Chapter 5 #2
“I don’t think so. He said he paid for it in full. He must have gotten it off a vacation rental site.”
Julie apparently pulled the phone away from her head, because her scream of exasperation sounded a little farther away. But in the next moment, she was loud in Amy’s ear. “Are you kidding me right now, Amy?”
“Not kidding.”
“I’m going to kill her. What did you tell him? Where did he go?”
“Nowhere. He’s here. For now, we’re splitting it.”
“Oh my God, you’re what?”
“We agreed to coexist,” Amy said. “Until he gets his money back or something. There are two primary suites, you know.”
“Amy.” Julie groaned. “You can’t be serious. You can’t shack up in the house with a stranger. Who even is he?”
“For starters, I’m not shacking up. Two primary suites! And his name is Harrison Neely.”
There was another longer-than-necessary pause. “The golfer?” Julie asked. “Not the golfer. Surely it’s not the golfer.”
Amy was startled that Julie knew his name. “Yes, the golfer. How did you know that? You don’t strike me as being up on golf in any way.”
“Wow,” Julie said. “Is he cute? He looks cute on TV.”
“What has that got to do with anything? And since when do you see golf on TV?”
“It has nothing to do with anything. But when you date, sometimes you date men who are into golf, and you end up seeing it on TV. I mean, I would highly advise against sharing a house with a total stranger, but he’s sort of famous, and he’s cute.
At least he looks cute, but he always has a hat on.
Is he bald? Not that there is anything wrong with bald.
You know what, Amy? You should totally embrace it. Have sex—”
“Jesus, Julie!” Amy cried. “He’s a stranger!”
“But cute. And pretty well known in golf circles, actually.”
“Seriously, how do you know that?”
“I told you. And besides, I’ve played golf.”
“Since when?”
Julie clucked her tongue. “In high school, so what?…So is he cute?”
Amy sighed. “Very. He’s tall and has these gray-blue eyes. Sort of dark, sandy hair.”
“Beer gut?”
“You know what?” Amy said, thinking about it. “No.”
“You should totally hit that,” Julie said.
“I’m not going to hit that,” Amy said. “I’m a mother. And a daughter. And I haven’t been with anyone but Ryan in years. I probably don’t even remember how.”
“It’s like riding a bike—”
“No, it’s not,” Amy said, cutting her off before she could finish that sentence. “Anyway, here’s the other problem. The Christmas music.”
“What Christmas music?”
“The music that starts blaring through speakers on full volume when you least expect it. I almost peed myself the first time it happened. And the only thing you can do is turn it down. Otherwise, you’re without Christmas lights.”
“Oh my God, I’m going to kill Sam, and this time I mean it. She set all that up because she thinks she is a tech wizard. I’ll try and get hold of her.”
“What do you mean, try?” Amy asked.
“She and John are on their way to Canada for a ski trip. You know how she gets on vacation.”
Amy had no idea how Sam got on vacation, but she would take Julie’s word for it.
Julie continued to make promises about getting rid of the music and finding an alternative booking for Harrison Neely, Cute Professional Golfer, until Amy finally eased her off the phone.
When they hung up, she picked up a small canvas to set on the easel.
That’s when she noticed a dull but steady thwack outside.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
She put the canvas on her easel, then leaned around it to look out the window.
Harrison Neely was on the pool deck. He was dressed in sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt, a sleeveless zip-up vest over that.
There was a breeze off the lake that kept lifting his hair.
He had placed a small green mat before him and a bucket behind him.
He was holding a golf club, but he wasn’t moving.
He was leaning against the club, one hand on his hip, one leg crossed over the other, staring out at the lake.
He looked sort of majestic, standing like that.
Amy thought of his eyes—so pretty. She felt a bit of heat start to creep up her spine because Julie was not wrong—he was definitely cute.
And honestly? She was surprised to realize she was not opposed to the actual hitting of that.
In fact, she found the idea titillating.
Okay, whoa. It had been so long since Amy had thought about sex in the immediate that she almost didn’t know how to fantasize.
What she was strongly opposed to was any entanglement that would come with any shenanigans.
Men always came with entanglements, didn’t they?
And furthermore, she wouldn’t hit anything until she did a full body check.
Of herself. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had seen her naked, and frankly, she’d let some parts go.
But wait, what was she thinking about? He would not want to hit her. He’d seen her flabby mom thigh this morning. He was not thinking of sex.
She did wonder what he was thinking about, staring so seriously into the distance as he was.
After a moment, he leaned over and took a ball from the bucket and placed it on the mat.
He stood behind the ball and took a swing.
It was smooth, like a sword slicing through air. The ball sailed long and into the lake.
He got out another ball and repeated the motion. Thwack. And then another one. Thwack.
Amy was slightly appalled by his apparent lack of consideration for the environment, just hitting balls into the lake…but at the same time was enjoying watching him.
But then he abruptly stopped. He went to the edge of the deck and sat, rubbing his knee. Then he leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands. She watched his broad shoulders lift, then fall, with a sigh.
The sudden shift in his mien fired her imagination.
Was he upset? Worried? Did he have cancer?
Money problems? Because what could a guy like him have to worry about?
He was good-looking and probably had money if he was a pro golfer.
He was fit. He didn’t have a wedding ring on, which probably meant no trouble at home.
She wouldn’t be surprised if he had a Lamborghini and a blonde Barbie waiting for him somewhere.
He was…Well, she didn’t know the word for what he was anymore.
