by Julia London
The kid returned. “There’s nothing back there,” he said. “I put them all in the envelope. You were there.”
“Yes, I know. Just checking.”
“Need anything else?” he asked, rubbing his hand under his nose.
She grabbed the Us Weekly and put it down next to a pack of peanut butter cups. If she had to spend another afternoon writing the prices of decorative items in calligraphy onto thick vellum tags, she was going to need a reward, and that reward was a revealing look at Chris Pine, thank you very much.
She walked down the street with her purchases to the John Beverly storefront wearing a knit hat and oversized sunglasses. She had hardly stuck her oxford shoe in the door when Aunt Bev was rushing at her, red-faced.
“You will not believe what happened,” she snapped, taking the plastic bag from Mia’s hand. “That woman is certifiable! You know she loved everything,” she said angrily, one hand swinging freely, punctuating her speech. “Everything! And then she tells me, well not right now.”
“What? Who?” Mia asked, grabbing her magazine before Aunt Bev disappeared with it.
“Who! Nancy Yates, that’s who! You know what she’s done, don’t you? She’s hired Diva Interiors! But I have spent a lot of time working on this, and so have you, Mia! She said she loved this, she loved that, she wanted to do it all—but not now. Not now! What the hell does that mean, not now?”
“I guess it means not—”
“You don’t think I’m giving in, do you?” Aunt Bev all but shouted. “No sir! First of all, I told Nancy to at least wait and see what I could propose to do and for how much. And I told her that you lost the dining room photos—”
“I didn’t lose—”
“And that you’d be up there first thing this morning to take them again, and that by the close of business tomorrow, she would have a proposal to turn that pile of shit into a show palace! Okay, so go. Go get those photos! Take them on your cell phone and I’ll print them here.”
“I don’t have a car—”
“Wallace will take you. Wallace!” she bellowed toward the back. “Take Mia to the Ross house!”
Mia heard a groan from the back. Aunt Bev tore into her package of peanut butter cups as she stalked off toward her office.
“Well come on then, toots, I don’t have all day!” Wallace shouted from somewhere behind the carpet samples.
Wallace Pogue, the self-proclaimed Bitch of East Beach, was an interior designer. He was also a floral designer of some repute. He made such stunning arrangements with artificial flowers that the shop’s clients often ordered them to be shipped to their Manhattan lofts. Wallace had a thriving career in East Beach, and yet, he’d been very obviously perturbed that Mia had come to work for Aunt Bev. Mia had been forewarned by Aunt Bev that Wallace was in a snit about her working in the shop. She’d confided to Mia that he felt displaced by her unexpected arrival on the scene. “It’s just been the two of us for so long, you know,” she said. “And he can be kind of sensitive.”
That was an understatement.
Mia thought Wallace was being ridiculous. He knew very well Mia had very reluctantly moved home to live with her parents and had very reluctantly accepted the offer to work in her aunt’s shop until she found her footing.
To make matters worse, Wallace had been tasked with driving her up to the Ross house and picking her up when Aunt Bev couldn’t. And Wallace was not one to let his emotions stew. He liked to release them to the wild the moment they popped up in him.
The motor on the shop van was already running when Mia walked outside. “Hurry up,” he said as Mia put her messenger bag on the bench behind the passenger seat. “I have a lot to do today, which does not include driving you.”
The moment she closed the door, he gunned it, sailing out of the gate and onto Juneberry Road. Why was everyone in this town determined to die on Juneberry Road?
“Honestly, I don’t know why I am putting up with this,” he said. “The last thing I need is to be driving Miss Mia across town.” He jerked the wheel around the curves. “Why don’t you have a car, anyway? If you’re going to live and work in East Beach, you’re just going to have to get a car. It makes absolutely no sense that you’re working up here. It’s not like you know anything,” Wallace continued ranting. “But try telling that to Beverly. I swear if that woman listened to one word I said, she’d double her revenue, but no. She brings you in and you’re completely useless.”
