The second time, she closed the bathroom door behind her and went back to the small desk and took out her sketchbook.
Her doodles bored her. After a while trying to make them interesting, she decided a sandwich would help her think. She took Duchess out to walk her on the way and noticed that the golfer had gone.
By the end of the afternoon, Amy had managed to sketch what looked like a small town and a line of lighted trees across the lake. She imagined the supposed winter storm that was heading toward them—a gloomy day, the water dark, the trees providing the festive light reflected on the lake’s surface. She decided there should be a herd of cows dotting the hills nearby, and a small watercraft decked out in red and green lights heading for the warmth of the town. It felt commercial. And it looked like something visitors might want to buy.
Unfortunately, it didn’t feel like somethingshewould want to buy. It was pretty, but it was purely tourist fare. It left her feeling a little dull. Was she here to paint to make money? Or to express herself authentically? And were those two opposite things? The questions were valid, but she didn’t really have the luxury of time to think about artistic ethics right now. If she was going to enter the contest, she had to commit to her ideas and go.
She was staring at her dumb, touristy painting, debating if this was an exercise for money or art, when “A Holly Jolly Christmas” suddenly blared loud in the studio, startling Duchess out of a sleep so suddenly that she rolled off the cot. Amy and the dog burst out of the studio, Amy halting on the deck and Duchess plowing into her leg, barking wildly. Amy thought surely the music was blaring up and down the lake, but no…it was coming from inside the house and studio. How thoughtful Sam was to make sure the studio was wired with her madness, too.
She scooped up Duchess and went inside the house, wedged herself behind the tree, and turned down the music.
When she pulled herself out from behind it, she dislodged the sparkly spiral ornament that had gotten caught in her topknot, then looked around for any sign of the golfer. But the house was still. He did not appear to be present.
She fed Duchess, then went outside onto the deck. It was quite cool, and the gray damp was making her feel stiff.Thanks, middle age.But thechilled air felt exhilarating. What she needed was an exercise routine. Something more substantial than walking Duchess around the block in the mornings. She leaned over at her waist, letting her arms dangle, stretching out her back. Tight as a drum.Yoga.Now, there was something she could do. Back when she was an artist, she’d practiced yoga as part of her creative process, to expand her creative chi. The theory was she’d get her zen on then paint the afternoon away before a late class. She wished she could remember whether that had worked or not.
She rose up, one vertebra at a time, then lifted her arms to the sky. She hadn’t done a sun salutation in a few years. She dipped down, stretched out into a down dog position. Wow, her calves and her back werereallytight. Duchess wandered underneath her and lay down where Amy was supposed to lower herself to the ground for up dog. She used one arm to move Duchess, and in doing so, tweaked a muscle in her back. But she carried on, inadvertently flopping onto her belly, then moving into the sun salutation.
It was a lot more taxing than it should have been.
She did another one. And one more, congratulating herself on having completed three, even if she had to help herself down with knees through the third one. It was good enough to earn her corpse pose, the final resting position. She lay on her back, her eyes closed, one hand on Duchess, the other splayed on the deck; her mind and body soothed by the quiet and cool damp air, the distant sound of the lake lapping against rocks.
She didn’t know how long she’d been there in something of a shallow sleep, but the air temperature started to cool even more, and a dampness settled in. She became aware of a heaviness above her. A drop of moisture hit her neck.Rain.She opened her eyes, but instead of seeing heavy clouds above her as she expected, she saw her housemate towering above her holding a martini glass. Another drop of condensation slipped off the glass and hit her on the forehead. “Sorry,” he said. “Just making sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine. I’m in corpse pose.”
“Corpsepose?”
“Yoga.” She sat up. “It’s supposed to be relaxing.”
“Huh. I guess corpse pose would be the height of relaxation. I always meant to try yoga,” he added wistfully. He looked at the lake. Then skyward. Then at her again, his gaze drifting from her topknot to her feet. “You want a martini?”
“Do I want a martini?” She peered up at him. At his full glass. At his relaxed posture as he sipped it. “I am here to work. This is not a vacation for me as it apparently is for you. I’m here to get shit done,not sit around drinking martinis like I didn’t leave my kids and my job to make art happen.”
He held up a hand. “Got it. I won’t say another word.”
“Wait, I’m not finished. Where was I? Oh, right—I didn’t leave my kids and my job to drink martinis, but yes, Mr. Neely, I wouldlovea martini.”
Amusement sparked in his eyes. “Okay then.”
“Okay then,” Amy said, and hauled herself up in the most ungraceful way possible, because one of the first things to go after fifty is flexibility.
6
Harrison was strikingly happy that Grumpy Amy had agreed to a drink. The jury was still out on what sort of company she would be, but he’d been feeling antsy all day. He’d always believed himself to be pretty good on his own, as in, he could be by himself. But he wasn’t comfortable here. He felt…bored?
Bored?
This was what he’d been wanting: the chance to unwind and think. He wasneverbored. Quite the opposite, normally. But none of the relaxation or clear thoughts he’d expected had come to him yet. He felt restless, with too much energy, and yet no desire to really do anything. His thoughts were scattered. The silence around him—with the notable exception of a Christmas carol being blasted at him on occasion—was making it harder to think.
This was not like him. Maybe his low-level anxiety was because he wastooalone. When he was on the road, without family or friends, he was usually sitting in a bar somewhere or playing golf in a foursome. Surrounded by friendly strangers. Not quite alone like this, with no one around.
He didn’t like the feeling so much.
He’d gone to the store, heard all about the winter storm headed for Texas. “They’re saying we’ll have snow,” said the man behind the counter.
“Seems early for snow,” Harrison said.
“Maybe south of Dallas. Not up here. Texas is a big state, son.”
