by P. J. Burgy
It had snowed a little again, just a dusting, but the sun hadn’t melted away the previous night’s precipitation, so the small piles had begun to gather in shadier spots along the lawns and streets. An overnight freeze had left some ice in patches and the car had given her a fright on the way home.
Tommy whined about driving in it. She lied and said that she’d had no problems at all. He sulked on the way out and she locked the door behind him.
She nearly had a conniption when she checked her email that night before bed; Martin had indeed sent her an advance – the payment required her to follow the link he’d provided – and the total had an extra zero she wasn’t expecting. She wrote a quick reply asking if he’d made a typo, her fingers shaking.
Within minutes he replied that he hadn’t.
Breathless, she accepted, choosing her single account for the payment. Not that she wanted to hide the money from Tommy, no, not at all, no way. It was her money. Her down payment. She was the one who had earned it, wasn’t she? Their joint account was a feeble thing, as was their joint savings. He’d spend the money if he saw it there, like he had before. A year ago, when she’d deposited the proceeds from her parent’s life insurance, she’d put it into the joint savings and Tommy had spent a large chunk of it within five months. The gaming system. The speakers. The TV.
No, he didn’t need to know a thing about her money.
Tuesday, she woke up at six and went for a run with her music blaring from her headphones. Tommy hadn’t locked the front door, as usual. Lizzie locked it behind herself, annoyed, before hitting the sidewalk. She kept an eye out for Gary – the Wiener-man could jump out from the shadows at any turn – and patches of ice along her route.
Old Mrs. Hempstead, a crumpled little widow living two houses down, had hobbled out to sweep snow off her porch before the sun had even peeked over the horizon. She glared at her, and Lizzie waved awkwardly.
“Hi, Mrs. Hempstead!” Lizzie cried.
The old woman scowled and went back into her house.
When she got home, she sneaked past Tommy as he snored in their bed, got changed, and took a shower. After her shower, she grabbed her smock from the closet.
She squeezed tubes of acrylic paint onto her canvas and smeared them around with her hands – wearing vinyl gloves, of course. She laid out ample dollops of paint onto her large, plastic palette and studied the way she’d set the background. Random black and blues. Like Martin’s business casual attire from the store on Sunday. On her pallet, she’d chosen a deep red, an ivory white, pitch black, and a stony gray.
She thought of him. Of course, she wasn’t going to paint a portrait of Martin as one of his pieces. That would have been silly. Instead, she imagined the aftermath of ‘Storm Crow’. What had happened after his arrival?
She turned the canvas onto its side. Horizontal. That was better. Better for landscapes. Better for the field of debris and death that had been left in his wake.
She chose her delicate brush and painted a field of thorns, her strokes careful and thin. It took some time as she had to mix the black with lighter colors now and again to create the illusion of depth.
Leaving some spaces open, she placed sticks made into grave markers. Crosses. She only had room for six at different intervals and locations. Adding another would have made the composition crowded.
She placed a skull at the base of each cross. Then, she painted entrails hanging above them.
A crow perched on the closest grave marker, head turned as it contemplated taking another bite. The skies were cool, blue and black, the smoke rising from long dead fires.
Lizzie blinked, her throat dry.
Her phone had been buzzing in her pocket for quite some time before she noticed. She put her brush down and checked it, surprised to see that four hours had somehow passed. It was past noon. When she hadn’t replied to his texts, Tommy had resorted to calling her from upstairs.
She answered. “Hey.”
“What are you doing down there? Was the phone on silent?” he asked.
“Why didn’t you just knock?”
“You have a phone for a reason…”
“Or open the door and call down?”
“The paint gives me a headache. Are you coming up?”
She sighed. “What’s up?”
“I need food. I’m hungry.”
Her insides lurched. “Ah, yeah. Be right up.”
She made him up his lunch and paused for some food herself, feeling oddly weak in the knees after painting so intensely for hours. When she was done eating, she returned to the basement and Tommy resumed his video game.
