by Julia London
“I’ve no doubt that you would work hard, Miss Lassiter. You seem very . . . earnest,” he said, his gaze flicking dismissively over her dress. “But I disagree that you would learn much. Your work lacks vision and depth. Breath?” he said, gesturing to her portfolio. “That’s the name of your piece? It’s such a fundamentally bad concept that I can’t even begin to critique it.”
“But I can learn. I—”
“Your work looks as if you took all your instruction to heart. But you don’t have raw talent or a unique vision that I can see in your work, and I can’t teach that. Either you have it, or you don’t. If you don’t know what your vision is, Miss Lassiter, your work will always appear to the world as it did to me—sophomoric.”
Well there was a dagger right through the center of her heart, plunged so deeply that it was a miracle Mia didn’t sprawl right there onto his drop cloths in a pool of tears and snot and blood.
“But I will say this—your use of color is very good,” he said. And with that, he turned and walked out of the room.
Mia had no idea how she got out of there. Had Vincent thrown her out, or had she crawled out? She remembered being on the train, staring at the ad across from her of a handsome man with shaving cream all over his face. She remembered slowly realizing that Mr. Brockway was right. His delivery sucked, but he was right. He’d hit the nail on the head, had zeroed in on the thing that had nagged at Mia for a very long time, but she hadn’t been able to name. Her work had no clear vision, no real point of view. It was what her professors called “needs improvement” and “let’s work on what message you’re trying to convey.” She tried one idea after the next, never finding that common thread in her body of work. Her subjects were run of the mill.
He was right—she didn’t have what it took to be a working, viable artist. It was so unfair! Her love of art was what ran through her veins. She couldn’t keep the desire out of her. She couldn’t not create.
Mia was so shaken that she didn’t notice her landlady until she almost collided with her. Mrs. Chalupnik was standing in the entry hall with one thick arm across her body, holding her threadbare bathrobe closed.
“Oh, hi, Mrs. Chalupnik.” She put her head down and tried to scoot past. She was on the verge of a meltdown and didn’t have time to chat.
“The check, it’s no good,” Mrs. Chalupnik said, waving a paper at Mia with her free hand.
Mia’s step slowed. “What?”
“Your rent check is no good!” Mrs. Chalupnik said, only louder. “It comes back with insufficient funds!”
Mia felt a horrible twist of impending doom. “That’s impossible!” she cried, and took the paper, staring at it. How was that possible?
“Now you owe me two hundred dollars on top of rent,” Mrs. Chalupnik said. “You have until Friday.”
“But I can’t get it by Friday,” Mia said. Her head was reeling. “There has to be some mistake. I’m very careful about this—it’s impossible I bounced a rent check.”
“My eyes do not lie,” Mrs. Chalupnik said, jabbing a finger dangerously near her eye for emphasis. She snatched the paper from Mia’s hands. “Your bank, it doesn’t tell you this?”
Her bank. The truth was that Mia hadn’t collected her mail in several days. And she had turned off notices on her phone to keep the battery from draining.
“You find the money,” Mrs. Chalupnik said. She turned around and opened the door to her apartment. The smell of sauerkraut wafted out and hit Mia squarely in the face before Mrs. Chalupnik slammed the door shut.
Mia whirled around, hurried to her mailbox, and opened it. Several things fell out, and among them, two notices from her bank. She fell back against the wall and slid down to her haunches in her stupid tea-stained dress and with a rash where her portfolio had rubbed against her leg as she’d trudged home.
So this, apparently, was how a life was completely deconstructed.
Two
May
On a scale of one to ten, ten being everything-is-awesome, and one being someone-stole-my-puppy, coming home to East Beach in the early spring was a solid three. And only that high because Mia loved her family.
She did not love East Beach, especially this time of year, when life around the lake was dead. It was too early for the summer people to come up from the city and occupy their stunning vacation homes that dotted the hills around Lake Haven. Winter would, without warning, drag its claws through the season once more, striating cold and gray misery across the emerging vivid greens and blues and colors of spring.
