Chapter Eight
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Maple
“Something’s wrong with it,” I mutter, tilting my head to get a better view of my canvas two days after agreeing to let Iverson “woo” me.
A text from him yesterday morning let me know he’d be taking the day to strategize, so I behaved accordingly.
I spent the entirety of the day alternating between working on this painting and trying to come up with counter-strategies to whatever strategies he might think up.
Counter-strategizing was a fruitless endeavor, but the painting is coming along.
I’ve moved past the underpainting and completed several other layers besides.
It’s very nearly a whole piece of art at this point—if only I can figure out where I’m going wrong and fix it.
“It looks beautiful to me,” Mary breathes beside me, ice-blue eyes wide with wonder. Her hands cover her mouth, as if she believes her breath might mar the painting from eight feet away. “You made this?”
My nose wrinkles. “Yes.” I spent all day yesterday making it, fueling my paint-and-strategy schedule with artistic delusion, romantic delusion, and Dr. Pepper until the sun’s rays replaced the harsh overhead light.
Then, I spent all of this morning fixing the horrific shades I’d created under unnatural lighting before calling in Mary and her curly-haired counterpart to help me ascertain where else I’ve gone wrong.
Even after fixing several sore spots, it just isn’t right.
“Do you think it could be the glaring red flag you’ve tucked behind that fellow’s ear?” Etta suggests wryly, a tilt of sarcasm raising one of her thin, dark eyebrows. “It’s not exactly on theme, is it?”
Because I’m coming to like Etta, I consider her opinion for at least a second and a half before dismissing it altogether. “No, that’s not it.” As far as I’m concerned, the red flag is the theme.
Etta’s other eyebrow joins the first high up on her forehead.
“Do you sell these?” Mary asks. She reaches a hand out like her arm might somehow span the distance to touch the painting, then, when it inevitably does not do the impossible, she drops the limb and fists her standard-issue Nivora Hotel uniform skirt in her hand instead. She repeats, “It’s so beautiful.”
I hum noncommittally. Clearly, Mary is one of those Everything is gorgeous!
type of art viewers. A lack of discernment makes all things perfect and pretty, despite the glaring truth in front of us: something is wrong.
“I do sell my artwork under normal circumstances,” I provide. “Though I won’t sell this one.”
“Pardon my rudeness,” Etta says, and my lips quirk in amusement. Am I not actively asking them to be rude? “But,” she continues, “isn’t your husband wealthy?”
Ah. I see. That sort of rudeness. The talking-about-money type of rudeness, which of course isn’t actually rude, as far as I’m concerned.
The economy affects us all, and the rich tend to control it.
If we were all less inclined to monetary secrecy and “decorum,” we could take advantage of the situation to improve all of our finances.
Alas, too many believe the topic gauche, and those who speak on it even more so.
Idiots.
“Iverson is loaded,” I say plainly. “Correct. That’s how I’m able to pay for my many rooms, and how I’m able to afford all the tips I’ve been forcefully shoving your way.
” I level a censorious look at the two women.
I hadn’t had to be forceful at first, but the longer my stay and the more tips I’ve given them, the less inclined they’ve been to take them.
This doesn’t entirely surprise me, but it does disappoint me.
I’m trying to offload cash, and I’m starting to think that Etta and Mary are the exact type of people I’d like to offload it onto.
Etta isn’t what I would describe as a soft sort of person, but she is caring, in her way.
If I had to choose a word to describe her, it would be protective—of her guests, of her staff, and of her hotel.
She takes her roles seriously, and it’s not just because she gets paid for it.
It’s because it is her. She is protective.
Mary, on the other hand, is just straight up sweet. Naive, maybe, but kind in her naivety. It’s lucky she’s ended up with Etta, who protects that sweet nature with a severity that offers no leeway to any who might attempt to take advantage of the younger woman.
I’m more than happy to reward two such individuals with a whole gob of cold, hard, money. If only they’d take it.
I’ve resorted to hiding cash at the reception desk whenever they aren’t looking, then escaping to my room and being unavailable when they come to return it. It’s not a perfect system, but it gets Iverson’s money in the pockets of women I like and respect, so it’s a serviceable system.
“Why would you need to sell them, then?” Etta asks. “It’s not like you need the money.”
As much as I love her embracing what many would consider—incorrectly, in my opinion—to be rude and nosy, if her tone were anything but confused curiosity, I probably wouldn’t answer.
Questions about finances are fair game. Unfortunately, they often come with judgment, which I’m less fond of.
Etta isn’t judging me, though. She isn’t accusing me of behaving stupidly or wasting my time.
She’s simply asking a question. So I answer her honestly.
“Iverson is loaded,” I repeat. “And he spoils me rotten with that money, to such an extent that he clearly doesn’t care if I throw it away on over a dozen empty rooms I’ll never even set foot in.
As all filthy rich husbands should. Before he was my filthy rich husband, though, he was my friend.
” I hesitate, wondering how to explain how Ivy and I were before the wedding—before what they must have surmised about us.
My gaze strays to the red-flagged figure on my canvas, and I pick my words carefully.
“Ivy has always been my friend, ever since we were babies. We grew up together, and when it was time for us to leave the nest, he found a new nest for the both of us. I live with him, and he won’t hear of charging me money for that.
