The Cul-de-Sac War

by Melissa Ferguson

  Chip dialed Keith’s number. His fingers tightened around the brush as the number of rings grew. Finally he gave up and dialed Tim back.

  “Do you think you can get in?”

  “I checked both the front and back doors,” Tim said. “They’re locked.”

  “You try a window?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  Finally, Tim cleared his throat. “You want me to check for open windows, sir? You know that can be construed as trespassing . . .”

  Chip pulled out his deepest, most compelling voice. “Tim. You are in Marion. I am in Abingdon. Nobody is there. I need those appliances. I just need you to go to the back window and see if you can get it open.”

  “It’s broad daylight, sir. I can’t do that again. The police—”

  “I know the police caught you last time. I remember. It was a mess. But I took care of it, didn’t I? I didn’t leave you out to dry.” Chip kicked at the dirt, realizing as he lifted his head that the artist had stopped painting and was watching him.

  Their eyes met, and Beret Man jerked his attention back to the canvas.

  “Just, please,” Chip continued, “please—get those appliances to me. And Tim, if you do this”—he lowered his voice—“I’ll owe you.”

  After a bit more grumbling, the teen relented. Chip hung up the phone and stuffed it back in his breast pocket. The phone started to ring again, but he silenced it before the second ring.

  He sighed.

  Looked over to shrug with a, “Work. What are ya gonna do?” but then stopped, noticing that Beret Man wasn’t in his spot.

  He was another ten yards off, the back of his easel now planted directly toward him, which meant the man had decided either to keep an eye on him at all times or to make Chip the subject of his masterpiece.

  Good grief. You overhear someone telling a guy to break in at all costs and let you take care of the police, and you’d think he was the mafia.

  There was a rustling sound down the path, and Chip turned his chin in the direction of the trail.

  Here they come.

  As the first couple started toward him, Chip slid a broad stroke of purple across the white canvas, as lush and moody as the velvet curtains in his parents’ library. He smiled to himself and made a few more strokes here and there, zigzagging to follow the shadows of the hills beyond. Not too shabby.

  Art wasn’t so hard. Just a little dip here, a little stroke there, and voilà. Masterpiece.

  Chip heard footsteps stop behind him and felt heat rise on his neck. With purple already coating his brush, he moved over to the blue and hovered. What was he supposed to do now? The few times he’d painted in childhood he dipped his brush into water to rinse off the paint, but—he cast a quick glance to his neighbor and didn’t see any 24-ounce cup of murky water at his feet. There was some little glass bowl it seemed, but . . .

  Forget it.

  Chip dug the brush into the blue and made broad brushstrokes above the purple.

  The people moved on.

  This was fine, he told himself, trying not to pull at the neck of his suit coat as he glanced backward and saw several more people—no one he recognized, thank goodness—coming his way. This was fine.

  That was the beautiful thing here, after all. He didn’t have to actually paint beautiful art, per se. He just had to remember what to say about beautiful art. After all, if someone could get away with putting a red circle on a canvas and hanging it in the Smithsonian, he could certainly get away with a few—albeit crude—purple and blue strokes. Some people appreciated the abstract. He’d fit in perfectly with them, if only he could remember his research notes.

  Chip flicked his wrist over and nudged his watch an inch aside with the butt of his long brush. He had scribbled notes to himself on the inside of his arm, key words like emulsion and Suprematism. He pushed his sleeve back down and looked again to his canvas.

  Twenty minutes later, his brush murky brown, he heard the familiar tinkle of a laugh behind him.

  He jerked his head up.

  There, thirty feet down the path, was his mother taking the lead as she, with both determination and steady grace, walked the dirt in cream-colored high heels. Her long cream kimono swished around her knees as she held a clipboard and chatted amiably whenever her group paused to admire an artist at work. Represented were a few bald heads he’d come to recognize over the years, those often dragged onto the board by overzealous wives. His mother turned her head as she pointed and said something to her companions, and there, shifting into focus, was the perfectly curled blond hair of Ashleigh, who was standing with hands clasped in front of her, an eager pupil.

