Plain Jayne (12 page)

“You’ve been working so hard this morning.
Maybe a rest by the pool will do you some good this afternoon,” she suggests as
she efficiently scoops up the remnants of my sandwich. “Would you like me to
make you another sandwich?”

“No,” I say in answer to both her statement
and question. “Thank you, but… I’m going to get back to it. I think… I mean,
maybe I know how I’m going to write something.”

Not here, though. Swiftly I rise and hurry in
the direction of the gazebo, despite my worry that I'll frighten off the words
if I move too suddenly. They’re like skittish, capricious butterflies that have
honored me with their company.

Based on this morning’s work, though, I know
that they’ll still be with me by the time I get to the gazebo. I’ve felt this way
before.

Chapter Ten

“And who is
this
?”

I can’t place the haughty voice with the harsh
Boston accent. It isn’t Paulette, and it certainly isn’t the voice of the fire
chief who was describing to Rose what had happened to her family in the second
chapter I’ve pounded into my laptop keys since lunch.

With what amounts to a surprising amount of
effort, I lift my head on my stiff neck and blink at the silhouette before me.
I see hands on hips, elbows flared, and massive sunglasses pushed on top of a
cascading mane of dark hair. My shoulder muscles creak as I move from my
hunched-over position for the first time in hours.

Before I can decide if I’m going to introduce
myself to this stranger, I see the familiar shape of Paulette catch up and hover
at the gazebo steps.

She answers for me, “This is Jayne. Luke invited
her to stay.”

I still can’t see any details of the
stranger’s face, but it’s clear by her tone that she’s looking down her nose at
me. “How… generous of him. And ballsy… in my house.”

Recovering from my writing stupor, I stand so
that I’m not looking into the sun bouncing off the shiny wooden floor.
Reflexively, I offer her my hand, even though I think she’s insulting me, and
it’s slightly absurd for me to uphold niceties if that's the case. But an
introduction is
definitely
in order, if for no other reason than to
disabuse her of the ludicrous assumptions I think she’s making.

“Hi, I’m Jayne Greer, one of Lucas’s…
writers.” I falter on the last word, not sure how to describe myself. Client?
Not really. Project? More accurate. Thorn in side? Ding, ding, ding!

“I’m sure you are,” she replies snarkily.

“And you are…?” I verbally nudge her like a
mother hinting to a child that she needs to mind her manners.

Paulette nervously interjects, “Oh! Goodness
me! Where are my manners? Caroline, this is Jayne Greer… er, which she already
told you… and Jayne, this is Caroline O’Shea-Edwards, Luke’s… er, right… That
is...”

“His wife,” Caroline O’Shea-Edwards supplies
smoothly and smugly. “At least, legally that’s still the case, last time I
checked.”

“Oh! How nice!” I utter with all the fake
enthusiasm of a reporter who’s trying her hardest to make a report about
Congressional budget talks sound exciting and glamorous and like something
she’s interested in. Truthfully, I’m trying not to laugh. What I want to say
is,
How absolutely hilarious that Lucas is
married
, and to a
nightmare like you
. But I manage to simply smile into her ice-cold gray eyes.

My smile fades, however, when she says in an
equally-phony voice, “Yes, well, I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this,
but you’re going to have to leave.”

Paulette and I speak at the same time.

“Okaaay…”

“What?! Wait. Caroline, Luke said—”

“I don’t care what
he
said, and neither
should you,” she snaps, turning her full attention to the housekeeper. “The
house in town is being repainted, and I can’t stay there. This is
my
house;
my daddy gave it to
me
; and I have the right to stay here whenever I want,
no matter what  promises Lucas has made to complete strangers. What is this,
some sort of charity for him? If he uses the house for ‘business’ x-number of
days, we get a tax write-off, or something?” She tosses her glossy chestnut
hair over her shoulder and thrusts her pointy nose into the air and her designer
purse into Paulette’s arms. “You can put that in the yellow room for me.”