“Hey, I’m not completely useless,” Mia said breezily. In spite of all his bluster, Wallace couldn’t get to her—she found him quite amusing. “I bring you coffee, don’t I? And I can measure a room as well as any trained monkey.”
“Oh, you’re useless,” Wallace reaffirmed. “I know what you think, toots. You think you’re going to grind out the summer, then go back to the city,” he said, fluttering his fingers at her. “And in the meantime, I have to put up with you, and then I’ll probably have to clean up your messes when you’re gone. The least you can do is get a fucking car.”
This was exactly the reason why Mia didn’t feel very awful for poking Wallace when she could. Like right now. “I don’t believe in cars.” That was not even remotely true. Mia had exactly zero emotions surrounding cars.
“What?” Wallace peered at her through his Dolce & Gabbana tortoiseshell frames. He was wearing a Ralph Lauren button-down shirt and coordinating crewneck sweater, 7 For All Mankind skinny jeans, and Rocket Dog sneakers. The man was into labels. “What do you mean you don’t believe in cars?” he demanded irritably. “What does that even mean? What do you believe in, a horse and buggy?”
“Emissions are dangerous and destroying our environment,” she said gravely.
“Oh, of course, the emissions!” Wallace said grandly with a roll of his eyes. “That’s right, no one likes emissions until they need to be somewhere, and then suddenly, emissions are okay, aren’t they?”
Mia looked out the passenger window and bit her lip to keep from smiling. It was almost as if he wore a big, red Alice-in-Wonderland-type button on his chest that said Push Me. “Someone has to care.”
“Well, if I were you, I’d care about the clothes you have on. That is the most disturbing conglomeration of fabrics I have ever seen in my life. I assume you made it,” he said with a sniff. “I’m sure you think it’s high-concept art that none of us mere mortals can grasp, but that my dear, is a disaster.”
Mia glanced down at her leather and red brocade skirt. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did make this. And I designed the brocade. See the floral pattern?” she asked, pointing out a panel in the skirt. “If you like, I could make you some pants from this.”
Wallace snorted. “Stick to painting.”
Wallace knew very well that Mia wanted nothing more than to stick to painting and to “high art,” but had failed miserably at it. So now, she’d have to make him some pants, if for no other reason than spite.
“In the meantime, what are you going to do about getting to work every day? Or am I to assume that this morning jaunt is going to continue into infinity?”
“I could walk,” she said helpfully, but Wallace looked almost alarmed by that.
“Walk?” he echoed in disbelief, as if the concept was foreign to him. “What, you’re going to walk three miles all uphill in your strange little frocks?”
“Why not?” Mia asked with a shrug. “At least I won’t have to listen to you, and you won’t have to be annoyed by my breathing the same air.”
“Your breathing is not what annoys me,” Wallace corrected her. “Walking. Well that’s great advertisement. John Beverly Home Interiors—walking uphill to you on a steamy summer day.”
“Okay, all kidding aside,” she said, twisting in her seat toward Wallace. “I don’t want to work up here. Get this—turns out, Nancy Yates has a son she’s been hiding.”
“Really?” Wallace said, perking up, looking at her with renewed interest. “Please tell me he’s hot. I swear to God, I haven’t had a de
cent date in a year.”
“He’s not hot,” Mia said. “And I don’t think he’s gay.”
“That’s what they all think. Is he hideous?”
“Semi-hideous,” Mia said. “And obviously high and incredibly rude.”
“That’s the summer crowd for you,” Wallace said, his interest gone with a flick of his wrist. “They think everyone else exists to serve them.”
“Exactly. I don’t want to be around that all summer.”
“Oh no. You’re not going to try and shove this job off on me now that I know there is a heathen involved. Don’t worry about it, toots. He won’t be here long. They never stay here, why would they? There is nothing here. And even if he did stay, you’ll be walking up in your peculiar little frocks. Trust me, he won’t bother you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m telling you this as a friend. Did you find an apartment?” he asked. “Or have you been too busy with your job?” he drawled.