It was too nippy for the full-time residents of the village, or the year-rounders as they called themselves, to take advantage of the empty beach, save those rare, sundrenched days. Mostly, they spent the early spring cleaning their gardens, hosing down their lawn furniture, and waiting for the summer people to arrive.
This spring, there was a lot of gossip circulating around the lake along with the baby strollers. Everyone was talking about the inaugural Lake Haven Music Festival, to be held over Memorial Day weekend. That was new and different. The festival had been designed to kick off the summer rush and promote better tourism economy around the lake. Competition with the Hamptons and the Berkshires had ratcheted up in recent years, and the Lake Haven Chamber of Commerce was determined to take back their fair share of tourist dollars.
There was also quite a lot of sniggering about Mia’s uncle, Larry Painter, who’d shown up at the Chamber of Commerce brunch with ditzy Britney Johnson on his arm. The same ditzy Britney Johnson who had graduated high school with Larry’s daughter, Emily. Mia knew her cousin was a bit bothered by her father’s choice of dates because she’d complained, “If he’s going to rob the cradle, couldn’t he at least have robbed a smart one?”
Aunt Amy, who was the sister of Mia’s mother and also the ex-wife of Larry, laughed when she heard the news. “I hope he’s kept up his Viagra prescription.”
In the local coffee shop, tongues wagged. Who did Britney think she was? Who did Larry think he was? Mia knew this, because she waited in line for lattes every morning. Not just one latte, mind you, but three. Lattes were part of her new career duties working at Uncle John and Aunt Beverly’s home interiors shop as head gopher.
Obviously, Mia should have taken the sage advice of her high school guidance counselor, Mr. Braeburn, and developed some of those desperately needed backup skills. Alas, she had not taken his advice, and, in truth, had been a world-class champ for not taking advice in high school. As a result, Mia had no plan B. She had nothing but the same dream she’d had most of her life—and a growing anger with her idol, August Brockway.
So here she was, back in East Beach with two choices: suit up and perform hostess duties at her parents’ bistro, or work on this massive renovation project of the historic Ross house Aunt Bev was trying to land.
The former meant Mia’s well-meaning mother would be in her business 24/7 instead of the current 18/7, which she was able to achieve because Mia had also ended up in her childhood bedroom. In her old twin bed. Beneath some of her early attempts at painting and the dried-up corsage she’d pinned to the wall after the sophomore dance.
The latter meant she was more or less out of the town’s eye, because the Ross house was up on a hill at the edge of town overlooking the lake. Someone had bought the historic landmark and wanted to redo it completely, from attic to basement. “I’m going to need someone up there every day to keep an eye on the workers and to accept deliveries,” Aunt Bev had said, confident that she’d get the gig.
That didn’t sound very appealing to the artist in Mia, but it was work, and honestly, the fewer people around town who saw her, the fewer who would suspect her return to East Beach was not a triumphant one and, really, an Olympic-caliber dive into failure.
Worse was that Mia was beginning to believe she’d never be anything but a failure. The interview with August Brockway had done a crippling number on her head and had filled her with self-doubt that was continuing to morph into somethi
ng much larger and more sinister.
Anyway, Mia had taken the job with Aunt Bev, and so far, she’d spent two days at the Ross house measuring rooms and taking pictures so they could firm up the bid.
This morning, Mia was waiting for Aunt Bev to pick her up, because in addition to coming home without her mojo, Mia had also come home without a car. She was standing just outside Lakeshore Coffee with her tray of lattes when the John Beverly Home Interiors and Landscape Design shop van came rumbling down the road. Mia stepped off the curb to dart across the street. Thank God she glanced over her shoulder, because out of nowhere, a black roadster came screaming around the corner. With a shriek, Mia jumped back up on the curb. “Hey!” she shouted as the car pulled up outside the coffee shop. Mia stood a moment to catch her breath, to make sure she was all there and hadn’t spilled the lattes.