She apparently thinks she’s finished with me.
Which is fine, except I don’t appreciate being dismissed. I clear my throat.
She turns around and look me up and down as if she has no idea who I am or how
I appeared in front of her.

“Hey,” I begin with a casual wave, as if to
say,
It’s me again; still here.
“The thing is… I mean, I know this is
your house—well, I
don’t
know that, but you say it is, and I don’t have
any reason to question that—but the thing is…”

Now I’m stuck. What
is
the thing? The
rational part of me is screaming for me to pack as quickly as possible and get
the hell out of here. But the creative side of me is sobbing, begging for me to
figure out a way to stay in the only place in which I’ve been able to write for
weeks. And not simply write. Write
well.
Write
inspired.
But
telling something like that to a person like Caroline O’Shea-Edwards is
probably the fastest way to get evicted. She’d kick me out for the fun of it.

Desperately, I toss out a lie. “The thing is,
I was getting ready to leave… tomorrow. Yep. Today was my last day.” Sure. That
works. I mean, I can pull an all-nighter. I can type all my handwritten copy
into my electronic manuscript, get a few hours’ sleep, and be on the next train
(taxi? Ferry? Bike?) to Boston in the morning, when I can deliver the finished
product to Lucas. Lord knows I don’t want to be in the middle of what sounds
like a house-custody battle between the scariest couple on the planet.

Unmoved, she says drily, “Good. Then I’m not
cutting your visit too short. I’d feel so guilty about that…”

I pretend to misunderstand her and act
relieved. “Yeah. Exactly. So, I’ll leave in the morning, as planned, and then
you’ll be rid of me. Thanks!”

Before she can object, I gather my things and
practically run into the house after Paulette, who’s already upstairs in the
“yellow room,” which—funnily enough—is what I’ve been calling simply “my room.”

I stop short. “Oh. Yeah. I guess this room
is
yellow. She wants to stay in here, huh?”

Paulette doesn’t pause in her frantic
stripping of the bed. “Yes. Of course. Whatever’s most difficult. I’m sure she
came up here first to see which room was taken before deciding it was the one
she wanted.”

Without thinking, I circle to the other side
of the bed and pull the sheets from the corner furthest from Paulette. “Yeah,
why doesn’t she sleep in the master bedroom?” I wonder, taking advantage of the
housekeeper’s uncharacteristic show of disapproval in a bid to get more
information.

But the moment’s passed. She seems to remember
her “place” and merely purses her lips so hard they turn white. Then she says,
“Never mind. I’ll help you pack.”

Even though I’m a little hurt she’s not acting
more regretful at my imminent departure, I recognize where her loyalties
lie—with the family who pays her.

“Actually, Caroline said it’s okay if I stay
one more night. So I’ll move my stuff… wherever you think is best.”

She stops moving to smile at me. “Oh, good!
I’m so glad you’re not rushing off today. It’s not fair, anyway. You’re not
finished with your book, are you?”

I shrug sheepishly. “It’ll be okay,” I say
unconvincingly. “I’m almost there.”

A scowl fleetingly crosses her face, but then,
just as quickly, it returns to a state of blank innocence, and she stoops to
gather the bed linens in her arms. “You can move across the hallway into the
lilac room, if you like. It’s the closest.”

It’s not like I have a ton of stuff to move,
since I haven’t technically unpacked (I’m getting used to living out of suitcases),
but I’m all for convenience. The few items that have made it out of my
suitcases—laptop, cell phone, MP3 player, paper and pen—now go back in one of
them before I zip it and wheel it with its identical twin across the hall into
the “lilac room.”

And it is very that. Lilac, that is. Subtlety
wasn’t an object in the interior design of this bedroom. It’s color-themed in a
way the “yellow room” never seemed to be. In addition to everything being a
light purple, including the wood furniture that at first glance looks white but
is, on closer inspection, a very faint hue of, yes, lilac, there are silk
approximations of lilacs and lavender in cut crystal vases scattered throughout
the room. There are even framed prints of lilacs on the walls and a few dried
cuttings in shadowboxes. Well, the good thing is that I can’t picture anyone
having sex in
this
room, which seems more fitting for a grandmother. The
only thing I can picture someone doing in here is having a virtual allergy
attack.

