Annabelle
7
I waited for a shout. There was nothing. I thought maybe a shaking fist would appear. That didn’t happen either. Instead, the grounds between my little house and the big house grew very quiet as if I wasn’t alone in waiting for something to happen, but nothing did.
I closed and locked my door, wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d gotten carried away. I decided to forget about it and preheated the oven to cook the frozen pizza Soph had put in my freezer. This was best friend love in its purest form.
While the pizza cooked, I took a quick shower and put on my pajamas. Several times I walked back to the windows that overlooked the yard. I stared at the curtain that I was certain I’d seen move but there was nothing. No movement, no light, no indication that anyone lived in the house at all. Maybe I had imagined it. Hmm.
I took my pizza into bed—because, why not—fired up my laptop, and watched some reruns of The Office. Since I was now working in an actual office again, it resonated. I glanced around my bedroom during the opening credits, noting again the lack of art. It was positively savage to have nothing but barren walls. Art, in my opinion, was a window to an alternate world of imagination, emotion, and truth.
That’s how I’d always viewed it at any rate. Ever since I was a kid, museums to me were like amusement parks, where every painting was a portal to another dimension of the artist’s creation. It was why I initially wanted to be a fine artist, but I didn’t believe I had the purity of talent, plus I wanted to eat, move out of my parents’ house, pay my own bills, and so forth.
I considered the plain white wall across from me. What would I hang on it? It would have to be big, huge in fact, to cover so much real estate. A landscape? Something that felt like I could step right into it and smell the sun-warmed wildflowers or the new-fallen snow or the damp darkness of a forest at night. Should it be desert mountains in all their bronze and purple glory? Or maybe a seascape to counteract the arid climate, something with big blue-green waves crashing on a rocky shore? Perhaps, a still life? A bowl of lemons so vibrantly yellow that the blistered rind seemed like it could be plucked right out of the painting and the one lemon sliced open made the viewer pucker at the potential bite of its tart juice. Yes, I would like that.
I woke up with a gob of cheese stuck to my face. I’d fallen asleep on my pizza. My computer battery was dead, and—I glanced at the clock—I was late. Later than late. I should be walking into the office right now!
My phone was on my nightstand, and I picked it up and glared at it. Why hadn’t the alarm gone off? Oh, the betrayal! I ran into the bathroom. One glance in the mirror, and I screamed. My hair was a rat’s nest, I had a pimple sprouting on my forehead, and I kept burping pepperoni.
I combed out my hair and twisted it into a topknot. I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I dashed to my suitcases, which I had tossed into the closet, where they remained unpacked as I hadn’t had the motivation to deal with them yet.
I riffled through the first one and found my underwear. I yanked it on and then flipped the lid on the second one, which was full of acceptable work clothes. I grabbed the ubiquitous black knit dress and a zebra print scarf. I pulled it over my head, minding my hair. Then I grabbed a pair of thick socks and my beat-up black high-top Converse sneakers, which were more scuffed than not. I didn’t care. My feet were still tender and these shoes would not cause any more harm. I grabbed a yogurt out of the fridge and a granola bar from the pantry, dropped them into my bag, and raced for the front door. I was killing it! If I kept up this pace, which meant running all the way to work, I would only be fifteen minutes late.
I thought about texting Soph and making an excuse, but our friendship was too valuable for me to treat it like that, plus she was my boss now. I was going to have to take my lumps for being late and just make certain it didn’t happen again. Of course, it might have been easier if I hadn’t said I’d be there bright and early. Ack!
I grabbed my jean jacket—it was cold in the morning—and yanked open the front door. Taped to the middle of the double doors was an envelope. I snatched it off and stuffed it into my bag, barely taking time to lock the door behind me as I ran down the driveway for the street.
By the time I got to the office, I was panting and sweaty and even my comfortable kicks were chafing my feet. As I stood waiting for the elevator, I shrugged off my jacket and pulled the front of my dress away from my skin in order to get some air. I was just checking the messages on my phone when the doors opened and Carson stepped out.
He blinked at the sight of me, and a slow smile curved his lips. “Just getting in?”
“Early meeting with a client ran late,” I lied. Although maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the mysterious envelope on my door had been about a job and not someone trying to sell me life insurance. I could always hope, right? I lifted my phone to my ear to listen to the voicemail from my sister, Chelsea.