The first painting, ‘Aftermath’, was drying on a separate easel as she began another, smearing red and black on the canvas first. She imagined a vast forest of bones and set to work creating it, squeezing out a large dollop of white onto her pallet beforehand.
Her phone went off again and she checked it more promptly this time. It was almost five in the afternoon. An unknown caller, the area code far from local. She made a quick assumption on the caller’s identity and answered. “Hello?”
“Hello, Lizzie!”
“Hello, Martin.”
“How are you?”
She smiled. His voice was pleasant, cool, and low. It felt easier to talk to him when he wasn’t looming over her. “I’m good. Working on your pieces, actually.”
“Grand! That’s so exciting. What are you making?”
“Do you really want to know, ah, or did you want them to be a surprise?” She continued to paint, making bones into branches. She considered adding some viscera but then decided against it, avoiding the red and going for more blue and yellow instead.
“Oh, a surprise would be better.”
“A surprise it is then, hah.”
“You’re so talented, Lizzie. I’m jealous.”
She tilted her head, making a face. “Nothing a few painting lessons wouldn’t fix, right?”
“I can’t do anything creative. I’m just no good at it.”
“That can’t be true,” she said, smiling. “What about an instrument? Ah, like, um, piano.”
“I can read the music and I can press the keys in the correct order and tempo, but it might as well be a player piano, Lizzie.” Melancholy clung to his words. “Couldn’t make you feel anything if you heard it, and certainly couldn’t write anything you’d want to hear.”
“You could write books,” she suggested. “You speak well enough, I mean, ah, you’re… eloquent.”
“Oh, thank you. You think so?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve tried my hand at writing over the years. I can’t think of any stories to tell. Imagine that. All I’ve seen and experienced and I can’t think of anything.” He laughed. “Maybe you could be my ghost writer.”
“Your ghost writer?”
“Yes, it might be fun. Nothing I’d want published, frankly, but between us… it would be grand.”
She accidentally smeared yellow paint across her cheek when she wiped at her face. “I, ah, hope this isn’t rude, but did you call to chat or…”
“I wanted to hear your voice when I woke up.”
“You just woke up?”
The line remained quiet for a few seconds. “Had a nap. It was a hectic day. I wanted to check in and see how everything was going with the paintings. And you. Since we’re friends.”
“It’s going fine, Martin. And, ah…” She searched for words, brows furrowed as she held the phone to her ear. His side of the line was silent. “I do appreciate the call, just so you know. It was nice of you.”
“If you’d ever like to come and visit, I’d love to have you out. Might help to see where the paintings are going, yes?” His tone changed, growing warmer. “I wouldn’t mind a little company either.”
She swallowed. “Ah, well, I suppose, but, um, just so you know, just in case, ah, I have… I have a boyfriend. So…”
Martin chuckled softly. “I’m not pursuing you romanticall
y, Lizzie. I’m enamored with your mind and talent, that’s all.”
For some reason, her heart ached just the tiniest bit at his words. “Oh. That’s good. I’m sorry, that was weird of me to just blurt out like that.”
“One can admire a starry night sky without feeling the desire to woo it, my dear.”
“I’m such a dweeb. I’m sorry.”
“You have no reason to apologize. I’ve been coming on a bit strong, haven’t I?” He paused. “It’s in my nature to chase what I want. Sometimes I forget my manners.”
“I’d love to come,” she said. “Ah, love to come over sometime, I mean. To your house. Whenever.”
“I prefer evenings. How late do you usually stay up? I’m a bit of a night owl myself, you see. I don’t want you to suffer for my lifestyle if you’re the early-to-bed sort.”
“I’m usually in bed by ten or so, but, ah, Tommy – my boyfriend – uses the car when I get home from work.” She frowned, her hand trembling as her brush pulled away from the canvas. “He doesn’t work Sunday night. Or Tuesday.”