Well, it’s only for one night, so who cares?
The bed is another one of those high numbers that requires a tiny set of steps
in order to climb onto it, and the percale sheets under the white eyelet
comforter are probably every bit as soft as the ones in the “yellow room.” To
be sure, I walk over to it and run my hand under the covers. Yep. Six-thousand
thread count. Approximately.

Now a faint ringing makes me snatch my hand
away from the bed, as if I’ve been caught doing something naughty. It takes me
a second to figure out it’s my suitcase making the noise, and then I realize it
must be my cell phone ringing, which reminds me that I have to break the news
to Gus that he won’t be able to come visit here this weekend. That’s going to
be an unpleasant conversation.

As I’m unzipping my bag and reaching in it for
my phone, Caroline swoops past my door and turns into the room across the hall.
She’s saying to a trailing Paulette, “…but then you disappeared on me! Anyway, while
you’re at the store, make sure you pick up some lobster, shrimp, and steaks for
grilling out. Not too many… it’ll only be me, but I’m craving surf and turf.
None of that aged beef, though. I’m not sure I can handle that in my delicate
state. As a matter of fact, maybe seafood’s not a good idea. Too much mercury…”

“Hello? Jayne? Are you there?”

I’ve been so intent on eavesdropping that I
haven’t had the brainpower to multitask and say anything after hitting the
button to answer my phone. Now my brain reminds me that the caller ID told me
Luke-Ass was calling, and that the proper greeting is:

“Uh… What? I mean… I’m here!”

Or not. But it’ll do.

He chuckles nervously. “For a second there, I
thought I heard… someone else… and was afraid I’d dialed the wrong number.”

I try to tune into our conversation and block
out Caroline’s continuing loud debate with herself about whether or not to eat
seafood (“or is it only shellfish and sushi I’m supposed to avoid? Too many
rules! I’m dying for a lobster tail!”). Finally, I close the door and retreat
to the end of the bed, which I lean against with my hip.

“Sorry. I was distracted,” I explain
succinctly.

“Not too distracted, I hope,” he replies
lightly. “Someone tells me you’re doing a lot of writing.”

Without the usual annoyance and frustration
fueling it, the statement, “I wish you’d stop using Paulette to spy on me,”
comes out sounding as mundane as a request for him to copyedit something I’ve
emailed to him.

“I’m not spying! I’m simply getting
information from someone else so that I don’t have to bother you.”

“Spying.”

“Semantics. Anyway, how’s it going?” He sounds
the happiest I’ve ever heard him. Which puts me on my guard.

“Fine. Almost finished.”

“You are?! That’s great!”

“Yeah.”

When I don’t expound, he prods, “Well…? Are
you happy with what you’ve written?”

“Does it matter?” I retort.

“Sure. To some extent. Do you think
I’ll
like it?”

“No.” I’m deliberately being difficult,
because I don’t trust his motives for asking. I mean, who is this guy, anyway?
Now I find out he has a wife? What about the buxom Blanche? Does
she
know
about his wife? Because, really, I don’t care. But I bet Blanche would. Is he
playing her?

“What do you mean?” he asks, refusing to let
me get away with monosyllabic answers, his smile no longer audible. “Please
don’t hand me any more crap and try to pretend like that’s the best you can do
so that I’ll leave you alone and publish your book, as-is. It doesn’t work that
way. You’ll work on it until you get it right.”

Hackles:  raised.

“I don’t think it’s crap, okay? It’s damn
good.”

“Oh. Well, good.”

“I don’t know if it’ll be up to
your
standards,
but that’s a whole different story.”

I hear him take a deep breath and then exhale.
After a few seconds, he says, “I’ll take what I can get right now. So, when do
you think you’ll be sending me something?” Before I can answer, he rushes on,
the enthusiasm back, “Or, I have a better idea! I’ll come there this weekend,
and we can look over it there. I could use a weekend at the beach.”