Not hot, exactly, although he was that. More like someone suffering from an overabundance of sex appeal.
Okay, enough. She turned back to her canvas.
She knew nothing about him; she was pulling assumptions from thin air.
She was constantly advising her sons not to do that.
And anyway, she could not spend her time ogling him.
She had to produce three paintings that she was happy with, which meant a few bad starts, which meant she really didn’t have time for any distractions.
And anyway, since when did she think about men? Those days were behind her.
She managed not to think about him that afternoon.
Or not much. He sort of hovered in the back of her mind, but, she was pleased to note to herself, not on her mind.
The two trips to the little bathroom to study her face and decide what makeup she needed to use or if maybe it was time to get a blowout were just standard woman stuff, and therefore did not count. It had nothing to do with him.
Oh God, who was she kidding? What was she even doing?
The second time, she closed the bathroom door behind her and went back to the small desk and took out her sketchbook.
Her doodles bored her. After a while trying to make them interesting, she decided a sandwich would help her think. She took Duchess out to walk her on the way and noticed that the golfer had gone.
By the end of the afternoon, Amy had managed to sketch what looked like a small town and a line of lighted trees across the lake.
She imagined the supposed winter storm that was heading toward them—a gloomy day, the water dark, the trees providing the festive light reflected on the lake’s surface.
She decided there should be a herd of cows dotting the hills nearby, and a small watercraft decked out in red and green lights heading for the warmth of the town.
It felt commercial. And it looked like something visitors might want to buy.
Unfortunately, it didn’t feel like something she would want to buy.
It was pretty, but it was purely tourist fare.
It left her feeling a little dull. Was she here to paint to make money?
Or to express herself authentically? And were those two opposite things?
The questions were valid, but she didn’t really have the luxury of time to think about artistic ethics right now.
If she was going to enter the contest, she had to commit to her ideas and go.
She was staring at her dumb, touristy painting, debating if this was an exercise for money or art, when “A Holly Jolly Christmas” suddenly blared loud in the studio, startling Duchess out of a sleep so suddenly that she rolled off the cot.
Amy and the dog burst out of the studio, Amy halting on the deck and Duchess plowing into her leg, barking wildly.
Amy thought surely the music was blaring up and down the lake, but no…
it was coming from inside the house and studio.
How thoughtful Sam was to make sure the studio was wired with her madness, too.
She scooped up Duchess and went inside the house, wedged herself behind the tree, and turned down the music.
When she pulled herself out from behind it, she dislodged the sparkly spiral ornament that had gotten caught in her topknot, then looked around for any sign of the golfer. But the house was still. He did not appear to be present.
She fed Duchess, then went outside onto the deck.
It was quite cool, and the gray damp was making her feel stiff.
Thanks, middle age. But the chilled air felt exhilarating.
What she needed was an exercise routine.
Something more substantial than walking Duchess around the block in the mornings.
She leaned over at her waist, letting her arms dangle, stretching out her back.
Tight as a drum. Yoga. Now, there was something she could do.
Back when she was an artist, she’d practiced yoga as part of her creative process, to expand her creative chi.
The theory was she’d get her zen on then paint the afternoon away before a late class.
She wished she could remember whether that had worked or not.
She rose up, one vertebra at a time, then lifted her arms to the sky.
She hadn’t done a sun salutation in a few years.
She dipped down, stretched out into a down dog position.
Wow, her calves and her back were really tight.
Duchess wandered underneath her and lay down where Amy was supposed to lower herself to the ground for up dog.
She used one arm to move Duchess, and in doing so, tweaked a muscle in her back.
But she carried on, inadvertently flopping onto her belly, then moving into the sun salutation.
It was a lot more taxing than it should have been.
She did another one. And one more, congratulating herself on having completed three, even if she had to help herself down with knees through the third one.
It was good enough to earn her corpse pose, the final resting position.
She lay on her back, her eyes closed, one hand on Duchess, the other splayed on the deck; her mind and body soothed by the quiet and cool damp air, the distant sound of the lake lapping against rocks.
She didn’t know how long she’d been there in something of a shallow sleep, but the air temperature started to cool even more, and a dampness settled in.
She became aware of a heaviness above her.
A drop of moisture hit her neck. Rain. She opened her eyes, but instead of seeing heavy clouds above her as she expected, she saw her housemate towering above her holding a martini glass.
Another drop of condensation slipped off the glass and hit her on the forehead.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just making sure you’re okay. ”
“I’m fine. I’m in corpse pose.”
“Corpse pose?”
“Yoga.” She sat up. “It’s supposed to be relaxing.”
“Huh. I guess corpse pose would be the height of relaxation. I always meant to try yoga,” he added wistfully. He looked at the lake. Then skyward. Then at her again, his gaze drifting from her topknot to her feet. “You want a martini?”
“Do I want a martini?” She peered up at him.
At his full glass. At his relaxed posture as he sipped it.
“I am here to work. This is not a vacation for me as it apparently is for you. I’m here to get shit done, not sit around drinking martinis like I didn’t leave my kids and my job to make art happen. ”
He held up a hand. “Got it. I won’t say another word.”
“Wait, I’m not finished. Where was I? Oh, right—I didn’t leave my kids and my job to drink martinis, but yes, Mr. Neely, I would love a martini.”
Amusement sparked in his eyes. “Okay then.”
“Okay then,” Amy said, and hauled herself up in the most ungraceful way possible, because one of the first things to go after fifty is flexibility.