highlight
atmospheric perspective
transparent
negative space
deformation
composition
big look
the part of a painting that appears further away from the observer, less detailed
I’m pregnant. The two most terrifying words in the English language. More so, when you’re a freshman in college. I hadn’t planned on being a cliché statistic, obviously. But that’s the harsh truth of my reality. I’m pregnant at eighteen.
It only took one time. That dead horse. Literally, my first and only. It was the end of summer and everyone was so emotional about leaving our little pond to enter the great big ocean. We got swept up in everything and, well, one plus one equals two—or three in our case. Most would probably believe we weren’t safe, but we were. Three lousy percent.
Now, to tell the other one in this equation. I’ve overthought this time and time again. I’ve gone over every possible scenario and opening. From, ‘Happy Holidays, Aidan! I hope you don’t mind if my present is a few months late, I’m making it now’. To, ‘I know we haven’t seen each other since our night together last summer, but I thought you should know I’m knocked-up! High-five! Nice shot!’
No matter how I manage to spill, he’s always devastated by the news. How could he not be? How do you tell someone their life might be over before they really have a chance to live it?
This is why I’m sitting in my car outside his family’s enormous house in the middle of a New Hampshire winter, my hand hesitating over the handle of my door.
I place my other hand over my swelling belly, the flutter of life stirring inside me. She isn’t even here yet and I already fear for her safety and happiness. I’m not far enough along to know whether or not the baby’s a girl, but I sense it in my rounding gut.
“There’s no turning back the clock now. We only have forward, little girl.”
I breathe the first full breath I’ve taken since I pulled up to the opulent lakeside house, and then exit the car. The initial steps are the hardest, but they get easier with momentum. I step up to the over-sized front door with my fist balled and ready to make contact. It takes me a second to actually knock. It’s weak. I doubt anyone heard it. I’m about to do it again when I’m greeted by the shrinking glare of his mother.
“Yes?” she says, her voice unemotional. She’s never been very warm toward me. I don’t know why. But the chilliness of her demeanor rivals the bone-cold of the weather.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Channing.”
Her stone eyes fall to my stomach. Even under my sweater and jacket, it’s easy to see my protruding womb. When they target back on mine again, her piercing gaze is no longer icy. They’re on fire.
“I-Is Aidan home?”
She peers over my head, as if she were expecting someone else.
“Come inside.” It’s an order, not a welcoming gesture. She steps aside to allow me access to her expensive and perfectly furnished home. She guides me to the living room toward the back and then motions for me to sit on one of the two couches opposite one another with an impressive wood and glass coffee table in the middle.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asks. She only does it because that’s what you do when a guest comes to your home, you offer them refreshments. I take the offer with a grain of salt and nod my head. She walks into the modern, open-air kitchen while I contemplatively stare out the two-story glass window at the lake and forest surrounding it. It’s snowing heavily now, but I swear I make out my house across the frozen water through the endless drift of powder. I take my strength from it, hoping to get through this in one piece.
When she returns with the tea tray and sets it on the table, I put my focus back on her. She sits on the couch across from me and begins to pour the tea into a cup. Not asking how I take it, she simply adds sugar and cream and slides it across the table. It’s a hostile gesture.
“Would it be possible for me to speak with Aidan now?”
I pick the cup from the table and taste the herbal warmth.
“No, Evie, it isn’t.”
“Is Aidan home?”
“Whether he is or isn’t, has nothing to do with why you won’t be speaking to my son.” She sips on her afternoon drink and wipes the corners of her mouth, even though there isn’t anything to wipe. She’s stiff, every move calculated. “I know what you wish to speak to him about, and I have no intentions of allowing you to ruin his life. You’re more than free to ruin your own. However, I won’t sit idle while a Hathaway screws up my son’s life as well.”
As well?
“I think that’s Aidan’s decision to make,” I politely disagree, setting my teacup on the table between us.
“He’ll never find out about this,” she says with unwavering certainty. “I want you to get rid of it, preferably before the birth. I’d hate to have genetic evidence of this problem out in the world. It could come up to bite him later.”
I’m horrified into silence.
She picks a checkbook off the tray. I hadn’t noticed it before. I was focused on the situation. She opens it and retrieves the gilded pen tucked between the sheets, probably worth more than my entire wardrobe.
“How much do you want?” she asks, her eyes trained on the blank check, the pen ready to jot down any amount it’ll take to keep me quiet.
“You’ve clearly misread my intentions, Mrs. Channing.”
“Everyone has a price,” she states confidently. “It’s simply a matter of negotiation.”
“I don’t want your dirty bribe money.” I rise from the couch, realizing we won’t see eye to eye on this. “I won’t be bought off.”
