I’m nothing more than a stranger to these women—a dangerous one, if they know why I was brought here to begin with—but they talk to me like I’m a welcome friend. I know their mother and grandmother shared the real purpose for my sudden arrival.
“Don’t overthink it, Jules,” Stevie says, slapping my back as Jo starts the engine. “Follow us over. We could use the help.” The loud muffler almost drowns out what she says next.
“You might know my sister and my grandmother, but we don’t know you,” she says, pointing her finger between her and the truck where Jo’s sitting. “We can be exceptional allies or your worst fucking nightmare.” Popping another bubble, she hops into the truck bed before shouting, “You decide!”
I’m not good with threats. They usually make me want to push and do exactly the opposite of what’s being asked of me, but this is Wyn’s family. And like it or not, they hold far too many cards that I can’t see.
“Wouldn’t mind your opinion on a few of the pieces I’ve been working on. Some rich asshole commissioned a series of paintings.” She leans out, arm propped on the open window of her truck. “Anyway, he gave me a word and asked that I deliver three paintings of my interpretation. He sent the first set back and told me I lacked originality.” She grins to herself. “Kind of need another creative person to take a look.”
“Alright,” I say as I move back toward my truck. “I’ll follow you.”
Rumor, on the outside, looks like every other small town I’ve been to before. Brick buildings housing small businesses, old Victorian homes operating as a combination of doctors offices, a dentist, or attorneys offices, but something about this one feels like there’s still room for growing. It doesn’t feel like it’s peaked yet, despite the empty storefronts. Maybe it’s because I like turning basic materials into shiny and pretty things, this place has possibilities. Nosy neighbors and busy-bodies also linger outside in the late summer afternoon. Some even stop what they’re in mid-motion of doing to watch the Crowne sisters in a red pickup truck park out front of the long, empty building.
When I shut my door and I look down the block, it’s more of the same. The police station is at the beginning of the long stretch that makes up Rumor’s downtown, and here, there’s a lot of run-down buildings and only a few local businesses peppered throughout.
“Nosy assholes,” Jo breathes out as she looks down the street. A woman with a broom stares at where we’re parked, and a few cars slow down as they drive past.
In the back of the truck, Stevie shouts, “Mind ya business, Mary Jo! Keep drivin’.”
The woman, whom I’m assuming is Mary Jo, opens her mouth wide and does the sign of the cross as she picks up to the twenty-five miles per hour that’s stenciled in paint across the road.
About an hour later, after unloading all the supplies, I’m staring at a painting that looks like it was stolen from the very secure walls of the Art Institute of Chicago, and wondering, again, who the hell these women are. “You painted that?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Fuck yes, she did,” Stevie croons from the kitchenette on the far side of the loft space. I glance around and see the corresponding oils on plates, rags smeared with dark greens and deep reds, brushes soaking in turpentine, and the smell of it all still lingers in the air.
I hum out thoughtfully. “Impressive,” I say, looking closer. Because while my expertise lies in metals and gems, fine art is easily appreciated by most creatives. It isn’t as cliché as Van Gogh’sStarry NightorSunriseby Monet, but the late-night diner scene of Edward Hopper’sNighthawksoil on canvas would be recognized by anyone having taken an art history class in the last forty years. There’s a story in it. The creative part of my brain used to live for the story surrounding any piece of jewelry I made.Where would it be worn? Who would look close enough to see it? Or what would its owner do while wearing it?
I trace along the leather cuff on my wrist. This one has a new story, and the matching one that’s folded in my pocket had a different owner for a while. Seeing it on her lit something in me—pride, or maybe possessiveness at seeing her with something I’d made, I don’t know, exactly. It made me want to adjust it for her—to tweak the size so it fit her better and fix along the edges that had been worn away. It’s simple, but I haven’t felt a desireto make a damn thing for so long that up until now, I don’t think I realized how uninspired I had been.
Clearing my throat, I ask Jo, “What was the word?”
She moves to stand next to me, taking in the same painting.
“The one your benefactor gave?” I study along the painting's edges. There’s always a detail an artist could be known for. Sometimes, it’s the metals and tools used, or the method of creating. For painters, it’s about the edges.
“Pith,” she says with a smirk.
It was an interesting choice. Pith could be as simple as the white lining the rind of an orange. It’s bitter and often avoided. But as I glance around the warm colors of the 1940s diner painted on a large canvas, I think about where this painting originated. “You know this was inspired by Ernest Hemingway’sThe Killers?” I ask.
“I’m aware,” she says as she moves behind me, folding up a tarp.
This family is anything but boring, that’s for fucking sure. If I had to guess, Pith, in Jo’s interpretation, means something entirely different to her.
“I have a feeling you’re a fire sign,” Stevie says, tossing an orange at me. I catch it and start to peel it.
“Did I say I was hungry out loud or did you have a sixth sense about that too?”
She smiles at what I’ve said and chucks one to Jo. “I’m a mom. I have snacks all the time, even when I’m kid-free for the day.”
I peel away the rind and glance around the room. I’ve talked about myself more with these women and this family than maybe anyone. It wasn’t hard to do, which I’m not sure if that says more about them or about where I am in my life right now. I look up at Jo first, who’s working her way around the peel, and then to Stevie. “Sagittarius,” is my delayed answer.
Slamming her hand down on the countertop, she points at Jo. “I called it!”
Jo moves toward her, slamming down a twenty-dollar bill, and says, “I was almost positive you were an Aries.”
Popping a quarter of the orange into her mouth, Stevie adds, “Wyn is a Gemini, so that would make sense. Smart, and you saw the chemistry.” They talk about all this as if star signs and pairings are common knowledge and a forgone conclusion. Like everyone should know their own astrology details and its nuanced interpretations.
“Not sure I believe in any of that,” I say to them, letting my mask fall for the briefest moment.