  Perfect.

  Chip dropped his brush and palette on the ground before popping up his jacket collar, jamming his chin to his neck, and striding in the opposite direction toward the bench near the trees.

  How on earth was a six-foot-three-inch man supposed to hide in plain sight? He was kidding himself to even try. His mother and his girlfriend would both recognize him a football-field length away. He turned his direction by degrees as he walked and, after glancing backward, stepped off the path and came to a hedge of trees and briar bushes. A slumped barbed-wire fence followed the line of trees, and beyond that several horses stood at the top of a hill, munching at grass. With care he walked around the briars and slipped through the fence. The horses didn’t look up.

  This is still fine, he told himself, pulling his hands out of his pockets and wrapping them around his coat. Perfectly fine. Everything was going exactly according to plan. He’d just have to settle behind a sturdy tree and wait them out. Maybe sit down somewhere. Of course, the trees didn’t obscure him all that much. If he was spotted, he could always claim to be on a contemplative walk. Yes. That was it. Work had been particularly trying, and he needed a moment to reprioritize his life. His mother, who went to one of those sensory float tubs every Tuesday, would understand.

  The volume of the group grew as they strolled closer, and Chip sat at the base of the biggest tree he could find. He leaned his body a couple of inches to the left and peeked out from behind the large oak tree. They slowed at his easel. A couple glanced around as if to spot the artist who’d abandoned his station. One man squinted as he took a step nearer the easel, examining it with a frown. Somebody else pointed at something in the center, and the man nodded. Finally, they moved on.

  Chip pushed himself off the grass and was dusting himself off when he saw his mother step up to his neighboring artist.

  Her voice drifted with the breeze.

  “Sir”—she paused and scanned the clipboard—“Mr. Harding. Do you know who set up their easel there? I don’t have anyone on the map listed for this spot.”

  Mr. Harding took off his beret and coughed, his milky blue eyes dodging toward him in the trees and back.

  “Mr. Harding,” his mother repeated, “is that a yes?”

  Mr. Harding coughed again.

  For some reason the man wasn’t ratting him out. For some reason, he looked terrifically red around the neck as he clutched his beret.

  “Mr. Harding,” his mother said a third time.

  If the guy was going to be paranoid, Chip might as well use it to his advantage.

  The next time Mr. Harding shot a glance in his direction, Chip mustered his best I’m-an-unstable-man-and-conflicted-artist-alone-with-you-in-the-woods stare. Chip raised his brows as if to purr, Just wait until they leave, buddy.

  Bingo.

  “No, I . . .” Beret Man fumbled with his supplies, dropping his brushes and paint in his bag. He hoisted his easel under one arm, wet canvas and all, and returned his beret to his shiny bald head. “I was just leaving.”

  “Now, now, Mr. Harding, please stay!” Chip’s mother called after him. But he was already kicking up dust on the trail.

  They all gawked silently as they watched him stalk off.

  His mother gave an upbeat pivot on her heels. “Well,” she said, tucking the clipb
oard under her wing, “that’s the wonderful thing about artists. With them, there’s never a dull moment. You never know when their next inspiration will strike. Let’s move on. Next up, we should see a lovely work in progress from our young prodigy Ms. Tiffany Marler, one of Laurel Springs Studio’s own protégées.”

  Several heads nodded in studious spirit, and together they moved on.

  He held his breath as he watched the last pair of heels slip out of view. Already two other groups had passed while he’d been out of sight, and there was no way he was going to be stuck behind some briars in a horse field missing his moment with Mr. Richardson.

  If he could just—he looked down at his pants, snagged by some thorns—get past these surly bushes. He pulled his leg up, and the thorns dug in deeper.

  Male and female voices came up the path.

  The woman laughed a nice feathery laugh, and he grabbed a briar between two fingers and pulled it away from him. He seemed to have stepped directly into the center of the thicket, and like a fly caught in a Venus fly trap, he seemed to be the briars’ prey. Without hurting himself further, he worked to unwind each briar wrapped from his ankle to his thigh.

