“Faye, why do I have the feeling that you’re not telling me because you know I’m going to hate the answer?” Sweet Louise gritted her teeth. “I can still spy on people, so there’s that.”
“Just for the record, Faye, I want you to know that it’s okay if you want to go into the light, or if you want to stay around, that’s fine too.” January watched the back door in case a spirit did wander out. “If you stay, I’d love your help with design choices.” She put her hand over her heart. “I solemnly swear to not Futro anything … ever.”
Several doors slammed at once, and it sounded a little like clapping.
“How do you feel about babies? I’m having one, so I kinda need to know your stance. Babies, yes or no?” January hoped it was yes, because otherwise she’d have to exorcise poor Faye, and it didn’t seem right to kick her out of her own home.
A door slammed.
“Awesome. It looks like we’ll be raising this baby together.” January put her hand over Baby J. “By the way, I’m January. Since we know a lot about you, it’s rude to not tell you about us. I own a bar, have two overprotective brothers, and I’m thinking about getting a dog. How do you feel about dogs? Good or bad?”
One door slam.
“I’m so glad. I’m thinking about a big, goofy lab. Okay with you?” January glanced at the plate of cookies on the side table by Sweet Louise. Baby J remained silent on the subject.
Another single door slam.
“Okay, Faye, we hope to divine the sex of the baby tonight. What are your thoughts? Girl or boy?” Sweet Louise held her hand out to January and helped her up. “We’re going to do the high and low test. Hold up your shirt and turn to the side.”
January pulled up her shirt and turned to the side.
“If she’s carrying the baby high, it’s a girl. If it’s low, it’s a boy.” Sweet Louise stepped back to analyze Baby J’s position. “I can’t tell if it’s high or low.”
“I don’t understand how the shape of the uterus reveals anything.” Laney was all about science, and it looked like she’d used up her subjective thinking on talking to a ghost.
“You’re no fun.” Nina pulled out her smartphone. “I found some sure-fire ways to tell the baby’s gender.” She turned to January. “Do you crave ice cream all the time?”
January dropped her arms and her shirt fell back into place. “Who doesn’t? It’s ice cream. If you don’t crave it, there’s something seriously wrong with you.”
“I agree.” Sweet Louise reclined back on her chaise. “People who don’t like ice cream probably also hate kittens and Netflix and America. Now that I think about it, a lack of ice cream explains terrorism. If terrorists just had a pint of mint chocolate chip, they wouldn’t want to blow things up. The world needs more ice cream diplomacy.”
“Here here.” Susie held up her wineglass filled with sparkling apple juice. Normally, it would have been margaritas, but everyone was abstaining because January was pregnant.
Laney glanced back at the house. “Do you think we should catch Faye up on world politics? If I were her, I’d want to know everything.”
“Hey, Faye, do you care about world politics?” Susie watched the back of the house.
A door slammed twice.
“I’m with you.” January saluted Faye with the glass of milk she’d used to wash down her cookies.
“Does anyone have any Drano?” Nina looked from person to person.
“Do we need Drano? The bathroom drains should be fine. Bru installed them this morning.” January shrugged. “We can only use the outdoor bathroom anyway.”
“It’s to tell the sex of the baby. You pee in a cup and we add Drano. If the pee turns green it’s a girl, blue if it’s a boy.” Nina pointed to her phone.
“Who do you think came up with that?” Susie shook her head. “So … what … they had some pregnant lady pee in a bunch of cups and then they started adding chemicals to them to see which ones made the best colors? Who thought that was a good idea?”
“I hope they didn’t leave the colored pee out on the kitchen table during Easter, because some unsuspecting kid could come along with a basket full of boiled eggs and try to use the colored pee to die his Easter eggs.” Nina’s face pinched up. “That’s just gross. Let’s move on to the next way to tell the baby’s gender.” She picked up a set of car keys from the table with the cookies. She took off one of the keys and tossed it on the ground in front of January. “Can you pick that up for me?”
January shrugged. “Okay.” She squatted down and picked up the key.
“You picked the key up by the round part. That means you’re having a boy.” Nina didn’t sound like she was convinced. “That may be dumber than the Drano thing. Moving right along.” She swiped her phone screen. “Nope, that’s even dumber than the key.” She swiped again. “Really stupid.”
“What about the ring test?” Charisma crunched on another carrot. “You take a ring, put it on a string, and hold it up to her belly. If it swings around in a circle it’s a girl, and if it swings back and forth it’s a boy.” She thought about it for a second. “Wait, it may be the other way around.”
Everyone looked at their hands. No one was wearing a ring and they were fresh out of string.
“There’s a belief about sprinkling salt on the head of the pregnant lady. When she wakes, if she says a man’s name the baby is going to be a boy, and if she says a girl’s name it’s a girl.” Nina shook her head. “I don’t know about pregnant women, but I don’t usually wake up and say anyone’s name.”
“Yeah, who springs out of bed yelling, ‘Bob’?” January yawned. It had been a very long day. “Even if I was sleeping with someone named Bob, I’m still not calling out his name.”
A door slammed.
