Chapter 2 – Maura
MAURA
“Any signs of fluid retention?”
“No.”
“Any side effects from your medications?”
“No.”
No, no, no. It feels like I’ve just been repeating the word for the past half-hour. A bored actress parroting her lines. That’s what all my appointments with Dr. Markovic are like now. At least this scene is almost over.
I cross my legs, and the shift makes the paper on the exam table crinkle. When I sigh, I inhale the familiar scent of antiseptic cleaner.
“Any changes in your sleep or appetite?” the doctor asks.
“No.”
He makes a mark on my chart, his gray hair shining under the fluorescent lights.
I wonder if he uses Rogaine, or if he just has crazy good genetics.
He went gray early, like Clooney, and besides the gray, the only marker that he’s aged at all over the past twenty years since I became his patient are the slightly deeper laugh lines around his mouth.
“Any new stress at work?”
“No.”
“What about in your personal life?”
“No.”
Dr. Markovic sighs theatrically. “You’re old enough not to lie to your doctors.”
“I’m not lying.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Really? There’s nothing stressful about planning a wedding?”
I frown. “How’d you know I’m getting married?”
As soon as the sentence leaves my mouth, I know the answer.
My father. I roll my eyes so hard, it’s a miracle they don’t fall right out of their sockets.
Dr. Markovic is his longtime golf buddy, and I’m sure my father loved dropping the fact that his daughter is now officially engaged to the most eligible bachelor on the continent.
Dr. Markovic crosses his arms and gives me a stern look.
“We have to take any stressors seriously, Maura. Anxiety could trigger another cardiac event.”
“I’m not stressed.”
“Aren’t you? This all seems to be happening rather quickly. You didn’t even mention you were seeing anyone at your last appointment.”
It’s a testament to my father’s complete inability to trust another soul—even his friend of twenty years—that he didn’t tell Dr. Markovic the truth of the arrangement.
“Because I wasn’t then. Whirlwind romance, you know.
” I smile brightly, putting on my best everything’s-fine-thanks face.
Because everything is fine. My future husband seemed nice enough when I met him.
He agreed to all my requests, and we’re on the same page that this is a business contract, nothing more.
I’m not even planning the wedding. Dad’s team of assistants are organizing something elegant and small. I won’t have to lift a pinky.
The doctor doesn’t look convinced. “You’re sure there’s nothing wrong?”
“Positive.” My cheeks hurt from smiling so hard.
“You’ve been stable for a long time, Maura. Lots of patients in your situation, with open-heart surgery years behind them, let their habits slip. They miss their medication windows. They stop exercising and eating right. You have to remember that you’re stable, but fragile.”
“I know that,” I insist. “You’ve told me a million times. I’ll be lucky to see forty. I know. And I do take it seriously.”
“You do?” He fixes me with a penetrating look.
I glance up at the wall clock. In a few seconds, I’ll have been here for exactly half an hour. I don’t want to waste another minute getting lectured about my mortality, as if I don’t already live with it every day.
“Is that everything?” I ask, raising a brow.
“For now. I want to see you again in—”
“Two months, yeah.” I hop off the exam table, tearing the paper covering in the process. “I’ll talk to Sherry and schedule my follow-up. See you then.”
I push open the door and stride out before he can come up with another intrusive question. I’ve answered enough of them for one day.
Sherry, the receptionist, schedules me for an early May appointment, and I’m finally free.
I managed to find a parking space for my van right outside the doctor’s office.
Brinley calls it my Murder Van, since it’s big, white, and windowless.
It’s also the most convenient way to haul large paintings around.
Some of my clients ask for wall-sized murals, and I got tired of renting moving vans every time I had to deliver something.
By now, I’m an expert at maneuvering it in and out of tight parallel parking spots.
The painting I’m hauling now isn’t too big, roughly a square meter.
It’s a dreamy gold and pearl abstract with traces of turquoise.
It reminds me of a sandy Caribbean beach without being too literal.
When I finished it earlier this week, I knew I wanted to display it immediately.
We’re still in the gray, thawing part of very early spring, and people need a reminder that there’s still warmth and brightness somewhere outside of Toronto.
After I double-check that the painting is securely strapped in, I hop up in the passenger seat and turn on the radio. VOILà is playing, and I can’t help but smile. When the chorus hits, I turn up the volume enough that my tone-deaf voice blends in with theirs.