The door of the black car swung open, and one long leg in tight jeans and Dingo boots appeared, followed by another one. A man jackknifed himself out of the car, pulled his ballcap low over his eyes, hidden behind dark shades, and started striding for the coffee shop.
“Hey!” Mia shouted again. “Hey you!”
The man paused. He slowly turned toward the sound of her voice . . . so slowly that Mia had the idea he was high. He was tall, and his hair, tucked behind his ears, almost reached his shoulders. Mia started toward him, and he swayed backwards with a groan before bellowing, “What?” as he threw his arms wide.
Whoa. As if she’d done something wrong. “You almost hit me!” Mia said, her breath still short from fright. She pointed at his car with the tray of lattes.
He looked at his car. Then at her. “But I didn’t hit you.”
“You almost hit me!”
“Fine, I almost hit you. Anything else almost happen?”
“Are you kidding? You should be more careful!”
“Baby, I should be a lot of things. But maybe you should stay out of the street.” With that, he turned around and strolled into the coffee shop.
Mia was still gaping after him in disbelief when the blare of a horn startled her badly.
It was Aunt Bev, who had pulled up across the street. “Get in, get in!” Aunt Bev shouted out the window, as if she were pregnant and about to give birth.
“Oh my God, is that necessary?” With her free hand pressed against her heart, Mia crossed the street and got into the van. She hadn’t even shut the door before Aunt Bev was taking off.
Mia squealed when the door got away from her and swung out wide, then braced herself against the dash and caught it as it swung back in, pulling it firmly shut. “Aunt Bev, you’re going to hurt someone! Did you see that black car almost run me down? Slow down, we have plenty of time.”
But Aunt Bev’s blue eyes were gleaming. “Do we? I don’t think so, Mia—my goodness, what are you wearing?”
Mia looked down. She was wearing the skirt she’d made from fabric she’d designed, her paisley tights and combat boots, and a cropped T-shirt beneath a denim jacket. “I thought this was pretty sedate,” Mia said. “I mean, compared to the rest of my closet.”
“Were you drunk when you put it on and thought it was sedate?” snorted Aunt Bev. “Never mind. We have a crisis. Do you know who is up at the Ross house right now? Diva Interiors from Black Springs.”
“Who is Diva Interiors from Black Springs?” Mia asked, bracing herself against the dashboard as Aunt Bev took a sharp right.
“Tess McDaniel, my chief competition, that’s who. But let me tell you—this is a million dollar job,” Aunt Bev said, stabbing the air with two chubby manicured fingers that supported several sparkly rings. “I’m not going to let it go without a fight. She’s been encroaching on my territory for a year now. We have to finish our bid and get it in before she does. The owner, Nancy Yates, has to see how I could turn that house from the ugly pile of shit that it is to something really spectacular.” Aunt Bev punctuated that by braking so hard that Mia almost went flying through the windshield.
“What the hell?” Mia cried.
Just as quickly, Aunt Bev accelerated onto Juneberry Road.
For the three miles up to the Ross house, Aunt Bev laid out what Mia should do today. “Finish measuring the rooms. Snap some pictures—you know, fixtures, outlets, windows. I need to see each room as if I’m there to finish this up. I have an appointment on the other end of the lake or I’d come with you, but maybe it’s better that I don’t, because I would really like to punch Tess in the kisser,” she said, and made a swinging motion with her fist.
“Yep. Maybe it’s better if you don’t,” Mia agreed.
They reached a narrow gate in a stone fence. There was a small plaque on the fence around the property that read simply, Ross House. Aunt Bev slowed considerably as she pulled into the property. “For Chrissakes,” she said as they rounded a curve and saw the drive was filled with trucks. “Okay, get to work, Mia. Wallace will be here to pick you up at three.”
Mia picked up her bag with her sketchbook and camera and opened the door. “See you later.” She’d hardly stepped out of the van before Aunt Bev was off again.