“Faye agrees.” January refused to dwell on the fact that it would likely be a very long time before she slept next to anyone again. The thought made her long for Giles. She hated that she wanted to know what he was doing right now. Giles was one of her weaknesses, and she hated weakness.
She looked around, taking in her house and her friends. Her life was pretty wonderful. She didn’t need a man, didn’t want a man, and was clearly lying to herself.
* * *
Chapter 12
* * *
Giles stared at the half-painted wall of his living room. While he was improving himself, why not also improve his house? As long as there was the possibility that January and the baby might move in here, he wanted his house to be the best for them.
Repainting his living room had seemed like a good way to spend a Saturday. The reality was that he had nothing else to do. He finally had the soft life he’d always wanted growing up. He had a housekeeper who made sure that everything was clean and nothing was out of place. He had a yard service that took care of the outside. He had a valet service that came to his office to wash his car and change the oil when necessary. He wasn’t on call this weekend.
What did other people do for fun?
The only fun he’d had in the last two decades had been with January. She’d pushed him out of his comfort zone and taken him to the Pecan Street Festival, antiquing in Round Top, wakeboarding on Lake Travis, and to see the lights in Marfa. He smiled to himself. Marfa must have been where they’d conceived their baby. He shook his head. That had been some night. They’d made love on a blanket in the middle of the desert under a million stars. She was, and he hoped she always would be, his guilty pleasure.
It was a sad fact that house painting was the only thing between him and boredom.
Now that he looked at the gray he’d picked out for the living room, he decided it was too taupe-y. The fact that he could tell the difference between taupe and pure gray was due to his dear old dad. The old man had claimed to be an artist, only he hadn’t been a very good one; he’d never even sold a painting.
Giles Gustav Nixon had been named after the Scottish landscape painter James Giles and the Symbolist painter Gustav Klimt.
; Giles knew his art. Back in the day, he’d been a pretty good painter himself. It had come as a huge surprise to him that he actually wanted to paint again, and he wasn’t talking walls. He smiled to himself again. Susie had been right about finding out who he really was. At heart, he loved to paint, but he’d never let himself admit that because painting didn’t pay the bills. Now the bills were more than covered, so what could it hurt?
His father had loved the artworks of Giles’s namesakes. If Giles was being honest with himself, he hated the Scottish landscapes, but he loved Gustav Klimt’s paintings. He looked around at his bare walls. Maybe he’d buy a painting or a sketch by Klimt. It would be expensive, but he had a seven-figure bank account. It was time to spend some of that money he’d worked so hard to stockpile.
He looked down at his paint-spattered chinos. He needed some jeans, some oil paints, canvases, and a different living room wall color. While he was at it, some comfy Birks and T-shirts would be a good idea.
Four hours later, he clicked the button to open the garage door and pulled his Jaguar in and closed the garage. He gathered up all of his shopping bags and headed into the house.
In no time at all, he’d set up his new easel in the sunroom and began priming a canvas with gesso. While he let that dry, he poured the new wall paint into the paint tray, clicked a new paint roller head onto his paint roller, rolled it in the paint called Drift of Mist, and rolled the pale gray paint onto his living room wall. He painted a good ten-foot by ten-foot section and then stepped back to admire the color. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t perfect. It was really more of a meh color. He was willing to give it another coat and see if that edged it closer to being just okay.
He pulled out his cell from his back jeans pocket just in case Susie had called and he hadn’t heard it ring or felt it buzz. There were no new calls. She’d promised to call him, and he was relatively sure she would. Every morning he called Laney. She didn’t pick up.
His phone was depressingly silent.
He tested the gesso and found that it was dry. He picked up the fine-grain sandpaper he’d bought at the art store and sanded the canvas to smooth the surface. Then he applied the second coat of gesso. While that dried, he picked up his paint roller and added a second coat to the wall. He stepped back. It wasn’t fair to judge the color until it dried, but right now it seemed too pale and was definitely still in the meh zone.
His living room needed to make a statement. It needed darker paint. He could see it in his head. Blue-gray walls with blinding white trim.
He checked his phone again.
Nothing.
He checked the second coat of gesso. It was dry. He glanced at the new plastic paint palette. It was way too white. He smiled. His father used to say, “A clean palette is a new start.”
Giles felt like this was his new start. His life could use a reboot. Who would have known the old man had any sage advice?
He picked up a stick of charcoal and began sketching. He didn’t know what the painting would turn out to be, he just let his subconscious have free rein. He shut out the world around him and focused only on the canvas. He was in the zone. Drawing and shading, drawing and shading.
Three hours later, he stepped back and squinted at the drawing. He’d sketched a fairly good portrait of January. It wasn’t a realistic portrait in the conventional sense, but more Symbolist meets Art Nouveau. In his mind’s eye, he could see the finished result. The background would be a deep, rich red with underlying gold notes. Her face was in three-quarter profile. He’d outline that profile in gold and black to set off her beautiful face. Her shirt would be black with gold swirls.
Her pose was informal, but the colors he planned to use were formal. He liked the juxtaposition.
He picked up his too-clean palette and squeezed a good amount of red paint onto it. He poured some linseed oil over the paint and mixed it with his palette knife, and then he picked up one of the larger brushes. He applied the red paint as a background.