This is what I needed after that damn appointment.
Music and art have always done more to make me feel better than any medicine Dr. Markovic could ever prescribe.
It’s a short drive to the Copper Cup, the bookstore and café my friend Brinley owns.
I usually display a few pieces there, and I want to swap this new painting out for one of the old ones.
I’m lucky she lets me hang whatever I want there, even though I’m sure there are plenty of more talented and popular artists who would happily use the space.
I score a parking spot right in front of the shop, and don’t worry that my parallel park is a bit crooked. Brinley hates my van, and as soon as she sees it, she’ll be telling me to get my ass back outside to move it up the road.
Walking into the Copper Cup, I inhale the tempting scents of coffee and fresh pastries.
The food matches the cozy yet trendy vibe.
Between the tall bookshelves pressed tightly together—every inch of available shelf space used up—the cluster of bistro tables in the back and the high-tops and lounge furniture in the front, it’s chaotic while still somehow managing to be cute.
My paintings hang on the wall behind the bistro tables and chairs.
Brinley’s washing mugs behind the café counter, her long brown hair pulled into its usual messy bun. When she sees me, and more importantly, my van through the front window, she puts her hands on her hips.
“No,” she snaps. “You move the Murder Van away from this building right now. I do not need customers thinking Ted Bundy shops here.”
“It’s just for a second,” I plead. “I’ve got a new painting, and I need your help carrying it inside.”
She sighs. “And you’ll move that eyesore down the block as soon as that’s done? It blocks the whole front of the store.”
I cross my heart. “Promise.”
“Fine.” She moves out from behind the cafe counter and points to the guy behind the bookshop register, wearing a shirt that says I Like Banned Books And I Cannot Lie. “Trevor, watch the place, okay?”
The color drains from Trevor’s face. “You’re leaving me by myself?”
“Maura and I are grabbing something from her car. We’ll be back in a minute.” When he still looks panicked, she sighs. “You’ll be fine, Trevor.”
He nods, his shoulders straightening at her affirmation.
“Student worker from the high school,” she mutters to me as we head toward the door. “He’s read probably half the books in here, but he’s terrified of speaking to customers.”
“Which makes him perfect for a customer service job.”
“Right?” Brinley plucks her coat from an antique wooden coatstand by the door and shrugs it on. “Well, let’s take a look at this art.”
Outside, I unlock the back of the van and open it up. Crawling inside, I unwrap the painting from the protective moving blanket it’s wrapped in and swivel it to show Brinley.
“Oh, Maura, it’s gorgeous.” She sighs. “I love the turquoise. How did you get it to look so vibrant?”
I shrug. “Blue agate. When it’s crushed, it actually gives a brighter hue than actual turquoise—at least, it has so far for me.”
We each pick up a corner of the painting, and together, we carry it back inside. It’s a little awkward since I’m considerably taller than Brinley, but we’ve done this enough times that we move together relatively seamlessly.
My chosen technique of grinding up different stones and minerals to create natural paint color, unfortunately, means that my paintings are heavier than most. I used to stubbornly carry them by myself anyway, but enough lectures about overexertion from Dr. Markovic eventually forced me to ask for help.
By the time we’ve set the painting down and leaned it against the counter, we’re both a little out of breath.
“So, which one are you replacing?” Brinley asks, gesturing to the three paintings on the wall.
I point at a rose-colored one. “That one, I think.”
“Aww, too bad. I liked that one.”
“You want it?”
Brinley chuckles. “Please. Like I could afford it.”
“Shut your mouth. I’d never let you pay for it.”
She shakes her head. “I couldn’t just take it.”
“Why not? I’m offering.”
“It’s too much, Maura.”
“You give me free display space here, and I’ve sold a bunch of paintings that way. It’s actually kind of rude that I haven’t given you a painting yet, if you think about it.”
“At least let me pay you something,” she whines. “I can swing a few hundred bucks.”
“Nope. Free, or nothing.” My paintings might not be masterpieces, but to the right clients, they can go for a thousand dollars or more. It would be silly to charge Brinley, though. It’s not like I’m going to need money, not after I’m married to a billionaire.
I only started selling my art at all in a vain attempt to get out from under my father’s thumb. I thought if I could make enough to sustain my lifestyle without him, I might finally feel free. But so far, I don’t even sell enough to afford my own health insurance.