by Elle Spencer
Patty’s tone had softened. Lindsay knew she’d meant well, but sixteen years was a long time to lie to your best friend. “You don’t have to suck up. Like you said, I don’t ever have to make that fucking casserole again.” Lindsay swiveled her stool so they were face-to-face. “But keep telling me what a cool mom I am.”
“Cool in every way. I mean, look at you. You make paint-splattered overalls look sexy. Whose were they, your grandpa’s?”
Lindsay put her leg up on her knee and pulled some of the loose strings from the frayed hem. She’d had to cut a few inches off the legs but had never bothered to hem them again. “I like to imagine they belonged to an old farmer who milked cows and plowed fields in them.”
Patty put up her finger. “Or maybe they belonged to a lesbian who refused to conform to societal norms, and she worked on trucks and tractors in them. Maybe even rode a Harley in them.”
“She sounds badass.” Lindsay yanked on a thread and unraveled more than she’d planned. “Either way, I’m happy to have them now, but I think it’s safe to say I’ll be their very last owner.”
“Linds?”
Patty had that contrite tone in her voice again. It was so out of character it made Lindsay uncomfortable. “Just say it, Cakes.”
“Did I blow my chance to see the painting? You know, with the whole casserole thing? Are you still going to let me meet her?”
Lindsay lifted an eyebrow. “Meet her? You make it sound like she’s a real person.”
“She is to you.”
“God, I love you. Thank you for taking me seriously.” Lindsay glanced at the covered painting sitting on an easel in the corner. She sighed heavily. “Now that I’ve painted her, I’m worried she’s going to haunt me even more.”
Patty glanced at the paintings of the boy. “You’re a complicated woman, Lindsay Hall.” She stood as if ready to leave.
“Wait.” Was she making too much of this? That was always Ben’s complaint. You hoard paintings of that kid like they’re your most prized possessions. “It’s not a big deal, right?” Her statement didn’t sound convincing, but she hoped Patty would believe it.
Patty shrugged. “If you say so.”
With a careful hand, Lindsay lifted the cloth off the painting and let it fall to the floor. She didn’t look for Patty’s approval. She just stared at it and waited.
“If a ghost was going to haunt me, I’d want it to be her,” Patty said. “Hot AF.”
Lindsay took a step back. “She is beautiful, isn’t she?”
“She’s orgasmic. And she’s looking right at me. Or through me. Jesus, Linds. It’s just this side of scary. Like, I can’t decide if she’s going to fuck me into next week or kill me and bury me with her own hands.”
“Hey, watch it. You’re talking about my past life love, you know.”
“Artists are so sensitive. I’m evaluating the work purely as a gallerist. That was my professional observation.”
“Right. I’ve been trying to put the feeling she evokes into words, and you’re here all of five minutes and—”
“And nailed it, didn’t I? She’s irresistible. And dangerous. And irresistible.”
“Are you going to climax right on that stool? Stop repeating yourself and wipe the sweat from your brow.” Patty put a hand on her forehead, and Lindsay laughed. “I was kidding, Cakes.” She picked up the cloth and covered the painting back up. “Also, I’m starving because someone ruined my appetite earlier.”
“Brookey ordered pizza,” Patty said. “It should be here by now.” She took another gulp of her beer and poured the rest into the small utility sink. “Gotta destroy the evidence. And, Linds, your secrets are safe with me. All of them.”
“I know.” Lindsay put her bottle in the sink and wrapped her arm around Patty. “But I still haven’t forgiven you for what we’ll now refer to as the TTL.”
“The what?”
“The Tater Tot Lie.”
“Can’t we just call it the Teeny Tiny Tater Tot Tale?”
Lindsay huffed. “More like the Big Ass Tater Tot Travesty.” She opened the door and locked it behind them.
“But I’m still your Pattycakes, right?”
Lindsay put her arm around Patty’s shoulder and walked close to her down the dark path that led to the house. She knew it by heart, but Patty wouldn’t know when to duck to avoid hitting her head on the willow tree branch. “No. You’re my Tater Tot now.”
