Drew in blue, p.16
Drew in Blue, page 16
“What are you saying?” Jesus. It was too early in the morning for another fight.
“I'm saying don't call the whole thing off because of a little baby freak-out,” Kris said. “It's not so big in the grand scheme of things. Just give her a chance to get used to the situation.”
If only Val freaking out about Nick's meltdown was the sole issue. Nick's ear infection sidetracked me, but I hadn't forgotten what she said before the shit hit the fan. Val said the L-word.
I was too tired to deal with that particular bombshell, and I especially didn't want to delve into the subject matter with Kris right then. So I deflected. “How'd the date go with the Beav last night?”
Kris groaned. “His name is Steve. Things went well enough.”
That sounded fishy to me. “Well enough how?”
“We had a couple drinks. We chatted. He seems friendly, and he asked me out.”
“Did you accept?”
Kris looked at me uncertainly. “I did.”
Time to play peace-keeper, I thought. “Good,” I said, nodding. Okay, I still wasn't sure I approved of this arrangement. I didn't have a problem with her going out for drinks. It was the fact she’d conveniently forgotten to mention this Steve guy. I didn't like her going out with a total stranger she’d picked up on the curb. His intentions concerned me.
“Good?” Apparently I wasn't the only suspicious person in the booth.
“Yes.” Kris didn't say anything else, so I looked around for a distraction. Peering out through the entrance of the booth, I saw Elmer Ochs chugging down the street on his Rascal. He came to a sudden stop, almost rolling over the hubcaps Kris threw out of the booth earlier. I cleared my throat. “Did you have a reason for playing Frisbee with those?” I pointed my chin toward the struggling Elmer who tried to back the Rascal up to get around the pile.
Kris shrugged and got to her feet, pausing while Elmer worked the problem and chugged away. “I decided I don't like hubcaps anymore.”
“Since when?”
“Since I decided I would rather work with stovepipes.”
“Stovepipes?” My response must not have been enthusiastic enough because Kris shot me a dirty look before she went outside to retrieve the hubcaps and move them out of the way of foot traffic. She came back inside and fixed a steady gaze on me.
“I can't fight the muse. I can only feed the muse.”
“Wait.” I held up my hand and reached for the thermos. “I need more caffeine in my system before I can even hope to follow the line of logic you're about to try to sell me on.”
“Well, drink up, champ.” Kris smirked. “This one's going to be a doozy.”
Chapter Twenty Nine
The rest of the day passed in a blur. I couldn't tell you if that meant the day went fast or slow because my head was in a total fog. By noon, I was dead on my feet. The lack of sleep had caught up to me, and I was of little use to Kris. I bunged up one sale, mostly because I acted so bleary-minded and out of sorts that the potential buyer accused me of being a pot-smoking hippie.
For the sake of maintaining profit, Kris steered me to the back of the booth to work on framing. Bad move on her part. Within five minutes, I’d smashed my thumb with a hammer. Then I spilled the freshly refilled thermos of coffee all over my shins, burning them and contributing to my scaring off more customers with the steady stream of obscenities that followed.
Once I tripped over one of her more expensive sculptures and almost took the whole thing to the ground, she kicked me out, ordering me to go home and take a nap before picking Nick up from the babysitter.
Napping was my intention for about five minutes. My feet had other plans and I soon found myself on Valerie's porch, debating on whether or not to ring the doorbell. Ultimately, I didn't have to make the decision because Valerie opened the front door. I leaned my weight against the door frame, wishing she'd take mercy on me and lead me to the closest bed.
Instead she stood still, silently appraising me.
“Did you just sense my presence?” I asked. “Your Jedi skills told you Drew Doyle was lurking at your door?”
Smirking, she shook her head. “I was expecting to find my neighbor’s cat leaving a nasty present on my doormat again. What’s up?”
“Nick has an ear infection.” I locked my knees so I didn't fall over. “I didn't get any sleep. No amount of coffee will keep me awake. I can't go get him in this state. I'm a mess. I hit my thumb, and it hurts like a mother, and Kris decided to start some series of phallic sculptures made out of stovepipes. I don't get it. Why does she need to make stovepipe dicks? Better yet, why does she have to tell me about it? And do you really love me?”
A smile curved the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps I used a stronger term than I meant,” she said. “But I feel something, okay? I didn't mean to scare you.”
I closed my eyes and bowed my head, officially drained of all energy. “Not scared.”
“You're too tired to be scared,” she said. “Come in here and sleep for a while.”
“Okay,” I said and let her take me by the hand. She pulled me into her house and steered me toward the stairs. “Can we sleep naked?”
Luckily for me, she agreed. Too bad I was too far gone to take advantage of the situation. I didn't even remember my head hitting the pillows. Sleep deprivation can be a real bitch sometimes. Ultimately, I got some desperately needed rest, but nothing more.
The scent of lavender filled my nose, confusing me as I slowly regained consciousness. It wasn't enough to get my eyes to open, however, so I stayed put. I lay sprawled out on my stomach with my head under the pillow, theorizing about why my room might be smelling like a big purple flower.