She waved away the dust the van left in its wake as it disappeared around the corner, then remembered her latte, still in the van. “Damn it,” she muttered under her breath. She adjusted her bag onto her shoulder and paused a moment to take in the gloriously warm and bright morning. The sun cast a golden light on the house, making it look much more cheerful than it had under the leaden skies of the last two days. Even the windows on the second floor had been cranked open to allow in the fresh air.
“Hi, Mia.”
She looked around and smiled at Drago Kemper. He was the security here, and wore a uniformed shirt that seemed a size too small for him. His arms were massive, his chest even broader. Drago spent a lot of time at the gym.
Mia knew Drago from way back. They were the same age, had been in the same class through middle school and high school. They were a lot alike back then, both of them on the fringe of the popular circles. Mia, because she was different than the other girls and preferred to make her clothes and color her hair and paint strange, angsty portraits. Drago, because of his learning disabilities.
“Hey, Drago, how are you?”
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Hey, did you check out the spin class I told you about?”
“Ah . . . no,” she said, nodding. “But I’m going to. Probably today.” She gave a swing of her arm in a go-get-’em manner. “What’s going on around here today?” she asked, glancing back at the trucks.
“She’s redoing the terrace. Anyways, you can’t go in.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“Because Mrs. Yates isn’t here. She had to go somewhere and she locked it. I don’t think she wanted those guys getting in.”
“Great.” Mia glanced at her watch. “I’ve only got a couple of hours. You can let me in, can’t you?”
“Nope,” he said with a shake of his shaved head. “Not supposed to let anyone in. Sorry.”
Mia suspected that order didn’t extend to her, but she didn’t want to agitate Drago. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No. Sorry,” he said again.
Mia remembered the latest issue of Us Weekly was in her bag. “I guess I’ll hang out,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t have a ride until later anyway. I’ll just go down to the lake. Is that okay?”
Drago hesitated, squinting at her. “I guess so,” he said uncertainly. “But they’re working back there.”
“I’ll stay out of their way,” Mia assured him. “I’ll be back in a bit to see if Mrs. Yates has come home.” She gave Drago a wave of her fingers and walked down the side of the house, past blooming hydrangeas and bougainvillea to the manicured lawn and the path that led down to a low bluff above Lake Haven.
For three centuries, Ross house had sat majestically above East Beach, where one was treated to a stunning view of the lake that was impossible to buy now. When Mia and her brothers were young, they would crawl up t
he hill, through the thicket from her grandparents’ property below, to a promontory with a bench that looked out over the lake. They called it Lookout Point. They would jump into the lake from there, climb up, and do it again. It would be a great place to read a magazine, catch a few rays, and pass the time until Nancy came home.
Mia quickly discovered the grounds near the bluff had been overtaken by the thicket in the years since she was a girl. It took her several minutes to make out the vague outline of the old footpath. But it was there, and now she was determined to see the bluff. She strapped her bag across her body and pushed back the overgrowth.
Halfway in, she questioned her judgment. Weedy limbs with thorns grabbed at her skirt and tights. Vines grew so thick that she caught her foot once, and in one particularly bad patch, the thicket had completely reclaimed the path. But she emerged victoriously on the other side of the promontory with a few scratches and some sticky plant things stuck to her tights. As she cleaned herself up, she noticed that a new, wider, and more direct path to the house and down the bluff to the lake below had been cut through the thicket. “Well that would have been nice to know,” she muttered.
As she pulled something sticky from her hair, she walked to the edge of the bluff and looked down at the lake. It was chilly today; only one sailboat was gliding across. A flash of color caught her eye, and she leaned to her left to peer down. There, in the boat slip parking lot, was the black car that had almost run her over in town. Ass clown.
Mia walked back up the bluff to the old bench. It was still standing, but it was badly weathered and missing a slat in the middle. She dropped her bag next to the bench and sat down on it nonetheless, stretching her legs in front of her and tilting her face up to the sun.
Okay, as far as menial jobs went, this wasn’t half bad, really. Where else would she be paid to sit around and wait in such a beautiful—