“Oh, then come by tonight. After eight?”
“Ah, sure.”
“Grand! You know the address.”
“I do.”
“I’ve got to run around a bit then if you’ll be here in a few hours. Please, take your time getting here. Maybe leave at eight, yes? I need to tidy up. You’ll be my first guest!”
“Ah, I’ll see you then.”
“Yes, excellent. I’ll see you. I’m going to go now. Have a pleasant day.” The excitement in his voice was palpable. “I can’t wait.”
“Do you want me to bring anything, or…”
“Just yourself, Lizzie. Goodbye.” He hung up.
“You can’t be serious.” Tommy glared at her, nearly dropping his controller. He grabbed for it when his character began to take damage in the game. “Lizzie, no fucking way. That’s a bad idea.”
“He’s pretty cool, Tommy. It’ll be fine.” She stood next to the futon, hands clasped before herself.
He grumbled. “I don’t like it, but if you’re sure…”
“I’m sure.” She nodded.
“Heck, maybe you’ll find more empty spots on his walls and can talk him into buying more pieces,” Tommy murmured, brows set heavy above his eyes as he played his game. “Just don’t let him make any moves on you.”
“He won’t.”
“Still, maybe move the taser to the car, right?” He grimaced as he took damage. “Not a bad idea to keep it close just in case Mr. Moneybags gets handsy.”
“He isn’t going to get handsy.” She shook her head.
“What about dinner? Are you eating there?”
“I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say.” Lizzie rolled her shoulders. “I assumed I would eat here then head over. Eight is a bit late for me to eat anyway.”
“Not late for me.” He smirked.
“I’m going to start dinner in a few. Then, I’ll hop in the shower and get ready.”
“Use them feminine wiles.”
“Ugh,” she moaned and left the room.
She smoothed out the front of her shirt. She’d dressed nice – but not too nice. Makeup would have given the wrong idea to Tommy, so she’d avoided it. A nice blouse and black slacks worked well enough.
She checked her purse to make sure her phone and wallet were in it. To shut Tommy up, she got the taser out of the closet and took it with her to the car, throwing it into the backseat. Flurries fell from the dark clouds above, the streetlights flickering as she started the car.
She listened to music on the way to Martin’s house.
She arrived ten after eight, pulling into the long, steep driveway leading to the Victorian mansion on the hill. The lights out front were on, glowing brightly. She’d half expected to find a gate at the end and blinked in surprise when she saw the roundabout and parking spots – he owned a black Lamborghini.
“Whoa,” she whispered to herself, parking next to his car. Leaving a few feet between them to avoid any accidents, she opened her door and took a look at his vehicle. She walked around it, dumbfounded, and found herself let down at the standard license plate, having been sure he’d have something clever picked out.
Lizzie turned at a flurry of motion and saw him standing on his front steps looking over at her, his hands at his sides. No jacket. Just a nice shirt, the sleeves rolled up. Dark slacks. His dark hair had been slicked back as though wet.
“Hello, Lizzie!”
“Hello, Martin!” she called, and strolled over to him, purse slung over her shoulder. The closer she came to him, the heavier his gravity became. She’d almost forgotten how it felt to be trapped in his bright blue gaze. How could she have let that slip her mind? She froze up when she reached his steps, looking up at him from where she stood on the ground. “Ah, here I am.”
“Welcome to my home.”
She motioned toward the Lamborghini behind her with a swinging arm. “Uh, nice… nice car.”
“It is, isn’t it?” He beamed.
“It’s a nice house too.” She laughed nervously. “Big house.”
Bowing, he turned and held the huge, dark wood door open for her, hand on his chest. “You’re allowed in. Come on.”
She puzzled over his choice of words but followed nonetheless, ascending the stone steps to the top landing, and walking through the door as he waited beside it. His eyes remained on her even when she turned her back to him, standing in the grand foyer and staring around with wide eyes at the double staircase with the oak railing leading to the second floor and the lovely pedestals with their ornate vases as the centerpieces between them.