“Not yet.”
“All right, that’s it. I’m taking you to see an adorable garage apartment my friend Dalton has for rent. And you better snatch it up, girl, or you’ll be living with your parents for the rest of your life and painting in the utility shed.”
Mia didn’t need Wallace to tell her that she’d ended up a wannabe artist living with her parents, and not a celebrated artist living in New York and dining in swank restaurants and entertaining Important People. Nope, she would be doing her painting in a repurposed yard shed. And Wallace couldn’t seem to stop mentioning it.
Oh yeah, this had all the markings of a great summer.
Six
The slam of a car door startled Brennan awake. He opened one eye. Maybe two. His vision was so blurry he couldn’t be sure. As he was still slightly drunk, he had to think where he was. He winced at the dull throb behind his eyes and blinked until he could focus on the plaster medallion on the ceiling of his room.
Right. Mom’s new house.
Another car door slammed.
Shit. Brennan desperately wanted to get out of bed and close the damn window—he’d opened it at three this morning, hoping the cool night air would keep him awake, keep him going. He’d been writing lyrics, and for the first time in months, they’d gushed from him with uncharacteristic ease and a flow he’d not felt in years. Were they any good? He was afraid to look. That was the thing about drunken creativity—what seemed brilliant in the moment turned out to be crap by the light of day.
He would look, he would . . . but at the moment, Brennan couldn’t dredge up the will necessary to actually get out of bed.
“I’m just saying, you can’t live with your parents forever. You’re going to have to work enough hours to pay rent. Hello, it’s called adulthood,” a man’s voice said, drifting up to him from somewhere down on the drive.
“Why, thank you, Wallace. I didn’t know what it was called until you came along to enlighten me.”
Brennan knew that voice—it was the groupie girl. No, no, not a groupie. The decorator. What was her name again? Mary?
“You’re going to have to move along now, Mr. Pogue.”
He knew that male voice. That was the dude his mother had hired for security. Some great security—people were in and out of here all day long.
“Yeah, Wallace, you’re going to have to move along,” said the woman, who was maybe Mary, maybe something else. He couldn’t remember.
“Perfect. I have the two misfits of East Beach telling me what to do now.”
She laughed, and the sound of it was lilting and sweet. It made Brennan horny, made him think of hearing that laugh when he was inside her. Now he was hard. Great—he’d been reduced to getting hard at the sound of a woman’s laugh.
“Please, sir, I need you to move the van now,” said the security guard.
“Whatever,” the other man said. “Apparently I have to do everything, don’t I? I’m calling my friend Dalton, and then I’ll be back to pick you up as usual, Miss Mia-I-don’t-drive.”
Mia. That was it. Mia, Mia, with the cinnamon hair. Brennan suddenly imagined her on top of him, on his cock. He imagined pert breasts, dark areolas, and him, pumping, pumping . . .
A door slammed again, and Brennan winced as the force of it reverberated through his head. “Damn,” he muttered. There went the fantasy.
“Thanks for the ride, Wallace!” she called out. She sounded a little too singsongy. As if she were trying to provoke the man who didn’t want her living with her parents. Wait . . . she lived with her parents? She’d seemed too old for that . . . but then again, he’d been a little drunk when he’d met her, so who knew how old she was.
The vehicle started up with a grind that didn’t sound right. It moved away from the house, the sound of the rattling engine lessening the faster the van went.
“How are you, Drago?” she asked when the van had gone out the gate.
“Good. Did you try that spin class yet?”
“I have not,” she said solemnly. “But it’s definitely on my to-do list this weekend. Is Mrs. Yates here today?”
“Yep. She’s inside,” the security guy said.
So Mom was home. Brennan was not up for another conversation with his mother. He listened as the decorator walked across the drive and up to the front door directly beneath him. He heard the door open, the dogs attacking her feet, and the door closing.