“Oh, bite me.”
Lindsay laughed. “Only if you’re wrapped in cotton candy and dipped in chocolate. Watch your head.”
“Is that combo even possible?” someone said.
Lindsay stopped short and yelped. Patty screamed and shouted, “Brooke, you can’t just stand there silently in the dark like a creepy stalker!”
“Sorry, but the pizza’s here.” Brooke broke out in a big grin. “Can I call you Auntie Tater Tot now?”
“No,” Patty shouted. “Do you people even understand what a safe space is? Like, at all? In fact, you’re banned from using those words ever again, under any circumstances.”
“I can’t say tater tot? Like, ever?” Brooke turned to walk inside. “My life sucks so hard right now.”
Patty stopped and folded her arms. “Yeah, she’s got it so hard. Terrible parents, not a single brain cell in her head, short, stubby legs like mine. Did you know I have to get on my tiptoes to hug her now?”
“I hear you. It’s so demoralizing, isn’t it? I knew we should have fed her more processed food.”
“Don’t think that would have helped with the teen angst. My God, they act like they invented it.”
“I try to cut her some slack even when I really don’t want to,” Lindsay said. “She’s still working through things with the divorce, and Ben tried to tell her she couldn’t go on that Europe trip with the school choir. Apparently, he has some concerns that the choir is going there just to party.”
“Kids in Europe? Party? What?” Patty shook her head. “He’s being an idiot. I’d overrule him, Linds. They’ve been fundraising for that trip for over a year.”
“I know. My Cherokee has never been so clean with all the car washes they’ve done.”
“I’ve bought everything they’ve sold because I thought Brooke would be going.”
Lindsay grabbed Patty’s arm and led her to the house. “Yes, I’m sure it was a great hardship eating all of that chocolate and popcorn.”
“They were like drug dealers, pushing it on the corner in front of You Mock Me Like Crazy. I’m a victim, damnit.”
“It’s You Mocha Me Crazy,” Lindsay said. “But I kinda like your version better.”
Chapter Four
Deb’s old wrought iron bed squeaked with every move Ren made, but that was part of its charm. She’d slept on a piece of family history going back to 1828. John Quincy Adams had signed the original deed to the family’s land. As for the bed, she imagined many a child had been conceived on it. And maybe a few had even been born on it back in the day.
She’d cracked the window open for some fresh air the night before, so the room felt cool but not cold. The kids had already run up and down the stairs several times, probably having been sent back up because they’d forgotten to put on socks or brush their teeth.
Ren snuggled under the covers and closed her eyes in the hope she’d fall back asleep for another hour. The house fell quiet after a final slam of the front door. She took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Maybe she’d sleep for another two hours, then stop by the coffee shop.
The door slowly squeaked open. Ren opened her eyes and saw Caleb with his little hand gripping the knob he could barely reach. He was naked except for a diaper. Ren sat up. “Hey, little man. I thought everyone had left.”
Caleb trotted over to the bed. He grabbed the sheet and tried to climb up, but the bed was too high. “Climb in?” he said with a grunt.
“Reach up.” Ren pulled him up, and they both settled under the covers.
“Caleb?” De
b shouted from the bottom of the stairs. “Number Two, where are you?”
Caleb whispered, “Uh-oh.”
“Yeah,” Ren said in a louder than normal voice. “Big Mama is looking for you.” She lifted the covers. “You better hide.”
“You did not just call me Big Mama.” Deb made it to the top of the stairs and put her hands on her hips. “You’re both in so much trouble.”
Ren threw the covers over her head and whispered, “It’s worse than I thought. We better both hide.” Caleb cuddled in close and covered his eyes. Ren shrugged and did the same thing. “It’s worth a try,” she whispered.
Deb played the game for a few minutes, looking everywhere but the guest room. As the tension grew, Caleb couldn’t contain himself. He threw off the covers and shouted, “Wen is in here, Mommy!”
“Oh, you ratted me out.” She ruffled his messy blond hair.