I see myself out. I’m halfway down the foyer when she says, “He’ll never forgive you if you ruin his life, too.” Her words stop me in my tracks. “Do you think he’ll ever see this child as anything more than a burden, a noose around his neck? Who do you think he’ll blame for that? You’ll be the girl who destroyed everything.” I face her, vibrating, tears of anger, hurt, and betrayal threatening my stinging eyes. “You may not want my money, but if you’re smart, you’ll get rid of that thing and move on with your life.”
Thing?
“One day, you’ll regret this, Mrs. Channing. It may not be tomorrow. It may be years from now. When that day comes, it’ll be too late.”
I turn on my h
eels and walk back to my car with steadfast footsteps, my boots crunching in the white powder. I want to run like the wind, sensing she’s watching me leave. But I won’t allow her the satisfaction of my defeat. I open the squeaking door of my Nova and slam it shut with a screaming groan.
In the safety of my ice-covered car, I place my hands over my womb once more. There’s no flicker of her inside me this time. Her tiny heart is broken.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper, rubbing my palms over her, trying to sooth my unborn child, my fatherless child.
As the snow flitters to the ground, my tears do, too. Small trickles growing into big, fat tears, soaking the front of my sweater.
“I’ll figure this out,” I weep, now cradling my arms around myself. “I won’t let you down, baby. I promise.”
the area closest to the observer
Welcome to Aurora—the carved wood sign receives me—a place as familiar to me as my own name. Similar to my name, if heard enough, it becomes foreign. That’s what coming home after months away is like to me. It’s the same, but it’s not. It’s an illusion of home. I suppose that’s the way it’s supposed to be, otherwise none of us would ever leave.
We drive through the center of town, my eyes gulping in everything outside the window, passing at the pace you’d expect from a small town. I’ve missed it, the greenery, the charm of Main Street, the lake.
Tucked away from the world, Aurora sits dormant on the edge of the lake region, in the shadows of the White Mountains to the north. It’s the kind of town you wouldn’t know was there unless you’ve already been, hidden far beyond the stretches of Highway 93.
Back after my final days at UC Berkeley, with a degree in art history, I’m ready for my last summer living at home before moving to New York in the fall, ‘officially’ starting my life. Thanks to my favorite professor, I lined up an interview at the end of summer for a paid internship at a well-known and respected gallery.
“Are you happy to be home, Evie?” Taylor, mind reader, asks.
I watch her drive, her left leg bent on the seat, her hair blowing around like strawberry champagne streamers. She’s focusing on the road and singing along to some obscure folksy song. It’s pretty, but it’s putting my brain to sleep.
“Yeah, I am.” I grab her iPod, which houses some of my stuff, too, scrolling to the best band since the invention of music, The Strokes. “I wish it had worked out like I’d planned it. I didn’t want to pester you to give me a ride from the airport.”
She glances at me from the corner of her soulful brown eyes, a smirk tweaking her face.
“You know I’m happy to do it. What kind of person would I be if I left—you—stranded?” The words tumble out of her mouth, sputtering like a car dying on the side of the road. “Sorry,” she apologizes, her face scrunching.
Always reliable, she’s certainly earned the title of best friend and sister by choice. We’ve been through every milestone, birthday, relationship, and broken heart together. Where many friendships crumble, ours remains sturdy. We never let boys or pettiness get in the middle. When we were accepted to the same university, we decided not to let distance do it either. Though, I’d say we both really blossomed, growing apart enough to understand ourselves as individuals.
“It’s my own fault.” My head slumps back against the headrest. “I should expect this from her by now.”
“Your mom’s—” her voice trails off. She’s trying to find the right way to call my mom flighty.
“A flake,” I offer up.
“A go-with-the-flow free-spirit,” she corrects me.
“Code for flakey.”
She waves her hand in the air as if she’s swatting away the thought.
“And you couldn’t love her more.”
“Yeah, I do,” I grumble mockingly. Even though my mother’s the type to be forgetful, I never lacked for anything, except maybe a father. She always gave me double of everything, love, support, and encouragement, to make up for his absence in my life.
“Did you get the apartment packed up, alright?”
“Yeah,” I answer, rubbing the stiffness from my neck. “The movers are on their way and we’ll store everything until I move.”
Tay moved back home two weeks ago while I stayed behind to wait out the end of the lease and final inspection on our place.
We turn onto our private road, an infinite dirt driveway cutting through a thick birch, maple, and spruce-fir forest. Everything within a few miles belongs to my family, the lake included, and has for two hundred years.
“There’s a get-together planned for Saturday, boys, beer, boating, bonfire, all the important b’s.”