Silence.
He rolled onto his back and pushed two empty beer bottles off of his bed. They landed with a clatter on the wood floor. He grabbed a pillow and pulled it over his head, closed his eyes, and let sleep take him again.
He next awoke to the sound of sheet music rustling and falling from his bedside table, moved about by the breeze that had come in through the open window. Brennan groaned, tossed the pillow aside, swung his legs over the bed, and sat up. He rubbed his face with his hands. His eyes felt scratchy—he’d slept fitfully, which seemed to be the norm these days. Sleep refused to come on any normal schedule, sometimes passing an entire twenty-four hours before blessing him with its presence. And when sleep did come, it rolled over him in great crashing waves, forcing him down into its depths.
He yawned, scratched his bare belly. He was hungry. And he needed to piss. He stood up and walked unsteadily into the en suite. He took care of business, washed his face and scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, brushed teeth that felt like tiny fur babies in his mouth. He wandered back into his room and glanced around dispassionately. God, it smelled in here. He went to the windows and opened them wider to air the place out, then bent down, swiped up a T-shirt and some jeans off the floor.
The T-shirt was one he’d used to work on a car he’d had in LA. It had some serious axle grease stains that his housekeeper had never been able to get out. And . . . something else. Brennan didn’t know what that stain was, but it didn’t look too offensive. His jeans had seen better days—or at least a washing machine at some point. He buttoned them only enough to stay up. He couldn’t even be bothered to finish off a row of five buttons now. Yeah, well, whatever.
He padded downstairs in bare feet, pushing his overgrown mop of shaggy hair back from his face and scratching at his beard stubble.
Just as he reached the foyer, the front door swung open and his mother’s housekeeper, Magda, stepped in with two stuffed tote bags, one over each arm. From the kitchen, the tiny demons his mother called dogs came yapping and scampering down the hall.
“Out!” Brennan said sternly, and pointed toward the kitchen. The dogs reversed course and ran back to the kitchen. They didn’t like him any more than Magda did.
Magda dislodged one tote, then the other, and set them down before reaching around to shut the door. She straightened up and allowed her disapproving gaze to flick over Brennan.
“Hello, Magda,” he said. He was used to her disdain now. “Little late for you, isn’t it? I thought you preferred the five a.m. start time.”
“Hello Mr. Yates.”
“You know, I’ve been here for
almost three weeks now. Just call me Brennan.” He’d said the same thing almost every day since he’d arrived, but the woman refused to call him anything other than Mr. Yates. Even now, Magda responded to his request in whatever language it was that she spoke. He thought it might be Hungarian, but until she called him by his name, he was tacitly refusing to ask.
She leaned over, picked up both tote bags and walked past Brennan on her way to the kitchen.
“I guess this means no breakfast,” he said drily.
“No breakfast, Mr. Yates. No lunch. It’s after noon.”
Was it? Brennan hadn’t bothered to note the time.
She lumbered on to the kitchen, favoring her right side. He sat down on the bottom step and listened to the sound of things being moved around the kitchen, cabinet doors slamming, and water running. The water reminded him that he was hungry. Hunger won over reluctance, and Brennan went into the kitchen. But as he entered, Magda went out another door, carrying a bucket and a bottle of some type of cleaner.
“Is it me? Is it something I said?” he asked after her.
She didn’t respond.
Brennan opened the fridge. He stood there, staring at the contents, his visual search turning up nothing that interested him. He looked at the coffeemaker. He wasn’t interested in that, either. What he really wanted to do was get in his new car—talk about an impulse buy—and head up to one of the quaint little villages around here and find something to eat. That was actually easier said than done, as it would require some exertion on his part and he still hadn’t determined if he could make even the slightest effort today.
He walked out onto the back terrace and looked around. The day was turning gray, fingers of rain clouds slowly sliding across the sky. A flock of birds glided across the southern end of the lake, ducks or geese or, hell, even ostriches for all Brennan knew.