8. Alessandra
CHAPTER EIGHT
alessandra
The canvas leers at me.
The patches of white peeking out between the layers of purple and blue taunt me.
Throw in the incessant notifications coming from my phone and my laptop, it feels like I’m about to be sucked into a thankless void.
I fling myself from the stool, frustrated, hungry, and tired.
I love my job. In my senior year of high school, I knew I wanted to work with my family.
During my sophomore year at college, my penchant for business strategies and investments began.
To this day, I can’t imagine myself doing anything else.
My mom has always been proud of my brothers and me.
From an early age she instilled the importance of having an ambition outside of academia and later our careers.
For me, that’s painting.
It’s my escape.
A silent, colorful way to release my emotions.
A fantastic ruin of colors when I’m sad or angry and a beautiful landscape of tranquility when I’m happy.
Without it, I’d lose myself in the landslide of emails, the conference calls filled to the brim with testosterone, and work trips that take me from east to west, then back again.
So long as I had a way to burn off energy when things got too stressful, all was fine.
Since Thanksgiving , I haven’t painted a single thing.
Which means, when I’m not working, I’m thinking.
Thinking is dangerous.
The longer I sit here with my thoughts, the more confident I grow that this is a huge mistake.
I’m not someone to concede defeat.
If I set my sights on something, that’s that.
No excuses. If there’s a start, I’ll find the finish.
Stepping foot in Sutton Bay wasn’t even the start of my race.
I’m way past the halfway point.
It isn’t a straight line to the finish either.
There are unplanned hurdles.
Bends in the road I’m scared to turn.
My shoe-box apartment is suddenly too small.
The people of this town alarm me, and there is no place to hide.
No one knows me, because why should they?
I’ve made no attempt to form friendships.
Quinn from the bakery has tried to make small talk with me.
Johanna waved at me from across the street the other day.
The town’s local chef is a relentless flirt with his sights set on me.
The idea of getting to know them has my head swimming.
The four walls stifle me, and before I know it, I’m wrapped up in layers, and walking the streets, desperate for a sign.
After almost an hour, the only signs I have are frostbitten fingers as I wander the small park aimlessly.
Most of the trees are bare, their naked branches twisting and curling up into the sky.
The evergreen pines offer a splash of color to the bleak gray and white surroundings.
I still have no clue what I’m doing, but the cold air calms me.
I’m heading back up the hill toward my apartment when my phone rings.
Pulling off my gloves with my teeth, I dig into the deep pockets of my coat and see my mom’s name.
I swear the woman has a sixth sense because I could really do with her guidance.
“ Yassou , Mama ,” I greet.
She’s silent for a beat before saying, “ I do not like your tone. What is wrong?”
I’d laugh at her impressive intuition if I wasn’t about to unravel out of my skin.
My voice comes out strained.
“ I think I’m in over my head.”
Avoiding the happy couples and families as they pass me by in a blur, my footsteps slow as I near the restaurant.
“Alessandra, it’s you who decided to be there. No one else.” My mother isn’t lecturing me, just pointing out the obvious.
Coming to Sutton Bay was my idea.
And what have I got to show for my time here so far?
Zilch.
“Your father says you’ve been working a lot. Maybe a break would be good?”
Annoyance flares.
“What else is there to do? I can’t paint. I’ve spoken to no one. Work is the only thing keeping me sane.” The volume of my voice gets the attention of a few passersby, and I tug my scarf up over my chin.
“Keeping you sane or keeping you from doing what you went there to do?”
I hate that she’s always right.
“I’m going to be honest with you, thisavré mou , ” she continues.
“ Your decision to go there surprised me. Especially after what happened last year…” She doesn’t need to go into detail.
We both know what happened.
I trusted a stranger with the most vulnerable parts of me and they tossed it aside without a second-guess.
“ Nobody would blame or judge you for not wanting to search further. But you did. Because you are determined, strong-willed, and wonderfully courageous. Sometimes I envy you for it.”
My voice clogs with emotion.
“ But ?”
“No buts. That is all.” She’s so matter of fact.
“ You like goals, targets, deadlines, yes?”
My brows scrunch.
“ Yeah …”
“One month. You make no progress, you come home. That is my final offer.”
There’s a huff in the background, letting me know my dad is a witness to my mother’s negotiation, though I wouldn’t be surprised if he had some involvement.
They were both weary of me coming here.
This time however, my expectations are below ground level.
I won’t be making the mistake of giving out my trust blindly again.
One month gives me until the middle of January .
Is that enough time?
I come to an abrupt halt when I see Martin Willis step out of Our Place across the street.
I haven’t seen him since Thanksgiving evening.
In the light of day, I properly take him in.
He’s tall—well over six feet—and slender.
His head is covered with an ushanka hat, hiding the thick, black hair peppered with gray I caught a glimpse of the other week.
One word to describe him: distant.
You can see it in the way he walks, in his eyes, how he talks.
Purposefully , he keeps himself detached from everyone else.
Not too much that he’s completely aloof, considering he’s a property manager and produce supplier, but enough that tells a story.
“Are you still there?” My mother’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Yes. Sorry , sorry,” I reply, but my mind wanders again.
Martin stares at something through the window for a long while, piquing my curiosity, before walking away.
Once he disappears up the hill, I cross the street, wanting to know what caught his attention.
“So, you will leave if nothing happens by then?”
“Umm…” I’m not sure why I’m hesitant, when the idea of leaving was so appealing minutes ago.
“ Mama , let me call you back, okay?”
“Hmm. I will hold you to that. S ’ agapó. ” I love you.
“Bye, Mama . S ’ agapó.”
I hang up, stand in the spot Martin vacated, then snort when I see what he was looking at.
A menu.
Honestly, I must be bored if I was hoping for something more exciting.
The white card sits nicely in the display case, pristine and bold.
Now, I’m hungry. The food I had the other week was delicious.
I could definitely eat.
My eyes scan the menu, contemplating what to have when something doesn’t look right.
Tuna tartare?
That’s one of my favorite meals.
I wouldn’t have turned that down for oysters.
The longer I scrutinize each item, realization sinks in.
This is not the same menu I was given during my first visit.
The doubt that sat heavy in the pit of my stomach earlier switches to rage.
I spent so long proving myself in my career, and while I’m swimming in new territory, I refuse to be trivialized here.
Let alone by a smooth-talking, jokester of a man whose biggest concern is the dents in his cheeks.
With heated determination, I whip the restaurant door open and go on the hunt to prove why my true colors burn red, orange, and yellow.
I’m done being underestimated, especially by Booth Sadler .