Chapter 2 Olena
OLENA
Iwake up curled into a ball with my blanket stuffed under my chin, the light seeping into my room around the rectangle of my drawn window shade.
It looks like it’s glowing; the contrast hurts to look at.
Rubbing my eyes and sitting up, I recall the events of last night with a wave of shame.
Why did I make such a fool of myself? I thought it’d be different after I moved home.
Clanging sounds coming from the kitchen tell me my roommate, Wyatt, is already up, preparing breakfast for himself.
My stomach grumbles. I didn’t eat much last night when I got home; I had a crust of leftover banana bread my Mom had sent home with me the other night and a glass of milk—one of my more pitiful excuses for a meal.
“Morning, sunshine,” Wyatt says as he glances up at me from his pan of scrambled eggs.
He’s wearing a dark green polo shirt with the words Riverside Deli embroidered in white on the left side of the chest. His dark blond hair is getting long on the top and flops over to one side, making him look like a moody fashion model.
He reaches a long arm across the counter, grabbing a handful of chopped ham from the cutting board and tossing it into the pan.
“How’d the date go last night with what’s-his-name?”
I slump down heavily into a chair at the kitchen table, rubbing my face. “Bradley.” My voice is scratchy. I frown and clear my throat.
“Right, right, Braaadley,” Wyatt draws out his name dramatically while tracing a swirl through the air with the spatula, teasing.
I rest my chin in my hands and look up. “Great question. Let me answer through the medium of interpretive dance,” I say with a sarcastic deadpan.
“Oh, please do.” He pauses stirring his eggs, looking amused.
I hunch my back over the table and rest my forehead on its cool wooden surface, my bun flopping forward. I let out a dramatic groan.
“Dude, it can’t have been that bad,” Wyatt says, looking at me with concern.
“It can and it was,” I reply in a muffled tone, my lips smushed against the table. I roll my head slightly to the side, meeting his eyes with a pitiful expression.
“Well, then, dish. But make it quick; I need to get to work. My babies are waiting.” He tips the frying pan to coax the scrambled eggs onto a plate.
With effort, I sit up. “Your teenage employees at the deli are hardly babies,” I say as he walks over and sits down next to me.
“That’s what you think, but they look up to me like the wise mother hen that I am.” He places a hand to his chest and flutters his eyelashes.
I roll my eyes. “Wisdom. Sure.”
“Okay, out with it. What happened? Nutshell version.” He stuffs a forkful of eggs into his mouth and looks at his watch.
“Nutshell version? Art gallery snobs, pretentious food, red wine ghoul mouth, smashed into a stranger and broke a glass.” Wyatt’s eyebrows lift as he chews. “Then I almost had a panic attack and fled the scene in tears. Also, Bradley turned out to be a dick.”
“Oh, shit,” Wyatt mumbles around another mouthful. He squeezes my shoulder. “You gonna be okay?”
“Fucking peachy.” I slouch back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest.
He shoots me a skeptical look.
“No, really, I’ll be fine,” I say, more reassuringly this time.
“Okay, good, because I gotta run. You want the rest of this?” He slides the plate toward me as he stands, moving to the door to put on his coat.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” The words rush out of me as I greedily dig into the rest of Wyatt’s breakfast. “I’m so hungry, I’m dying,” I groan with my mouth full. I’m terrible about feeding myself properly.
Wyatt smirks. “That’s like… your whole thing.”
“Oh, my God, this is so good.” My eyes roll back in my head. Wyatt is an incredible cook.
“I call it real food,” he says with raised eyebrows. “It’s the latest craze!”
“Yeah, well, cooking has too many steps.” I push the eggs around on the plate.
“Hey, you know, Sam’s cousin is the exact same as you with food—gets overwhelmed by all the steps and then forgets to eat. And she just got diagnosed with ADHD.” He pauses, crouching down to tie his shoelaces. “Did you ever end up taking that self-test you mentioned?”
“It’s on my never-ending to-do list,” I say, feeling guilty for putting it off. I sigh heavily and scrunch up my face. “Might as well add it to my growing collection of mental health issues.” I gesture at myself from head to toe.
“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.” He zips up his jacket and walks over to me, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “I just want things to be easier for you.”
“I know.” I put my hand over his.
His voice is quiet as he adds, “Also, procrastination is kind of an ADHD thing… just saying.”
“Wyatt!” Now’s not the time.
“Okay, okay!” He throws up his hands, backing off, then suddenly pauses like he just remembered something. “Before I forget, my Uncle Charles is gonna call you today.”
“What? Why?”
“He has this big old house up on the cliff-side, and apparently the gardens are kind of a mess. He got excited when I mentioned what you do, so I gave him your number.”
“He’s going to call me today?” I look down at myself, almost worried my rumpled attire will show through over the phone. I frown. “I don’t know, Wyatt—” I start, but he waves a dismissive hand at me.
“Too late; wheels in motion. He’s calling you and you’re taking the job,” Wyatt declares with finality, his eyebrows raised.
I press my lips together. I know I need to.
I’ve been trying to get my landscape design business going again; after shutting down suddenly when I fled Seattle, I’ve got no contacts and, most importantly, no money coming in.
The last client I worked with before I moved home still hasn’t paid me and my car’s in the shop, held hostage by the hefty balance I owe for its repairs.
“Okay,” I say with a brave face.
“That’s my girl.” Wyatt kisses my forehead quickly and opens the door to leave, then stops, turning back to me.
“Oh, and hey, if you like real food, there’s more where that came from on Friday.
Don’t forget. I’m gonna make a feast for us.
” He shrugs his jacket over his shoulders, grabbing his keys off the hook near the door.