“Sure it was,” he said. His voice was whisper soft and full of doubt.
Then he shook his head, dismissing me as he stepped out of the elevator and around me as if I were no more significant than a cautionary Wet Floor sign. I knew he was trying to rattle me, but I was not about to let him.
I tipped my chin up in the air and strode into the elevator. I lifted my phone to my ear and pretended to be talking into my phone, and said, loud enough for Carson to hear me, “Hi! Yes, isn’t it fabulous? So nice to have such a huge client come on board.”
I saw a flicker of uncertainty cross Carson’s face as the doors shut. Okay, great, now I just needed to bring in a huge client. No big deal.
I greeted Nyah and Trent as I hustled to my office. No one seemed to care that I was late, which I appreciated. I had a feeling Carson would be making a federal case out of it to Miguel, and I didn’t really need anyone else to pile on.
I dropped my bag in a desk drawer and fired up my computer. I wanted to check my email and see if the meetings I’d set up had been confirmed. While my desktop booted up, I remembered the envelope taped to my door and retrieved it from my bag.
I used my thumb to break the seal and opened the note. I recognized the handwriting with its particular precision right away. The letters were squared off and thick as if the writer meant what he wrote and wrote what he meant—there was an air of authority about the handwriting that made me take notice. I quickly scanned the lines and the word busted leapt to mind.
Tenant:
At exactly seven o’clock last night, you were seen entering the hot tub with what appeared to be an alcoholic beverage. Per the list of rules that was delivered to you upon your arrival, the pool is for the exclusive use of the homeowner. It would be greatly appreciated if you could refrain from using the facilities during the duration of your stay.
—Daire
So the curtain twitch had been the old guy. I stared at the note. I was torn between laughing my head off and crumpling the note up into a tight little wad in my fist and tossing it in the trash.
Tenant? Again, the crotchety old geezer didn’t even use my name. Surely he knew it from where I’d signed the lease in at least seven different places. And the way he signed his name. Daire. I said it out loud with all the condescension I could muster.
I didn’t crumple the note. Instead, I shoved it in the top drawer of my desk and contemplated what I should do. I thought about asking Miguel or Sophie for advice, but I didn’t want to drag them into this. It was likely Daire—I said it in my head with a partial lip curl of annoyance—would tell them himself, which would be awkward enough.
No, my best line of defense here was clearly a strong offense. Maybe I could bring the old guy a pizza as a peace offering while I pleaded my case that the hot tub was a separate feature and therefore not covered by the rule stating no use of the pool. I had genuinely loved my time soaking in the tub and didn’t want to give up access. I wondered if I could broker a deal with the inflexible curmudgeon.
Maybe I could convince him to give me use of the hot tub at certain times of the day, like at night when he was asleep. I could promise not to make any noise. I mentally scanned the evening before and wondered if I’d made any sounds, you know, like singing, whistling, or talking to myself. It happened sometimes. I doubted it as I had been determined to go undetected but maybe I’d blown it. It had been pretty great, soaking up the heat under the stars. I might have gotten carried away. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Newly determined, I opened the file on my computer and began to work. I met with all of my team members and got up to speed on their projects. I made some suggestions, which were well received, so I felt like things were off to a good start. It was exciting to be working with other creatives again.
There was some righteous talent at Vasquez Squared. This didn’t surprise me since Sophie had a real eye for talent, and Miguel was brilliant at pulling the very best out of his staff. They had an ambitious plan to be one of the top design firms in the country, and I knew them well enough to know they wouldn’t quit until they got there.
Feeling guilty for arriving late, I ate lunch at my desk, working to make up the lost time. Soph popped in for a minute but she and Miguel were presenting a corporate identity proposal to an international soap company located in the Valley, so they were out of the office for most of the afternoon. Normally, I would have gone with them on a new business pitch, but they were giving me some time to get my sea legs, which I appreciated.
Throughout the day, I revisited Daire’s note. While debating various responses, I found myself doodling on a fresh piece of paper with a fistful of random colored pencils that I’d taken from the supply cupboard. It was a simple drawing, depicting my version of a mighty saguaro cactus, framed by a variety of cactus blossoms. Beside the cactus was a small pond, an oasis, with a lone fish, a koi type all flowing fins and shiny scales.
