Chapter 16
Even for Amy’s ridiculous family, this was insane.
In what possible universe did her mother think coming out here and taking over the house with the Bossy Posse was okay?
And what was she going to do about it? She did not want to have an O.K.
Corral shoot-out with her mother in front of Harrison but come on.
Her arrival into Amy’s space made her feel like she was a child again and her mother was sneaking up to make sure she wasn’t doing anything she ought not to be.
That, on top of Julie telling her she was acting like a seventeen-year-old, had turned this into a not-so-great day. And it had started off so amazingly.
This morning, after Julie had left her feeling like an old crone, Amy had showered and tried to spruce herself up.
But then Ethan had called to complain that Jonah wouldn’t do anything with him, and he was “so bored.” As she put on makeup, she assured him she would talk to his brother.
Jonah texted her before she could even dress.
Mom are you high I am not hanging out with Ethan bc Trace is here.
When Amy had dressed, she called Ethan back and suggested several things he might do to entertain himself.
“But those are boring!” Ethan complained. “Jonah can play Roblox with me.”
Jonah was apparently standing there, listening to the conversation, because he suddenly shouted, “Roblox is lame, E. It’s for little kids.” That was followed by more remarks between Trace and Jonah that Amy could not make out, followed by a lot of laughing to which Ethan began shouting, “Shut up!”
“Ethan!” Amy said sternly. “Where is your father?”
Ethan stopped shouting at Jonah. “I don’t know. Where’s Dad?” he asked Jonah. In the background, Amy heard Jonah say he didn’t know.
She managed to calm Ethan down somewhat and get off the phone.
As she finished dressing, her rage bubbled.
She sent a strongly worded text to Ryan about his oversight before emerging from her room and walking to the kitchen.
She didn’t see Harrison anywhere. Great.
She’d taken so long he’d probably flown back to Florida by now.
She fed Duchess, then strolled around the property, shivering in the cold air. She had at last convinced herself to go to the studio and try and paint, or risk having nothing to show for these two weeks other than a broken heart and memories of awesome sex.
In the studio, she’d left the door open.
If anyone asked, it was to let fresh air in.
She hoped they didn’t ask, because it was so cold.
And if they didn’t ask, then the door was open in the hopes that Harrison would show up (with more delicious pastries), or she’d hear him and have an excuse to pop her head out of the door and say hi.
Okay, so maybe she’d been acting like a teenager today.
But was it so ridiculous that she wished the man she was sleeping with would come and see what she was doing?
Was it so crazy to want to hang out with the best sex she’d had in years?
It wasn’t like she was hoping he’d put a ring on it, for God’s sake.
She simply wanted to enjoy more of what she’d been experiencing this week.
And if she kept telling herself that, she might believe it.
Anyway, it hardly mattered, because it was clear he wasn’t around, so she’d forced herself to look at her paintings.
That was when her doldrums really set in, because gag, her paintings.
She had finally recognized what was bothering her about her work: she wasn’t impressed.
She looked at what she’d done so far—the Christmas view of the lake, the start of a rustic kitchen scene with a tree—and she felt blah about them.
There was nothing interesting in them. She had realized that this wasn’t what she wanted to paint.
She was painting what she thought the gallery and the art contest wanted her to paint.
It wasn’t that the paintings were bad. But they weren’t good. They weren’t the sort of thing that would make her sit up and take notice.
She was morosely staring at the half-done kitchen scene when she heard voices outside.
She instantly sat up, ran her hand over the top of her head, tried in vain to soothe any frizzy strands that had escaped.
She hopped up from her stool and moved to the studio window, but her shoulders sagged when she saw that Hillary the coach was back, and she was holding…
Duchess? Amy glanced over her shoulder at the dog bed, and it was empty.
When had Duchess gone out? How had she missed her leaving the studio?
She turned her attention to Harrison again, who was wearing a pair of joggers and a hoodie, and he looked fit and sexy and honestly? He looked out of her league. But that hadn’t stopped Amy from wanting to crawl up his body.
She’d watched Hillary put down Duchess and then say something that made Harrison laugh.