I’m his Maple. He’s my Ivy. He’d sooner light himself on fire than make me pay for something so necessary as shelter.
But I have other expenses, too, that I manage to handle independently, mostly by being careful that he never gains access to account numbers or login informations.
I have my car, for instance, and my phone.
Not that he hasn’t tried to pay for them, but a girl can only be so spoiled before she starts to feel sour.
” I sigh, shaking my head. “So I sell my art, and I make decent money doing it. Enough that I can even give him rent money that he pretends to accept before he goes off and donates it to some charity or other in my name. I might be silly, I suppose, insisting on paying a billionaire rent he doesn’t ask for or want, but I like feeling like I’m contributing somehow.
Regardless of if he’s using it or not, it makes me feel better.
I don’t mind being spoiled, but I don’t want to ever be a leech.
” I huff a rueful laugh. “Well, I didn’t ever want to be a leech.
Right now, I’d gladly suck his accounts dry if I thought it were humanly possible to spend that much money in a singular lifetime. ”
A line appears between Etta’s eyebrows as she ponders my words, and a frown mars her lips.
“I don’t get it,” Mary says, and, bless her sweet, naive soul, she truly doesn’t seem like she gets it at all. She looks at Etta, then me, nibbling at her lower lip in bewilderment.
“I sell my paintings for money to pay for the bills that I have, few though they may be,” I explain in simpler terms. “The bills that Iverson doesn’t have access to, plus paying him rent that he refuses to put toward the household expenses.”
Her cupid’s bow wiggles in consternation.
“Not that part. I understand working hard to contribute to your household. What I don’t understand is…
” Her eyes flick to Etta again, then return to me.
“I don’t understand why you’d be running away from a man who spoils you rotten and has the means to truly do that. ”
I sigh. “Have you ever had a man tell you what to do?”
Mary blinks. “I work at a hotel.”
Right. “Okay, so imagine that man is a person you love, a person you have always loved. Imagine he’s someone you trust implicitly.
Imagine he’s a person that you never thought ever, ever, ever in a million trillion years would disrespect you.
Then he does. In front of everyone you’ve ever known.
He takes a choice away from you, and he believes with his whole, stupid boy heart that taking it away is a gift.
He believes that he’s done you a favor. He believes, fully, that you will be overjoyed at the fact that you didn’t have to use your silly little brain because, you’re so welcome, he’s used his for you! ”
Beside Mary, understanding dawns in Etta’s eyes and her mouth thins. “Did he do something… you didn’t consent to?” she asks. “Because we can do a whole lot more than spend his money. We can get you help—resources.”
“Not like that,” I assure her quickly. “Ivy doesn’t care much about consent in a great many areas, but never that. I swear. He just…” I pause, then grunt, frustrated. “He married me.”
Etta and Mary watch me, waiting for more. When it becomes clear that I don’t have more, they blink.
“I don’t get it,” Mary says. “He’s rich, and he’s good looking, and he married you, and that’s a problem?”
“You didn’t want to get married?” Etta asks over top of her. “And he made you?”
“Well,” I hedge. My teeth nip at my lower lip. “Sort of? He planned a surprise wedding and tricked me into showing up, then dragged me to the front for vows and I dos, kissed me, shoved a certificate into my hands to sign, then declared me his wife.”
Etta scowls so ferociously I get the feeling she’d bop me upside the head if it wouldn’t get her fired.
“He planned a surprise wedding, which you did not run from at first sight, then he declared his love for you, which you did not run from at first word, then he said ‘I do,’ to which you said ‘I do’ back, then he gave you the marriage certificate, which you then signed your name to. Is this an accurate take?”
I sniff. “On paper, sure, but it leaves out all of the nuance and social pressure involved.”
The effort Etta extends to stay very still and very quiet shows a great deal of self-control. A commendable amount, even. Her eyes scream fire at me, but her hands rest demurely at her sides and her mouth merely pinches.
“Sorry,” Mary interjects, lacking the years Etta’s self-control took to hone. “It’s just that… that doesn’t sound like you were forced, exactly?”
“There are many ways to force a person to do what you want,” I inform her. “And not all of them are as blatant as what one might assume.”
“Perhaps some are so subtle as to not be under the definition of ‘force’ at all,” Etta mutters as her control takes a nose-dive.
Ah. Well. She had a good run.
I sigh and guide us away from silly semantics and back to the true crux of the matter.
“Stars,” I decide. “The painting needs more stars.”
With that, I stride to my canvas and get to work fixing it.
My guests linger for several moments before Etta huffs and bids me an exasperated goodbye.
Mary follows behind her, a lamb after her shepherd, and I wave a gold-tinted paintbrush in farewell.
They came, they made an ultimately failed attempt at helping, they left. The circle of life.
I hum low in my throat as I speckle golden dots in the fringes of my painting. Perhaps when I’m done, I’ll do a more circular sort of image.
Or maybe I won’t.
Or maybe I will.
Or I won’t.
Or I will.
I have choices. I have options. I have the full opportunity to decide for myself without pressure squeezing something out of me that I might not have chosen in my freedom.
I can do anything I want to.
And I will.
Because I can.