Chapter 18. Lenore
Lenore
I left all my painting supplies back in New York, so the next morning, I drive forty minutes to the nearest city. It’s not strictly to find an art-supply store—it serves the dual purpose of letting me swing by the Green Mountain Realty office in person to discuss the new terms of the sale.
“Ten thousand,” Gita tells me from behind her neat, unadorned desk.
The whole building is sleek and soulless, with cold white overhead lighting.
Even the triangular company logo is a bit depressing—a mountain peak with all its majesty stripped away.
“The buyer is willing to go through with the deal so long as you agree to reduce the selling price by ten thousand dollars.”
I sigh through my nose. “Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
“Installing a new septic system, renovating an old house, these things cost money,” she says with a touch of sympathy. “I’m sorry I couldn’t talk them down further, but ten thousand is better than fifteen, or twenty.”
“What happens if we say no?”
“The buyer will likely back out.”
“Are they allowed to do that?” I ask. “I mean, we signed a contract.”
“They’ll lose their earnest money, to the tune of”—Gita shuffles through paperwork—“three thousand dollars, but otherwise, yes.”
So, either we’re paid three thousand dollars but lose out on the sale, or we agree to ten thousand dollars less and the sale goes through. I can’t seem to balance the scales in my head. “Let me talk to my brother,” I say. “I’ll give you a call as soon as we make a decision.”
A few minutes later, I step outside. I’m parked in an unfamiliar strip mall in Burlington, leaves littering the faded black asphalt. A breeze slices through my cable-knit brown cardigan.
I call Damien as I walk to the car, but it rings out to voicemail.
I climb into the driver’s seat and pause to shoot him a quick text.
Call me back when you can.
It’s about the house.
Afterward, I drive to the nearest art-supply store to pick up some gouache watercolors, paint brushes, and cotton paper.
A little voice inside my head points out that I’m not supposed to be spending money on frivolous things, but what does it matter?
One way or another, I’ll have money to spare by the end of next week.
It’s an easy drive back to the house, winding along country roads with the windows down, wind ripping through my hair, singing along at the top of my lungs to the radio fizzling in and out.
September rages at the closing, setting the woods on fire.
Striations of wispy cloud are drawn across the canyon of cerulean sky overhead.
New York has its moments, but there is nowhere like Vermont in the fall.
It’s the perfect day. It seems a waste to spend it holed up in my room.
I pull up to the farmhouse to find cars parked at the bottom of the driveway—visitors here to fill paper bags with apples, leaving their payment in the cash box at the farm stand. While the woods have turned with the seasons, our apple trees are still green, their fruit like ruby-red baubles.
I head inside and dig through the linen cupboard until I find the raggedy white blanket my grandmother always called a counterpane, the same one we used for picnics down by the lakeshore every Fourth of July.
I spread it out on the sloping hill between the house and the orchard, where I kick off my clogs to settle cross-legged with my art supplies scattered around me.
A mug filled with water lists sideways in the grass, and I use one of my shoes to steady it.
It’s not my usual setup, but there’s something about painting en plein air that reinvigorates me. I’ve never really had the opportunity in the city. My apartment has no balcony, and hauling my supplies to the park was always more trouble than it was worth.
I dip my brushes in the mug as I work, until the water turns a muddy brown with pigment.
At first, I’m not sure what I’m painting.
A swathe of blue, blotches of rusted reds and moody greens.
A background scene, against which my usual animal characters might playact.
Maybe a mallard duck in a sugarloaf hat, or a squirrel in an apron making acorn bread.
The sun is warm on the back of my neck, casting my canvas in new light. Cars hum past on the distant road, punctuated every so often by slamming doors and children shouting as they barrel through the orchard.
In the middle of the painting, I leave a rectangle of cotton paper showing through. In it, I add nine orderly windows and a canted roof, smoke curling from the chimney stack.
I’ve never painted a house before, but it feels as much a character in this painting as my little animal friends. It’s gawkish; its symmetry imperfect. A snug refuge amid wild, blazing woods.
After a while, my leg cramps, so I set aside the paper and stretch both legs in front of me. I check my phone, but Damien hasn’t replied to my message. I send a quick follow-up in annoying little sister fashion, as is my birthright: Heelllooooooo??
The familiar rumble of an old Chevy pulls my eye to the driveway.