Sam’s birthday dinner, I recall with a smile. “Can’t wait. Sam’s lucky to have you, daahling.” I flutter my eyelashes.
“I’m gonna get so many great boyfriend points,” he says and sticks out his tongue coyly with a wink.
I grin at him as he leaves and shuts the door.
I finish the eggs and get up, dumping my plate in the sink with a clatter that makes me wince. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and read the text from Natalie.
NAT
Want me to pick you up? Dying to hear about your hot date last night. xo
I remember with a whimper that I’d agreed to go rock climbing with Nat this morning. Exercise is the last thing I want to do right now, but I can’t let my best friend down. I text back.
ME
Yes please very much thank you. See you in 15? Date tragic. Will fill you in on the mountain.
I open the fridge with a sigh and ponder eating a bit more than just a half-serving of abandoned eggs.
My eyes pass vacantly over the options before I give up and head to the cupboard.
Opening a box of cookies, I cram one, whole, into my mouth.
Maybe the sugar will help fuel some clear thinking for once.
I return to the fridge for a glass of milk, then head to my room to change and locate my climbing bag.
Midway through rummaging through my closet, my phone rings from my pocket. Worry prickles when I don’t recognize the number but I force myself to ignore the alarm bells going off in my head; Wyatt said his uncle would be calling.
“Hello?” I answer tentatively.
“Hi there, I’m looking to speak with Olena MacMillan, please,” an older voice replies.
I exhale quietly. “That’s me, hi.”
“Hi, this is Charles Faulkner, Wyatt’s uncle. He gave me your number when we saw each other at a family dinner recently.”
“Oh, yes, he mentioned; that was nice of him,” I say.
“Yes, well, I’m calling because I may have a project for you.”
Panic threatens. Why am I so nervous about a new project? What’s with me?
“Oh, wow, great!” I force a casual and pleasant tone. “Tell me more.” I remind myself I do want to know more.
“Well, my wife, Carol, and I inherited this rather large property fairly recently and it needs some work—both the house itself and the outdoor area. It’s gotten a bit… overgrown, shall we say.”
“Right, Wyatt mentioned that.” I find my purse and sift through its contents, searching for a pen to jot down some basic details.
Not having any initial luck, I peer inside, catching a glimpse of the keychain Nat bought for me that says “Boss Bitch”.
I smile to myself, knowing she’d remind me to own my awesomeness.
I locate a small notebook and, finally, the elusive pen.
“Yes,” he continues. “Anyway, when Wyatt mentioned that his roommate is a brilliant landscape designer, I thought to myself, well, this is just perfect timing!” He chuckles softly.
I fight the urge to refute the compliment. “Yeah, it sounds like the stars aligned,” I say, trying my best to echo his warmth.
“They did, indeed!” A pause. “I should say, the situation is somewhat unusual.”
As I fidget with my pen, he tells me the property was originally his oldest brother’s, left to him by their grandparents.
The brother and his wife had kept the old Tudor-style house and grounds in decent shape for a few decades, treating it like a family home despite its size. They’d never had children of their own.
“Realistically, that’s probably how they afforded to heat that drafty old house,” Charles adds.
He goes on to explain his brother had passed away quite suddenly from cancer a few years ago, and his wife’s health had taken a serious turn after that.
She died last year and left the house to Charles and Carol.
I listen with a furrowed brow. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Faulkner.”
“Thank you. It was a very hard time, obviously,” he says sadly. “But, in any case,” he clears his throat, audibly shaking off the weight of emotion in his voice, “I didn’t call you to tell you a tragic tale!” He forces a small laugh, as if trying to lighten the mood for my sake.
“No, no, it’s okay. Thank you for telling me; I’m very sorry, again.”
He pauses for a moment. “You have a kind heart, I can tell,” he says softly. “And your work really caught my attention, you know. Wyatt showed me some photos from your website. I think you have a great creative eye. Really beautiful work.”
I smile. “Oh, thank you,” I say with a self-conscious chuckle. I’m never sure how to accept praise graciously.
Charles lets out a sigh. “Anyway, I was hoping you could come by to have a look. I could show you around and you could get a sense of the scope of it all. And I can point to things and wave my arms about while I explain what we’re looking for,” he adds with a good-natured laugh.
“Oh,” I say, smiling, “yes, that would be great.”
I’m a bit caught off guard to have a new client wanting to move forward so quickly, but I need this job, and I can’t think of a reason to say no.
But… It sounds like this will be more than just a garden makeover.
Most of my projects in Seattle were smaller scale updates to personal residences; retirees who wanted to grow their own flowers or produce in their backyards were frequently among my clients.
Mr. Faulkner described this property as rather large.
I’ve done larger contracts before, but taking on something big right now feels…
well… big. Especially after I’d just moved and when my life is a mess.
“Wonderful. Are you free Thursday morning?”
“Yes! That’s perfect,” I say.
“Great. I’ll try to get the landscaper there too. And you can meet Carol, as well. I can already tell she’ll like you. Here, I’ll give you directions. It’s a little tricky to find.”
We settle the details and I scribble them down on a page in my notebook.
“Thank you, Mr. Faulkner.”
“Please, call me Charles.”
“Okay. Thank you, Charles.” I grimace slightly. Calling him Charles feels too familiar, but calling him Mr. Faulkner makes me feel like a child. Ugh. Stop overthinking this.
After I hang up, I smile to myself despite the nervous tightening sensation under my ribs. This is good. This is going to be good.
I’m grateful for a lead on some work. I make a mental note to buy Wyatt a bottle of wine as a thank you for helping me get a foot in the door with his uncle… when I can afford a bottle of wine, that is.