“Never trust a two-year-old. They have zero loyalty.” Deb grabbed Caleb and put him on her hip. “How did you sleep?”
Ren sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Like a baby with a tummy full of milk.” She patted the bed. “You didn’t buy this new mattress just for me, did you?”
“Of course not. Everyone in this town decided to retire at the same time and travel. Which means when they come back, they’ll be sick of the RVs they sold their homes for and will want to shack up with their kids. Colby’s mom bought the mattress and said she’ll disown us if we let this guy wet his pants on it.” Deb poked Caleb in the stomach, making him giggle.
“Oh God. I could’ve been responsible for you losing your inheritance? You really can’t trust a two-year-old.”
Deb rolled her eyes. “Trust me, there won’t be anything but an old RV to inherit, and I love Colby, but there’s no way we’d survive driving from Walmart to Walmart in a tin can together. We’d kill each other at a KOA in Nebraska and end up on Dateline. They’d interview the kids one by one, and Corey would cry and say there’s no way my dad could’ve killed my mom. Then Colby Jr. would say something really smart like, that last Facebook post my mom made should’ve tipped us off that something was wrong, but we’re selfish children who don’t pay much attention to anything she says. We regret that now.”
Ren laughed. “And what would that final Facebook post have said?”
Deb tapped her chin. “Oh, something really vague like, kids, I’m going to kill your father tonight. In his sleep. With that little pistol he keeps in the glove box. If you have any last words for him, you better text him now.”
Ren tilted her head. “Should I start checking Facebook more often?”
“Nah. I’m not raising this little traitor on my own.” She checked Caleb’s diaper. “Number Two strikes again.” She kissed his cheek. “You’re lucky I love you so much, little guy.” She shouted from the hallway, “There’s juice and yogurt in the fridge. See you at the shop later?”
“I’ll be there!” Ren shouted back.
* * *
Ren tugged on the heavily worn boots she saved for her trips to Salt Creek. “Still a perfect fit.” She stood and stomped a few times. “Best thing I ever stole from you, Deb.”
She couldn’t remember exactly when she’d absconded with the old Blundstone boots, but it had to be going on ten years. The only pair of heels she brought was the pair she had on her feet when she arrived. The rest of her trip would be heel-free.
She grabbed her phone and a long wool sweater in case the sun decided to hide behind the clouds on her way into town. In October, it was best to be prepared for any kind of weather.
She tied the sweater around her hips. Yogurt would have been a fine breakfast, but the alternative was decidedly better. Breakfast could wait until she got to the coffee shop.
Deb lived three blocks from Main Street, so it wouldn’t be a long walk. Just enough to get some fresh air and maybe do a little window shopping along the way. It was a far cry from Fifth Avenue, but that was what she loved about Salt Creek. She could let her hair down and not worry about impressing clients.
In Paris, she imagined it would be even more important to wear the latest styles. Not that it was a hardship to dress up. Ren loved her shoe collection, even though it took up way too much space in the criminally small closet of her apartment. She loved her Chanel suits and Versace dresses. She loved fancy parties and rubbing shoulders with wealthy art collectors. She fit in well in that world, thanks to her pretentious parents. Well, that and her love of history and the finer things.
Salt Creek offered something different. It grounded her. She felt safe in its simplicity. Unlike New York, she could wear whatever she wanted, and no one would bat an eye.
The air felt cool and crisp, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was the perfect start to her two weeks off. No pressure. No drama. No clients. Just Deb, her family, good coffee, a craft beer or two, and if all went well, one of those cinnamon rolls would soon light up her life.
Ren stopped short when she turned the corner. “Main Street. On Main Street. That’s new.” Or new to her, at least. She couldn’t help but wonder what kind of art could be found in Salt Creek. Sure, they got plenty of tourists on their way to see summer stock in Great Barrington or Pittsfield, but who in this town could afford a piece of fine art?
Ren opened the door to the gallery. A loud bell rang out, announcing her arrival, and someone yelled, “Be right there, Mrs. Stokely.”