Like…really laugh. Straight from the belly.
He’d continued laughing as he’d jogged up the stairs and disappeared inside.
And still, Amy did not turn away. She continued to watch Hillary set up her massage table, then play with Duchess.
Hillary had a way of moving that reminded Amy of a cat calmly stalking its prey.
She was as graceful as she was powerful.
Amy glanced down at her body and grimaced.
Yes, yes, body positivity, aging with dignity and all that.
But she’d gone soft with years of motherhood and driving kids in cars.
She’d wondered what she looked like when she walked.
Did she have any sway left in her hips? She kind of thought not—it felt like most days she was striding to get somewhere because she was always behind schedule.
Always rushing to get this kid or that kid, to make it to work on time, to get to the store before it closed.
It was more likely she stomped when she walked.
She should have gone back to her easel then, but Amy had been too fascinated by Hillary.
When Harrison returned, he pushed down his sweats, revealing gym shorts.
He climbed onto the table and Hillary poured something on his leg.
She talked while she used both hands to massage his thighs, pausing every now and then to brush her silky hair out of her eyes.
Harrison smiled but said little. He’d seemed almost fixated by her, and Amy could hardly blame him, because Hillary was beautiful.
And Amy was painfully cognizant that she was at least ten years older. Probably more.
She turned away from the window.
It had all been terribly deflating, and suffice it to say she was feeling like a frump, playing a younger woman’s game that she hadn’t played in thirty years.
The fifty-something woman who had come here with zero fucks to give and everything to prove to herself was suddenly feeling like a runner-up, unable to compete with the youthful, vibrant Hillary, or even all the young artists out there who would be making amazing art for the festival while she painted quaint Christmas scenes.
That her mother had appeared in the middle of Amy’s complete breakdown of confidence was enough to send her over the edge. Her desire to paint had vanished. Her belief she could paint had vanished. She had somehow let her family and a beautiful young woman make her believe she couldn’t change.
Her mother. Here. Wearing light-up antlers, no less. And to add insult to injury, she’d brought the Bossy Posse to her once-in-a-lifetime break, and Amy could not be more furious.
Now she was looking at Harrison, who was looking back at her with alarm. She guessed he had to be beside himself with horror at this turn of events. “This is not good,” she acknowledged.
He opened his mouth as if he meant to speak, but he quickly closed it again and said nothing.
Amy tried to smile, but it was not happening.
There was no way a smile could magically appear when she was in the midst of a red, murderous rage.
“Just…give me a minute,” she said, and began walking briskly toward her mother.
Barb was already headed back inside. “Going to check out the rooms, girls,” she called out.
It took everything Amy had not to sprint after her mother and tackle her, but to walk calmly and pretend the world was not on fire. But she ended up sprinting, and the moment she shut the door behind her, she said, “Stop right there, Mom!”
Her mother stopped and turned around, blinking with surprise.
“First of all, take off the damn antlers,” Amy demanded. “It’s impossible to talk to you while you are wearing those.”
“Really? I think they are adorable,” her mother said, swiping them off her head and turning them off. “June found them in the bargain bin at Quinby’s.”
“I don’t care if she took them off some reindeer herself. Mom. How could you do this to me?”
Her mother had the nerve to look exasperated. “I didn’t do anything to you, honey. I’m sorry for surprising you, but it is what it is.”
“It is not what it is, Mom! This is so unfair—Julie lent this place to me. You know she did. You know why she did.”
“Yes, I know, and that was very generous of her. And like I said, thankfully, this house is huge. Oh, honey. I promise you we will be no trouble. But you’re not the only one who needs to get away from the family.”
This did not compute, and Amy gaped at her mother while her brain tried to get her to compute it. “What are you getting away from?”
Something in her mother shifted. It was hardly noticeable, really, but Amy noticed her stiffening. “Your father, obviously.” She lifted her chin.
“Dad?” Amy groaned. “Whatever it is, can’t you work it out?”
“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be here.”
“But—”
Her mother threw up a hand. “It’s complicated, Amy.”
Amy snorted. “Don’t throw a Facebook status at me, Mom. What’s going on?”