Brooklyn hides behind her mother’s leg, and shame fills me. Like the depressed feeling from earlier, shame is not new to me either.
“Yeah, okay. Well, I, uh…” Cassidy holds out a silver tin with a clear plastic lid.
I don’t want what she’s offering, but my hands reach for it anyway—a reflexive response. Looking down at what is in my hands, I assess it, then glance back up to the woman. She is young, very young, maybe my age. Smile lines frame her eyes, lines that I don’t have. A swipe of flour dusts her forearm.
“You made me a pie?” The astonishment in my voice is embarrassing. Baking a pie is not a new concept, but someone being kind to me? That hasn’t happened in a while.
Innocent until proven guilty are words we use to remind us not to judge too quickly. But let’s be honest. It’s really guilty until proven innocent, and even then, the guilt leaves behind traces. Like smudges of ash following a fire, or particulates floating in the atmosphere after an explosion. The slate is never fully wiped clean.
“You’re our new neighbor, right?” Cassidy offers a friendly smile, but I can’t seem to reciprocate.
“Uh-huh.”
“And your name is?” She cocks her head to the side, her eyes tentative. Her smile falters. Maybe she has that sixth sense mothers develop. My own mother claimed to have one.
“Brynn,” I answer finally, balancing the pie in the crook of my left arm and offering her my right hand.
She seems relieved by this customary display of normalcy. We had a rocky start, but perhaps I’ve passed her test after all.
“Mommy, can I go play now?” Brooklyn’s little voice floats up from her hiding spot behind Cassidy. Her head is stuck out and she looks up at her mother, eyes big and wide, waiting.
“Sure, sweetie, but not for too long. Taylor will be here soon.”
Brooklyn yells with excitement and jumps down each stair, landing on them with two feet and a solidthud. When she hits the grass, she bolts for her own front yard.
Cassidy turns back to me. “She loves her babysitter. I, on the other hand, do not like needing a babysitter.”
“Oh,” I say. I could make conversation. Ask Cassidy why she needs the babysitter. Ask her about Brooklyn.How old is she? Is she in school? What’s her favorite color?Hell, I could even ask Cassidy what filling is in the flipping pie.
But, no.
I’m not in Brighton to make friends.
I’m here to blend in, make money, and run.
2
Connor
My biggest worryin life is that I’m washed up before I ever made something of myself.
It has been months since I’ve sold a painting.
It has also been months since I’ve painted anything new. I haven’t been inspired, for one, and I’ve been busy. Too busy to pursue my passion. The blank canvas in my living room taunts me every day. I leave it there, leaning on its wooden easel, for a reason. I need something to remind me I can’t give up on my dream, even while I’m keeping someone else’s alive.
It’s a lot to ask of a person. Keeping enough faith for one dream is difficult. Two? Tall order.
It’s early in the morning. The birds have only just begun to sing. Back when all I did was paint, I’d stay up all night—that’s usually when inspiration struck. Now I’m in bed by ten, alarm set for six.
My dad was diagnosed last year. It started with some tremors. He didn’t tell anyone about those, but my mom noticed. She called me crying, and said it was hard for my dad to turn a screwdriver. I wrote it off as age-related arthritis. I think he did, too, because that’s what we wanted it to be.
Then he fell from the ladder while he was on a job. He’d only been on the second step, thank God. He was supposed to be changing a lightbulb in a ceiling fan for Old Lady Linton, and lost his balance. He got off easy with a bruised hip, but it was only the beginning. Eventually came the diagnosis of Parkinson’s Disease. After that, we had to tell him he couldn’t work. Hands down, I’d take a double root canal over having to do that again. Telling my dad he could no longer run his business was the spoken equivalent of delivering a punch to his gut.
The only person who could run Vale Handyman Services? Me. The artist. Who knew next to nothing about fixing things, despite having grown up around tools. I’d never shown an interest in the business, and Dad didn’t push me. To get up to speed, I read books.Home Repair for Dummiesand things like that. The first few homes I visited, I sent pictures of the repair to my dad. He’d study the photos, then call me and walk me through it.
I still have to call him from time to time, but mostly I’m good on my own. I expanded the business to include interior painting. Might as well do painting of some kind. I feel better with a brush in my hand, even if I’m not creating art.
Every Monday morning I hop into my truck and head to my parents’ house. This Monday morning is no different. My mom prints out my schedule for the week and I look it over, adding the tools I think I’ll need from Dad’s workshop if they’re not already on my truck.