He’d been renovating. Not everything was so new and shiny. The walls needed work as they were cracked in many places. A chandelier, delicate as it was massive, hung above her head. To the right and left, other wings of the mansion sat dark. She smelled damp earth and dried paint. Another scent, lemony and stringent, teased her nostrils. He’d been cleaning before she arrived.
“So beautiful,” Lizzie breathed.
“Yes.” He came up beside her, smiling gently.
She shrugged, turning to look at him again and was immediately paralyzed by his proximity. Her eyes dropped to the floor, and she noticed he was barefoot. “So, ah, let’s take a look at the rooms, yeah?”
“Of course,” he agreed, stepping away. He nodded his head to the right and led her into the first room there.
She followed as he flicked on the light.
A chamber with the furniture covered in tarps lay before her. The walls were painted a dark blue, the windows taped off with thick, black curtains covering them up. Bits of the ceiling had chipped off and gathered on the tan carpet.
“Needs a lot of work, as you can see,” Martin said, tone flat. “New carpet. New windows.”
“What will it be?” she asked.
“When I’m done? Ah, maybe a sitting room? An office? I’m not sure yet. I’m not very good at this.”
“It’s pretty big. Could be an entertainment area. Put a TV there against the wall, maybe some more chairs…”
“Entertainment? Ah, like for guests.”
“Yeah, for guests. Friends.”
“Friends,” he echoed, studying her.
“Is this one of the rooms you’re hanging the paintings in?” She walked in and did a quick scan of the walls.
“It is.”
“Cool,” she replied. “There’s room for three. You don’t want to crowd the walls.”
He hummed in approval. “There was a greenhouse in the next room. Out of order and down for renovations. The dining room is on the other side. And the library…”
“Library?” She turned to him.
“All the books are rotted. I suppose I’ll be raiding your stock at the store after all, Lizzie. Can’t have empty shelves.” He smiled widely, showing off his perfect teeth and his slightly crooked smile.
Lizzie’s face grew warm as she blushed. He was too good looking. She turn
ed from him, nodding. “Ah, yeah. Kate’ll love that, for sure. Let’s see this greenhouse, eh?”
“Ah, well…”
She strolled to the next room, finding it dark. Fumbling for a light switch, Lizzie batted around blindly at the inner wall until she found it and two small torch lamps glowed to life on the left side of the room. It had indeed been a greenhouse at one point. Dead plants twisted out from long dirty planters on filthy tables. The floor was a mess of old soil and broken clay pots. Her eyes widened.
Lizzie’s visible confusion at the plywood boards nailed liberally across the entire length of the right side – where the glass windows should have been – prompted him to step up beside her, his hand to his chin.
“Eh, as I said, out of order…”
“Oh, can’t wait to see it finished.”
He hummed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She walked into the room, studying the dead roses on the first table beside her. “Looks like my flowers, hah.”
“Oh?”
“My kill count is exceptionally high when it comes to plants. I love them, don’t get me wrong. I just can’t seem to keep them alive. Seems unfair,” she said. “Wanting to care for something beautiful and just being the worst at it.”
“I… understand.”
“Oh yeah?” She pivoted, smiling, and meant to say something more, something witty, when instead she caught his heavy stare and froze up. A soft noise escaped her throat.
His head lowered, his lips parted. A dark heat glinted in his eyes. “Do I make you nervous, Lizzie?”
The warmth in her chest churned and she hugged herself, releasing a slow breath. Eye contact had become painful, and she looked at the roses again. “No,” she lied. “I’m just a little tired. That’s all.”
“You have no reason to be nervous around me,” he said with concern in his voice. “I promise.”
“I know.” She nodded.
“It’s in my nature to be the way I am. I can’t really help it.” He came up beside her, looking down at the side of her face. “If I could, for you, I would.”