  The voices were growing louder and, with them, his sense of determination and anxiety. He was not going to have wasted the workday stuck in a briar patch. If he could just—he pulled the fourth briar off—hurry up the stupid things . . .

  Losing all patience in one snap moment, he ripped his leg forward. His leg burst free, and he high-kneed several steps over the rest of the bushes, cantered down the small embankment, and took one final leap over the sodden ditch to get back onto the path.

  His feet landed squarely in the center.

  There was a disconcerting feeling of airiness about his thighs and he bent down to examine his pants.

  A couple of stubborn thorns still stuck to the fabric. He swatted them off, but there was no major damage.

  He straightened, tugged on the cuffs of his nicest suit coat, and walked back to his easel.

  Now. Where was he?

  He picked up his brush and gave the canvas several brown strokes.

  “Taking a bathroom break?”

  Chip recognized her voice instantly.

  That voice.

  He forced up a casual smile and turned.

  With parallel expression Bree smiled back at him, hands clasped in front of her. She looked absolutely—no, ravishing couldn’t be the word—startling as she stood beside her companion. Her long red hair was in neither a braid nor a bun, and the slight waves rippled to the waist of her yellow pea coat that appeared to fit her to a tee. Maybe he hadn’t seen her complete wardrobe in the past few weeks, but it was no secret that on the rare occasion she wasn’t wearing sweatpants, she was borrowing an outfit from her short roommate.

  But here, now, well, there was no doubt about it. Those sleeves reaching to the tips of her slender wrists, that collar, those seams resting perfectly on her shoulders: that coat was entirely meant for her.

  Which meant Bree had bought it.

  Recently.

  For this occasion.

  With this guy.

  The purring Tesla guy.

  Chip overcompensated with a bright tone of voice. “Why, hello there, neighbor. I heard your voice a minute ago but, surprisingly enough, didn’t recognize it.” He creased his brows as he looked into Bree’s eyes. “I can’t imagine why, though. I should’ve recognized that happy-go-lucky laugh anywhere. I mean, Bree Leake. Happy happy happy.”

  He clipped on a bright smile to match his eyes.

  Bree’s grin dampened.

  Then she recovered.

  “So?” she said at last, nodding to the bushes.

  “Oh. That?” Chip swiveled backward, pointing toward the trees with his brush. “I just wanted a little one-on-one time with the farmland. In order to truly get into a picture, I must let it communicate with me. Whisper in my ear, so to speak.”

  “And did it whisper?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And what did it say?”

  “Oh.” He put his hand across his heart. “That I cannot share.”

  “So then, tell me, why is your easel pointing the other way?” Bree put her finger beneath her chin, as if examining his work closely. “And correct me if I’m wrong—”

  “I’d be happy to do that for you.”

  “But where are the horses? And the barn?”

  Tesla Man coughed politely. “I’m sure Mr.—” He hesitated.

  Chip supplied “McBride” and the man’s brows rose.

  “Yes, well, I’m sure Mr. McBride has it all under control. After all, it’s only been, what—an hour?—since you’ve begun.”

  “Correct. Like Da Vinci laboring over Mona Lisa for four years, anything I pour my heart into gets my undivided attention.”

  The man nodded as if impressed. “So how long does one of your paintings typically take?”

  “Three hundred days.”

  “Oh,” the man said, his brows rising.

  “I insist that every single stroke is perfect. I won’t be satisfied until even the tiniest speck swims in harmony with the others.”

  “I see. That’s some dedication.”

  Chip smiled to himself. This was good practice. He had used the line prepared for Mr. Richardson, and it was good to see it make an impression.

  The man stepped forward and stretched out his hand with silky, efficient motion. “Theodore Watkins, but please, call me Theo.” The words fell off his lips with as much practiced perfection as his movements.

  Chip shuffled his paintbrush to his other hand and took it. “Chip McBride. Good to meet you.”

  Theo seemed to hesitate as he let go. “Tell me, are you related to the McBrides of McBride and Sons?”

  Ah. The all-too-common question. “I’m actually one of those sons.”