Cal parks beside the porch and heads in through the side door without looking in my direction.
I swish my brushes in the water to clean them and look for a rock to weigh down my paper, but rocks are hard to come by in a lawn this kempt.
I spot a fallen apple lying a short distance away in the grass and use that instead.
I clamber to my feet and make my way over to the house. The grass is soft and cool underfoot. I tug open the battered storm door on shrill hinges.
My eyes are adjusted to the sunshine and the endless blue of the sky, the indoors gloomy in contrast. Callan appears in the doorway between the mudroom and the kitchen. He’s wearing joggers and a faded crewneck Bruins sweatshirt like he’s come here straight from a run. “Where have you been?”
“Painting,” I say, breathless. As usual, the evidence is all over my hands.
His expression brightens for a split second before his eyes drop down to my feet. His forehead creases with mild concern. “Outside?”
“It’s a beautiful day.”
“Where are your shoes?”
“I like to feel the grass between my toes. It’s grounding. Quite literally,” I add with a self-deprecating little smile.
The look he gives me is blistering. “Lenore,” he says sternly, “you need to take off those jeans and check your legs for ticks. You can’t just go frolicking through the fields barefoot, especially this time of year.”
I look down at my vintage Levi’s, cuffed and loose around the ankle. “I was sitting on a blanket,” I say, faltering. “I did it all the time as a kid.”
“Yeah, but the tick population has exploded in recent years,” he says and jerks his head toward the downstairs bathroom. “Go. Now, preferably.”
I hold up my hands in submission. “All right, all right. Going.”
I flick the switch in the bathroom to turn on the frosted vanity lights. My reflection greets me in the mirrored medicine cabinet: wisps of hair coming loose from a French braid, bangs tousled by the wind, and cheeks flushed pink.
I step out of my jeans and leave them crumpled on the tile floor while I inspect my feet, and then my calves.
There, in the sensitive skin behind my knee, is an eight-legged brown speck. A shudder of disgust racks my body. I plant my foot on the lip of the claw-foot tub and try to work up the courage to pinch it with my fingers, but chicken out.
I pace the bathroom, flapping my hands like I can shake out the jitters.
Callan knocks on the bathroom door. “Everything okay in there?”
“Fine,” I say, my voice an unnatural pitch. It’s so obviously a lie that I cave immediately. “Not fine. I have one on my leg.”
“Is it latched?”
“No. I don’t know.” I pull at my skin to inspect the tick again. Its pin-sized head is buried in the crook of my knee, and the area around it is red and inflamed.
I retch into the back of my wrist. “Yes,” I say quakily. “I think so. I really don’t want to touch it.”
“Unlock the door.”
I hesitate, tugging down on the hem of my shirt. It skims the curve of my butt. “I’m in my underwear.” A comfortable pair of cotton boy shorts, the elastic stretched with age. I hadn’t planned on anyone seeing them.
A weighty pause. Then: “I don’t mind.”
“Callan,” I growl.
“I’m not paying any attention to that,” he amends.
I pinch my thumb and forefinger an inch away from the tick, but I can’t bring myself to touch it. With a resigned sigh, I unlock the door. “All right,” I say, “you can come in.”
Callan steps into the bathroom, eyes flicking over me before he turns to open the medicine cabinet.
I sit down on the edge of the tub with my bare legs extended, heels planted on the chenille rug.
My hands are braced on either side of me.
With a pair of tweezers in hand, he gets down on one knee in front of me and pats his thigh. “Put your foot here.”
I do as he says, balancing my foot on his knee. A rough hand encircles my ankle, fingers skimming up my calf until his grip tightens to hold me in place. I lift my eyes to meet his—dark blue and burning. “Hold still,” he says, his voice like gravel.
Callan leans close enough that his head is near the apex of my thighs.
My thoughts stray from the decidedly unsexy matter at hand to other possibilities: burying my fingers in his dark hair, the rasp of his short beard against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
I redirect my gaze to the shower rod overhead, holding my breath.
A quick pinch, and it’s done. “There,” he says, and straightens his back, holding the tick at eye level to inspect it.
The ugly bug hopelessly wriggles its legs, caught between the fine-tipped tweezers.
“You’re lucky it’s only a dog tick. They don’t transmit Lyme,” he says in response to my flat stare.
He drops the tick into the toilet and flushes before getting to his feet.