12. Grant
Grant
“Grant, Grant, Grant, come here, you’ve got to see this.”
“Saying my name once is plenty,” I tell my sister. I’m in my tiny office at The Break, which is actually a closet with a desk shoved into it. I’m four days behind on my end-of-month accounting and I don’t need interruptions right now. I push back from the desk. “What do I need to see?”
June puts a finger to her lips. She looks happy, not alarmed, so at least she’s not showing me a flood or a busted power outlet. “Just poke your head around the corner,” she whispers. “Don’t let her see you.”
“Who?”
“Annabelle. She’s been here over an hour. I’ve never seen someone concentrate so hard on making a tiered tray.”
Annabelle has the place to herself. I don’t know why June let her in. We don’t do private events. But here she is, a party of one.
But it’s less like a party and more like church. The room is silent as Annabelle moves in silent reverence, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed.
She’s building a tiered tray, using three plates we’ve had in inventory for over two years.
Everyone else passed them over. In her hands, they look like the best pieces in the shop.
She lifts the middle plate with both hands, sets it down, adjusts, lifts it again.
She’s using candlesticks for the spacers, and she swaps them in and out, deciding.
It’s the simplest project on the planet, but you’d think she was arranging constellations.
I should tell her, “You’re wasting time,” or, “It’s just glue.” But I don’t. I’m somehow as absorbed as she is. I fold my arms and lean against the frame of my office door.
Annabelle lifts the top plate to try a different candlestick. She digs through a box of them, looking for who-knows-what, humming under her breath. The sound floats over to me like a whispered secret. I find myself tuning in, trying to understand the choices running through her mind.
She selects a ceramic candlestick I don’t remember buying.
It’s hot pink. Ugly as sin when it’s by itself.
Between the plates, it looks like it belongs there, as if the entire piece was designed as one.
Annabelle steps back, hands on hips, studying the tray like it’s auditioning for a role in her home and she wants to be sure it has the emotional range.
Something tugs in my chest. I tell myself it’s heartburn.
It’s definitely not the way she circles the table to see the tray from all angles, or the way the fluorescent overheads seem to shine a spotlight on her, or the tiny smudge of blue ink on her cheek that she probably doesn’t know is there. Definitely not that.
I’m supposed to be doing accounting.
The tray looks balanced. Intentional. Beautiful.
This is the kind of art that people think they’re going to make when they come to The Break, but seldom do.
Annabelle steps back from her tray to find the E6000 glue that will hold it all together, and notices me standing at the corner of my office. Busted.
She flourishes her hands to show off her tray. “Turns out, your business doesn’t totally suck.”
“Good job,” I say. “Very, uh…art.”
She squints like she’s trying to decide if I’m being sarcastic or stupid. “‘Very, uh…art?’ Should I put that in my Yelp review? The Break: Very uh, art. Five stars.”
She crouches to apply glue between the plates, and I try not to watch her. She’s squeezing out a miniature drop at a time, and I swear she’s doing it on purpose. “And here I thought you were staring at me because you were impressed,” she says.
“I wasn’t staring.”
“You were lurking in the doorway like some kind of craft-room cryptid.”
I grimace, because the alternative is smiling, and I’m not doing that. Not in front of her. “I was supervising. Making sure you did it right.”
June laughs. “You two are really something. You know there isn’t a wrong way to make art.”
The glue is drying. Annabelle doesn’t have to clean up the edges because she’s fused the pieces perfectly. “You’ve avoided most of the major pitfalls,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Look, Grant. I made a nice tray in your precious domain. Be proud of me or insult me, but commit to one.”
I pretend to consider. “It’s not bad.”
June steps forward. “That’s his way of saying he thinks it’s great.”
Annabelle’s smile is instant and victorious. “It is great. And it was a blast to make. Thank you, June. This was a treat.” She turns to me. “Enjoy your very…uh, rest of the day.”
She lifts the tray reverently, like it’s made of spun sugar rather than thrift-store junk. She nods at June. “See you at eight.”
“Can’t wait,” June says.
“Can’t wait for what?” I ask when Annabelle’s well and gone.
“Girls’ night at The Driftwood,” June says.
“Naturally. Because you’re besties. Instagram official.”
June puts the box of candlesticks away. “You might not have noticed, but Annabelle’s nice.”
“She’s too…” I don’t know why I’m having such a hard time with words today.
How can I describe the way she gleefully does whatever she wants, as if she’s never had an awkward day in her life?
Or the way her right eye crinkles up when she’s amused, almost like a wink?
And how much I like it when it’s directed at me?
I decide to focus on that last one. “She’s too cheerful,” I say. “It gets on my nerves.”
“She’s sweet,” June says.
“You mean na?ve.”
“She’s funny.”
“She’s goofy.”
“And she’s beautiful,” June says.
I open my mouth. Close it. Words. Where did they go?
June crosses her arms and tilts her head. “We could bat adjectives back and forth all day, or you could admit that Annabelle is awesome.”
I retreat to my office. My desk. My accounts. My sister wants words to describe Annabelle? Here we go. She makes me feel unbalanced. Confused. With wild thoughts that don’t belong in my head.
Or how about this? She’s risky. She’s dangerous.
And way too tempting.