  “Fascinating.” Theo turned his attention back down the path, still clasping his hand. “I would love for you to meet someone. Mr. Richardson!”

  Mr. Richardson?

  Chip felt his pulse rise. A meaty man in a wool mohair suit and open overcoat strolled down the path beside a woman in feathers. From the white feather hat to the ostrich feather coat, the couple was impossible to miss.

  They stopped behind another painter at work, Mrs. Richardson craning her neck over the man’s shoulder as if she’d never seen such captivating work in her life. Mr. Richardson turned at the call of his name, and his eyes caught sight of Theo’s raised hand. He murmured something to his wife and she nodded, keeping her eyes on the painting. He tapped his Stetson an inch up his forehead and moved on.

  Chip felt his fingers tingling.

  The moment had come. Hard to believe, a bit, but the plan had come to fruition. Nearly as seamless as he’d imagined.

  All he had to do now was remember a few of a dozen key words. Reinhardt. Montage. Monochrome. Deliver the lines as he slid effortlessly into a discussion of his construction achievements, and—

  “You’re holding your brush wrong.”

  Chip stiffened at the sound of Bree’s voice, then looked to the brush in his hands.

  Theo looked at her with a startled expression, and she backed up with a blossoming—and if he hadn’t known better, well-meant—smile. “It’s probably because of all that hammering you do all the time. Your hand seems to be stuck in that position. Like it’s . . . hmm . . . ready to attack the canvas, maybe?”

  Chip’s cheeks tightened as he smiled back.

  Except for her.

  This was the opportunity he’d waited for, but for her.

  He loved Bree.

  More specifically, he loved how incredibly fun it was to ruffle her feathers. To drive her mad. And to be fair, he’d tried the nice route. He’d offered up a prized Frisbee with a kind note. He’d saved her from theatre disaster that one evening, for goodness’ sake. He’d already helped her parents four times when they’d called. Once for dog-training tips. The other three about their leaking faucet and
other home-related inquiries.

  Could he have offered her parents his personal phone number so Bree didn’t have to be a liaison? Yes. Could they have asked for his number for the same reason? Yes, but they all seemed to find joy in communicating through her instead.

  And the scowl on Bree’s face every time she had to march over to Chip’s house, phone in hand, so her stepdad could ask Chip a question about insulation upgrades? Absolutely priceless.

  But now? Torturing each other now?

  This was not the time.

  He wanted to whisper, “Leave it alone, Bree. We will carry on when we get home!”

  His neck itched beneath the fancy wool scarf he’d stolen off his brother at the last family supper. Maybe this, he hypothesized, is why artists are tortured. They’re not suffering from lack of money or food or shelter. Their scarves are choking them to death.

  “You’re spot-on about the tool analogy, Bree. That position is called the screwdriver,” Theo said, raising his brow first at her, then him. “I hear it’s quite useful for expressionist painting. But of course, you could enlighten us on that, Chip?”

  “Hmm?” Chip said, dragging his eyes from Mr. Richardson back to them. “Oh yes. It’s quite difficult for some artists, at first, but those who keep at it tend to agree it’s useful.”

  Theo nodded as though this made perfect sense. But Chip saw something else in the man’s eyes, a cloudy expression. “So. How long have you two been neighbors?”

  “A little over three weeks,” Bree replied. Her doting smile turned Chip’s stomach. “But already it’s starting to feel like a lifetime.”

  The wind rippled through the blossoming dogwood trees as Mr. Richardson made his way over.

  “And . . .” Theo looked with uncertainty back to Chip. “How’s the neighborhood, Chip?”

  “Oh, it’s terrific,” Chip said, feeling the need to rearrange the paintbrushes. “I can honestly say I’ve never had more engaging neighbors.” He turned toward Bree. “You know, I just realized I was supposed to call your parents back. Can you call right now and tell them I’ll be a little late today?”

  Bree smiled. “Of course I will, but can it wait? I wouldn’t dream of missing out on this meeting. And how funny it is that you were just telling me how nice it’d be to meet the man behind the Barter. What a coincidence.”