“Sounds stellar,” I comment on the verge of a yawn, stretching my legs and arms as best as the cramped confines of her hybrid Jetta lets me. After a six-hour flight stuck between two extremely chatty women and a long ride home, my butt is legally dead.
I plan to take a soak since I’m not expecting any major celebration of my arrival, maybe a quiet dinner, brought in from the diner most likely, because Mom’s pretty useless in the kitchen.
The car breaks from the claustrophobic limits of the forest into the wide-openness of our four acre lot. Most of it is bare of flowers and bushes. It was like growing up in a giant park, with green grass and well-spaced trees as old as the dirt they grow from. Trees rule eighty percent of the estate, sectioning off each home circling the lake by lush leafy forest.
We pass the horse paddock, the stables, the barn, and the carriage house before the lovely old Victorian at the edge of the water comes into view. Without the car coming to a full stop, I jump out and grab my bag from the backseat. I walk over to the driver’s side and lean into the window, giving Tay a one-armed squeeze.
“I’ll pick you up Saturday morning. We’re spending the whole day on the lake.”
“See you then.”
Drawn out, she says, “Bye,” then drives into the horizon.
I wave her off.
She honks the horn twice.
Allowing the blood to travel back into my legs and butt cheeks, I admire the house, the wrap-around porch, the lacey fringe, the turret. It’s a life-size dollhouse. Its beauty has faded over the years, though.
Once I’ve given it an appraising glance, I realize the dingy white paint has been given a fresh coat. In fact, the whole property appears improved. The blue hydrangea bushes around the front and sides seem healthier and hardier this year. The garden seems better tended and weeded. Our old carriage house appears to have been repainted and repaired as well.
Being such a timeworn property, it requires regular maintenance. My mother isn’t Martha Stewart, the nonconformist she is. She craves the arts and spiritual enlightenment, spending her time reading, sculpting, or practicing yoga and meditation. Housekeeping was never one of her top priorities.
I can’t wait to see her. I’ve actually missed her flighty craziness. I must be crazy, too.
I lug my over-sized duffle toward the porch, stopping shy of the first step when a rustling comes from my right. Bursting from a lavender bush, a black Labrador runs at me full force. I drop my bag and suck in a startled breath, readying myself for impact, but it skids to a stop at my feet.
“Well, who are you,” I stretch around to check its sex, “boy?” I ask with a high, sweet voice.
He pants happily when I bend down to scratch him behind the ear, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.
“Max,” a male voice calls, “come here.”
Glimpsing over, I spot a man standing amongst the lavender, maybe a handful of years older than myself, his sun-stained skin sweaty and covered in earth. The handyman I presume. Max hesitates before toddling to his side and plopping his butt in the dirt.
Cleaning his hands with a rag from his back pocket, the stranger studies me with brooding ochre eyes—the fiery hue of maple leaves on the cusp of a New England autumn—nestled under thick, expressive eyebrows. There’s a beautiful sadness about him, a profound hurt supp
ressed inside.
We study each other interestedly. Neither one making an attempt to introduce ourselves. I’m always reserved when I first meet someone. It’s who I am. I’ve also never encountered anyone who watches me the way he is right now.
I continue up the porch and into the house, dumping my crap in the entryway. I chance an unobstructed view of the unaware gardener through the glass of the door once I’m safely behind it. When his eyes stumble on mine again, I step away.
I brush him off and take in the missed familiarity of home. Even the inside seems revitalized. The once loose wood details are nailed back into place, fresh paint coats the walls, the old planked floor newly polished.
Realizing my mom hasn’t ambushed me with kisses and hugs yet, I call out, “I’m home!”
She comes skipping down the stairs, a hand on the wood balustrade. When her bare feet hit the floor, her arms widen to welcome me into her embrace.
“Evie baby!” she cries as I jump into her arms and hug her to me tightly, inhaling her comforting maternal scent. It sounds childish, but it’s my security blanket. “Let me see you.” She holds me away from her, giving me a onceover then smashing me back into her chest. “You look wonderful,” she compliments me, rocking us back and forth.
“I missed you, Mama.”
“Oh, baby, I missed you, too.” Taking our time for a proper hello, we withdraw unhurriedly and move into the living room off the foyer. She keeps an arm about my shoulder. “Did you have a good flight?”
“I’m alive, so I’d say yes.”
We take a seat on the couch, facing the garden where the strange man raises a hoe clutched in his hands into the air and brings it down with force into the fertile soil. His muscles contract as they work the tilling tool into the ground, cultivating it for new vegetation, his gray shirt straining from the exertion.
I shift my attention off the distraction working in my front yard to Meredith beside me.
“Who’s tall, dark, and filthy in the garden?”
“Oh,” she glances out the window at him, “Holt.”
Secondary Colors Page 1