When I’m done, I grab my purse and jog down the stairs. I don’t want to risk eating anything in this house because the risk that they’ve tampered with the food in retaliation is high, so I leave by the front door, vowing to buy coffee and a croissant on my way to my studio.
As I’m pulling out of the driveway, my phone rings. The screen reveals it’s my mom, and I answer it quickly, knowing she’ll moan if I don’t pick up the first time.
“Hey,” I say. “How’s Antigua?”
“It’s great,” Mom says. “The house is so lovely, and we’ve already invited the neighbors for drinks, and they’re all so friendly. I feel as though I’ve been here for years.”
“That’s great,” I say.
“And what about you? Are you all settled into Randolph’s home? Are the boys making you feel welcome?”
As I blow out a quiet breath, my hands grip the steering wheel, turning my knuckles as white as bone. How the hell do I answer the question without lying because I know Mom won’t want to hear the truth? She’d blame me for the issues or tell me I should be the bigger person and try to resolve them. I don’t want to get into an argument that will trawl up our past and rend open our wounds. She’s too far away for that. “The house is awesome,” I say brightly. “And I’m all settled into the master suite.”
“That’s great,” Mom gushes. “And the boys?”
“They had a party the first night I got here,” I say.
“Wow…that was so nice of them to welcome you and introduce you to all their friends.”
“So nice,” I agree.
“Well, it’s a big relief to know you’re all settled. We probably won’t head home for a few months, so it’s good to know everything’s going well. And what about business?”
“It’s slow,” I say softly. “I’ve designed two new ranges, and I’ve been trying to meet with buyers, but it’s hard. There’s lots of competition.”
“There is,” Mom says. “There is always competition, so you have to be tenacious. You know you have talent. You know what you’re making is great. Believe in that, and things will fall into place.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so,” she says smoothly. I’m never sure with Mom if she gives me these rousing speeches because she truly believes in my talent or is just hoping it’ll work out so that I’m not a burden to her.
“I sold three vases on my website,” I say. “The customer was across town, so I delivered them personally. They’re decorating an upscale restaurant.”
“See?” Mom says. “I told you. Just keep pushing, honey.”
“I will.”
“Okay. Well, I’ve got to go. We’re heading to the beach and then for a seafood lunch with some of Randolph’s friends.”
“Living the dream, Mom,” I say as the memory of the fish at Casa Carlton flashes through my mind. My life is more of a nightmare right now, but at least I’m bringing the rest of them down too.
“It’s been a long time coming,” she says softly.
We say our goodbyes, and thankfully, the traffic is moving in my favor today, so I arrive only thirty minutes late. My studio is at the bottom of an old building that hasn’t been renovated for over fifty years. It was in bad shape when I secured the lease for a ridiculously cheap rate, and I did a lot of work to make it usable. I’ve started subletting workspaces to other artists, which is helping to keep my head above water financially. Charli is a painter who works mostly on commissions. Naomi produces pieces from fabrics, using quilting techniques to make elaborate wall hangings and human-form sculptures. It’s fascinating and inspiring to see their work, and I’m also grateful for the company. I love what I do, but it can be a lonely profession.
The sound of Naomi’s sewing machine is audible through the closed door. She’s gotten an early start because she’s due to deliver a fabric bust to an office opening across town. It’s oversized and made from rough navy-blue material, interspersed with golden threads. Yesterday, she debated adding a kind of toga over the shoulders, but she wasn’t sure. I guess she’s made her decision.
As I push through the door, I see Naomi’s mass of black curls bent over the sewing machine and her hand clutching navy-blue satin fabric.
“Hey,” I call, so I don’t make her jump.
She doesn’t stop immediately, but when she’s gotten to the end of the seam, she reaches into the air, stretching her inked arms high. “I wondered when you were going to show up,” she says, her eyebrows arching. “It’s not like you to be late.”
I hold my hands up, palms forward. “I know. I had something to do.”
“Something more important than work?” she asks, standing and holding the fabric up so she can study her stitching.