He jumped into painting with both feet and lost himself in his own little world.
Hours later, his stomach rumbled and he noticed the first rays of sunshine peeking over the horizon. He leaned his head around the corner and checked the clock hanging on the kitchen wall.
It was six forty-five. He’d painted all night.
He stretched his back and realized that his neck muscles were tight. He massaged them the best he could, but his right hand was cramping from working with his paintbrush and palette knife all night.
He’d finished the painting. He couldn’t remember ever finishing one so quickly.
He stepped back.
It was exactly as he’d seen it in his mind. January was in profile. Her seductive little smile hinted that she had a secret or two that she wasn’t willing to share. The red background complemented her lightly bronzed skin, and the gold brought out the golden highlights in her strawberry-blonde hair.
How was she? She’d be twelve or thirteen weeks along. Did she have morning sickness? How big was her baby bump?
When his wife had been pregnant with Laney, she had viewed pregnancy as more of a clinical trial. Marjorie had recorded every change in her body for scientific purposes, but January was the opposite of Marjorie. January would roll her eyes and laugh at the changes in her body, and she probably talked to the baby all the time.
When he finally saw January and explained what had happened, would she take him back? He’d never wanted anything more.
He pulled up a chair and just stared at the painting.
If she did take him back, what would their life together be like?
Their house would be messy but clean. They would divide responsibilities—she would do the dishes while he cooked. Or the other way around. He didn’t care. The baby would be toddling around the living room trying to steal popcorn from the bowl while they watched a movie.
January would find something on the internet about some obscure state park that no one had ever heard of and she’d insist they take a day trip. They’d go to South by Southwest and ACL Music Festival because January loved music.
There would be a houseful of relatives and friends on Thanksgiving and a giant Christmas tree with a mountain of presents under it all wrapped in festive wrapping paper. January insisted that all gifts should be wrapped.
Last Christmas, she’d given him a Texas Wine Tour weekend. They’d had so much fun. And he’d given her a pen.
Wow, he’d been a terrible boyfriend. Who gave the woman he loved a pen?
Now that he looked back on it, he could see that she’d given him everything she had, and he’d given her a pen. While that didn’t make him the worst boyfriend ever, it probably put him in the top ten.
With her, he hadn’t been emotionally invested from the beginning because he’d always thought it was temporary. Not that he hadn’t believed in permanence, but it was more like he was waiting for her to get tired of him. She was smart, beautiful, and entirely too young for him. He hadn’t realized his feelings for her until it was too late.
God, please help it to not be too late. He wanted a life with January and the baby.
He wanted to do all of the things with the baby that he hadn’t had time to do with Laney. They could ride the Zilker Park train and go see the Christmas lights. They could play at the neighborhood park down the street, and he’d take the baby trick-or-treating. He’d throw themed birthday parties for the baby and celebrate every single day he got to be with January.
His life had been so rich and full with her in it, and now the rest of his life loomed before him in an endless collection of carbon-copy days, one fading into the next.
That was depressing.
He’d never thought of himself as being depressive. He wasn’t a happy-go-lucky type either. He liked to think of himself as middle-of-the-road kind of man. As long as his life was in homeostasis, it was all good. He liked a plain vanilla life … no surprises.
At least he’d told himself that he liked it. And
then January had fallen into his life and everything had turned bright and shiny.
He smiled at the memory. He’d felt their chemistry right off, but he’d told himself that she was too young for him. At Susie’s first appointment, January had told him how her bar’s hamburger had been voted one of the best by Texas Monthly. He’d gone to her bar just for the hamburger—at least, that was what he’d told himself. They’d ended up at a table in the corner talking until well after closing. He’d been wanting to kiss her all night, and when he finally did, it had been like the first kiss of the rest of his life. They spent the night together at her condo, and then the next day, they’d gone out for coffee and then breakfast and then lunch and finally dinner. They never ran out of things to discuss. He’d never had that with anyone else.
His doorbell bing-bonged and he nearly jumped out of his skin.
He glanced at his watch. Who could be at his door at seven thirteen on a Sunday morning?
He rubbed his hands on his new jeans, but the paint had already dried. He was a mess.
The doorbell bing-bonged again.
He yelled, “I’m coming.”
He made it to the door just as the doorbell bing-bonged for a third time. He opened the door to find five angry female faces glaring at him.
The Tough Ladies, minus January, stood on his front stoop shooting him eye daggers. In the middle of The Tough Ladies stood a middle-aged woman poured into a black silk pantsuit. She had all of the sex appeal of a 1940s film star. He thought she might be his daughter’s future mother-in-law, but he’d never been introduced to her.
“Laney, it’s good to see you.” It was too formal, but around his daughter, he couldn’t seem to help the formal.
“See what I mean? He’s so cold. I don’t get how he and January got together.” Laney’s eyes zeroed in on his paint-covered jeans. “You’re wearing jeans and they’re covered in paint. Why?”
“Would you like to come in?” He moved aside and gestured for them to come in.
“Okay, but we’re not staying long.” Nina shot him a death glare so sharp it was a wonder it didn’t put his eye out.
Cold As January Page 9