Ren could’ve shouted back that she wasn’t Mrs. Stokely, but she found herself speechless as she stared at the painting in front of her. She hadn’t expected to see something so exquisite. So beautifully executed. So full of emotion. She set her water bottle next to a ceramic vase and moved closer.
* * *
“Mom, you really need to give up this charade,” Brooke said. “You don’t even like the dog.”
Lindsay opened the front door, leash in hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I love the dog. And hurry up. Your father’s waiting.”
With a dramatic huff, Brooke grabbed her backpack off the coat hook. “Yeah, right. That’s why you bought a boy dog a pink leash with fake diamonds on it. Not passive-aggressive at all.”
“I don’t put limitations on Sir Barksalot. He can express himself however he wants.”
Brooke stepped out the front door and put up her finger. “Okay, number one, that’s not his real name, and number two, you make it sound like he picked out the leash himself.”
“He did.” Lindsay bit her lip to try to hide her grin and locked the front door behind them. “And heaven knows he needs a good walk.”
“Pugs are supposed to look chubby,” Brooke said.
“Not that chubby.” Lindsay held the leash up and waved at Ben. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. Good. Mission accomplished.
Brooke opened the truck door. “Hey, Dad. Hey, boy.” She scratched Sir Barksalot behind the ears, then set him on the ground and said, “Sorry for what you’re about to endure.”
Lindsay bent down and secured the leash on his collar. “Isn’t joint custody fun, Sir Barksalot?” He licked her wrist. “Ew, don’t do that.”
“I’ll pick him up tomorrow night,” Ben said. “And don’t lose him by ‘accident.’” He put finger quotes around the last word.
Lindsay held up the pink leash. “We’re going to strut down Main Street together. Sure hope some of your buddies see us.”
“Oh God, Mom.” Brooke slammed the door and covered her eyes.
“Love you, honey!” Lindsay gave them a big wave as they drove off. She looked at Chubby McChubberson and shook her head. “I couldn’t lose you if I tried.” She rubbed behind his ear the way he liked. God, she loved that damned dog. She tried to pretend it was just an arrangement for the sake of the divorce, but the truth was, she hated sharing him.
Lindsay checked the pocket of her fleece jacket to make sure she had two plastic bags since the pug was famous for needing more than one pit stop on a fifteen-minute walk. Finding herself to be appropriately stocked, she announced,
“Okay. Let’s go, Barksy.”
* * *
A woman came out from the back room and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Ren. “Oh!”
“I’m not Mrs. Stokely, obviously. Sorry, I should have said something.”
“No, it’s quite all right.” She laughed. “You’re most certainly not a grumpy elderly woman here to scold me about why I haven’t sold one of her paintings this week.”
“Ah. Nope. Not elderly or grumpy. Well, not grumpy after my second cup of coffee in the morning. I’m Ren. Ren Christopher.”
“Wait. Ren? Kevin Bacon’s Ren?”
“Good catch. Most people assume I’m named after the bird. It’s a lot easier than explaining my mom’s obsession with Footloose.” She pointed at the painting she’d been admiring. “Can you tell me anything about the painting and the artist? I don’t think I’ve seen their work before.”
“The artist is local. And she’s been very secretive about this one. I actually had to convince her to sell it, and trust me, it wasn’t easy. She only brought it in this morning.” She backed away. “Do you mind if I make a quick phone call?”
Ren wasn’t in a big hurry, but she did want to get to Deb’s place as soon as possible. “I actually need to meet someone. I’m very interested in that painting, but I don’t see a price on it.”
“Yeah, I didn’t expect to have a buyer so soon. Maybe you could come back another time?”
She needed some serious coaching on how to treat a prospective buyer. Ren wasn’t about to let her get away with such bad service. She offered her hand. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Patty. I own the gallery.”
Okay, so this was progress. “Nice to meet you, Patty.” Ren pulled her credit card out of her phone wallet. “I’d like to purchase that painting.” She noticed the beads of sweat on Patty’s forehead. “Are you okay?”