My alertness ratcheted up another notch when I realized my pillow was not covered in the bargain bin t-shirt-weight sheets I usually used, but rather crocheted lace.
One eye opened. I pulled the pillow off of my head and pushed myself up onto my elbows. Definitely not my bedroom, I thought, looking around. It dawned on me, finally, where I was. Not only was I in Valerie's bedroom, but I wasn't naked. I still had on my boxer shorts. Valerie was nowhere to be found, leading me to assume that she never got naked, either.
Cruel and unusual punishment, I thought with a growl of frustration. Having full access to a woman's bed didn't matter if she wasn't naked beside me. Moaning, I rolled over onto my back and glanced at the alarm clock. It was five o’clock in the evening, and I had to get off my ass and go pick Nick up from the babysitter.
I grabbed my cell phone and dialed Carrie's number, cringing when I heard Nick whimper in the background. “Still not doing well, huh?” I asked.
“Oh, he's okay. He just had another dose of medicine, so he'll calm down in a bit.” I listened to Carrie whisper to Nick, telling him he’d be fine and then heard her plant a wet sounding kiss on him.
Right then, I swore to myself I wouldn't be so vocal about the prices for her services anymore. The girl projected a sense of perfect calm and sounded like she was doing a good job at trying to soothe Nick. It was clear that she was better at it than me from what I heard over the phone line. I promised her I'd relieve her within the hour and ended the phone call.
I considered getting up but decided against it, delaying the inevitable. Girl beds were comfortable, I realized. Valerie went with a plush pillow-top mattress and a lacy coverlet. The whole bedroom looked like a lace fairy had vomited all over the place. Frilly curtains framed the windows, and intricate doilies covered every flat surface.
Damn, I thought, looking around. She really is a girl. Thinking back, I can easily say Valerie was the most feminine of the women I ever dated.
Kris resisted femininity. Jeans and a flannel were her usual ensemble. I counted roughly five occasions I’d seen her in a dress in the years I’d known her.
Allison, Nick's mother, was kind of pretty but looked older than her age. More often than not, she wore casual dresses or skirts, but nothing out of the ordinary.
My ex-fiancée, Andrea, chose a more business-professional air. Her décor always tipped more toward trendy chic than girly. Valerie, however, was a girl in the truest sense of the word.
I closed my eyes and took a mental tour of her house. A mottled shade of pink coated her living room walls; a shade she called Country Rose, but reminded me of fermented Pepto Bismol. She liked the countrified look. Dried flower arrangements abounded, along with antiquated-looking farm animal figurines.
Frankly, I didn't have a clue how she managed to pull off the interior design career. Her personal tastes were feminine, yes, but otherwise abysmal. I let my mind drift, imagining how the two of us would merge our styles. Yeah, my house was pretty drab and empty but due mostly to laziness more than anything else.
If I made the effort to actually fill a house with things that represented my tastes, I wouldn't be using ceramic roosters. My ideal place would be a cabin on the edge of a lake, overrun with wood. But not crap wood, mind you. I had quite an affinity for Mission-style furniture. Clean lines, simple design. Not much room for dried flowers and picnic blanket-print couches.
If anyone's tastes would blend with my own, it would be Kris'. You know, for the argument’s sake. She had a major hard-on for wrought iron and anything rustic. It was easy to imagine most of her belongings mixed in with the décor of my dream home.
She went through a pottery stage not too long ago, whipping up a steady stream of clay cups, plates, bowls, and pitchers with a fantastically aged and utilitarian look to them. They would complement the kitchen of a backwoods cabin quite well, I imagined.
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. Comparing Kris to Valerie while sleeping in Val's bed wasn't cool, I realized. I reflected on the matter, trying to find a good pro for Val. Inhaling deeply, I sat up and looked around for my pants. “Lavender,” I muttered to myself. “The lavender smells nicer than ... wrought iron.”
Okay, so I've never been good at making pro/con lists. Val was a nice woman. Her beauty was the most obvious sell, but she was also successful and smart as a whip; all good things. Besides, comparing decorating styles was pointless. I’d known her for such a short period and it wasn’t like we were going to move in together anytime soon.
Val chose that moment to creep into the room, mercifully killing my problematic train of thought. “About time you woke up,” she said.
“Apparently I was tired.” I crawled out of bed and located my jeans bunched up in a ball next to the dresser. Clumsily, I stepped into the pants legs and hopped around, hiking them up over my hips. Val held my boots in her hand, waiting for me to finish dressing. “Did you hunt me down by following my trail of clothing?”
“The house got quiet. After a while, I realized you’d stopped snoring,” she said, grinning. “I figured I'd better check in and make sure you didn't swallow your tongue.”
I grumbled at her and took the footwear out of her hands. “Ha, ha. You're a funny girl,” I said.
She sat on the edge of the bed, watching as I fought my way into my boots. “Any plans for tonight?”
“Probably should stay close to home with Nick. He's been with Carrie all day. I have to de-program him or something.”
“Oh,” Val said. I wasn't sure, but I thought I her shoulders slumped.
“You know, you’re welcome hang out with us,” I said, not convincingly. “Nick may not be the happiest camper in the world, but eventually he'll cry himself to sleep.”
Valerie winced. “Yeah, I think I'll let you two bond over his ear infection. Maybe tomorrow?”
Something about the statement didn't sit well with me, but I didn't call attention to it. After all, Nick wasn't her kid. A couple of rolls in the hay didn't obligate her to the boy, anyway.
Her attitude bothered me, however. Twice now, she’d instantly rejected the chance to see me solely because of Nick. He wasn’t being a brat; he felt lousy. Sure, it drove me nuts, but I didn't hold it against him. He couldn't help it.
I didn't want to start a fight. For all I knew, she had work to do, or she needed rest, or she just didn't want to get in the way. That sounded more reasonable. She wanted to let me focus on the kid until he’d gotten over the worst of his illness.
“I'll call you,” I said, releasing her from any obligation to join me.
I finished getting dressed and made my way over to Carrie's house, collecting a whiny baby and relinquishing what probably would amount to a down payment on a new car to the Pol Pot of child care for her services.
Check that, I thought to myself as I carried Nick home. The kid was in one piece, only mildly pissed off at the world, and she’d done me a huge favor in taking him for hours on end.
She had more patience than I showed. Hell, she had more patience than my girlfriend, it looked like.
Girlfriend? I stopped in my tracks, mulling over the choice of words. Had we reached the stage yet where we had to start assigning stupid relationship labels? The woman only liked my kid when he was in a good mood. How was it possible to even call her my girlfriend?
With a shake to clear my head, I resumed walking. “Stop it,” I told myself. Stop looking for a problem. Stop trying to nit-pick. Stop over-analyzing the situation. Things were perfectly fine.
Chapter Thirty
The final day of the German Days festival dawned hot and oppressive. The temperature rose at a steady pace as the morning progressed, and by noon my shirt clung to my sweaty skin. Carrie had taken enough pity on Nick to offer another day of babysitting without any of her usual price-gouging fees. Good thing, too because I didn’t want to subject him to the sweltering heat and risk aggravating his illness.
I sat in the booth, wilting in the stagnant air while Kris took position outside, assembling a hubcap-themed sculpture. A brilliant tactic on her part. The crowds loved to watch an artist at work, and with Kris wielding a torch and a welder's cap, they got quite the show. While Kris worked, I managed the sales, or at least I tried to play the part of salesman. I wasn't very good at it, but as much as the tourists liked an artist in action, they loved to bicker with a foul-tempered painter.
My unwillingness to play the part of Bob Ross, talking up my happy little dirt roads and whimsical elm trees worked. I guess people think it’s a worthy investment, buying a piece when the seller throws off the vibe of aloof, eccentric artist.
Kris benefited most from this particular festival. Her smaller sculptures flew out of the booth at record pace, and she even managed to sell the giant hunk of beat-down Ford Mustang to a guy who more than likely wanted to give the parts a proper burial.
My paintings didn’t linger in position for long, either. Landscapes moved much faster than my other offerings. Five paintings remained on this final day, and only because I’d gone to Galerie 8 and pulled most of my displayed artwork to restock at the festival. I had no choice but to allow Kris to display the majority of the Val in... series to fill the void left behind, even if doing so drew more than a few low blows from her when we discussed how to rearrange the gallery Monday morning after we’d recovered from the festival.
I would walk away from the festival with at least thirteen thousand dollars profit. Perhaps more if the last five paintings sold. I loved the tourists. They had money to blow and were always welcome to deposit some right into my back pocket.
As the late morning crowds dissipated, lured away once more by the aroma of fresh-prepared lunches wafting over from the food vendors, Kris took a break from the sculpture she’d been working on. No sense playing with fire if everyone was too busy stuffing their faces with authentic German lard throughout the noon hour. She walked into the booth and grimaced when hit by the wave of stagnant air lurking behind the canvas.
“Good God,” she gasped, guzzling from the bottle of water I fished out of a cooler for her while I was on the phone, checking in on the baby. She remained silent until I ended the call.
“I hate Pennsylvania.” She pressed the bottle against her forehead and closed her eyes. “One day the weatherman is issuing frost warnings, the next it's like you're walking on the surface of the sun.”
“And a couple months from now you’ll be complaining about it being colder than the South Pole,” I said.
“One of these days, I'm going to wise up and move to a nice island beach where it’s always sunny and seventy-two degrees. Some place with a light breeze and no humidity. Wonder if a place like that exists?” She fanned herself with her hand. “How's Nick?”
I shrugged. “He’s improving a little. Bitter. Sleeping better, though,” I said. “He didn't wake up last night. Carrie said he’s dozing right now.”
“Good.” Kris nodded thoughtfully. “I ran into Val at Behler's. She was stocking up on lettuce. Did you two have a roughage party last night and forget to invite me?”