Below the picture, I wrote:
Landlord:
Please excuse the misunderstanding. I would like to respectfully point out that the hot tub was not listed in “the rules,” and after a long day at work I couldn’t resist it. Please accept the enclosed drawing as an apology but I would also request that you reconsider the use of the hot tub. If there is any time of day that my use would be acceptable, it would be greatly appreciated.
Annabelle Martin
I had no idea if he would take the salutation as one of snark or not. I hoped the gift of the picture would soften him up at least a little. I supposed if he said “no,” I would learn to live with it, but it seemed awfully selfish of him. What good were things like hot tubs if they weren’t frequently used?
I found an envelope in the office to put the picture in and stored it in my bag. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get it to him, but I’d worry about that when I got home. Not wanting to eat another frozen pizza, I called for a car to pick me up and take me to the grocery store.
When I arrived home, I unpacked my groceries and then moved to the doors to stare at the big house that loomed across the yard. It seemed the protocol was to leave the note on the front door. Okay, then.
I found some tape in the utility drawer and took it with me. I walked briskly down the path that cut through the side yard and led to the front door of the big house. The sun had set, leaving a smoky blue dusk behind that shifted into darkness by invisible degrees.
The path was lined with short garden lamps, making pools of light that I strode through as I walked to the house. The night was chilly and I noted the lack of noise. No cars could be heard tucked away this far from the main roads, and the songbirds had obviously called it a day. I was right behind them. I could not wait to microwave my bowl of prepackaged ramen and put on my pajamas.
When I reached the house, I hesitated. There was a light illuminating the front door, but the windows on either side had the same heavy drapery as the back of the house. Truly, if I didn’t know any better, I would think the place was vacant.
Quietly, slowly, cautiously, I approached the front door. No one popped out of the house to yell at me, so I assumed my presence had gone undetected. Cool.
I hurried forward and taped the envelope with my response to the door. Shoving the tape in my pocket, I dashed down the steps and jog-walked the length of the path as if I were fleeing a haunted house but trying to look cool about it. I didn’t breathe properly until I was back at my place, where I quickly locked the door behind me and rested against it as if I’d just robbed a bank and was hiding from the law.
Per usual, after I’ve done something that was driven more by impulse than thought, I was deluged with a truckload of self-doubt. Did I do the right thing to try to gain access to the hot tub? Was Daire going to be angry that I called him “landlord”? It had seemed like an on-the-nose way to make my point at the time.
Oh man, I was going to get tossed out on my behind. I knew Miguel and Soph would take me in. But when they’d offered originally, I hadn’t wanted to be an imposition, plus I’d feared being made creative director and living with the bosses wouldn’t go over well with the staff I was supposed to supervise. And now that I’d met the throbbing nerve of resentment that was Carson West, I knew I’d made the right call.
I put my ramen in the microwave and crossed over to the windows to glance at the big house while my dinner cooked. No lights were visible. I wondered if my smartest play would be to sneak back and retrieve my stupid note. Probably not; he had to have gotten it by now. Damn it.
The microwave beeped and I took my soup out and put it on the counter. I debated having a glass of wine for about a nanosecond and then went ahead with a generous pour of chardonnay. I wasn’t sure if this was the correct pairing with ramen, but whatever.
While the soup cooled, I retrieved my phone from my bag in the living room, planning to text my sister while I ate. I was halfway back to my seat when there was a knock.
I dropped low to the floor like someone had thrown tear gas through the window. I glanced in the direction of my bedroom. Could I get there without being seen? No. Unlike at the big house, I liked having all of my drapes pulled open and anyone could see in, because I didn’t want to live feeling buttoned up to the neck. I might have to rethink that.
I stayed perfectly still. Maybe if I didn’t move, the person would assume I wasn’t home and they’d go away. I held my crouched position even though my back was beginning to spasm.
The knock sounded again. I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe. What if it was Daire himself, coming to throw me out?
“Hello? Ms. Martin?” a voice, a man’s voice, called through the door. Gah! It probably was Daire. I felt my entire body cramp. If I was capable of moving, I would have smacked my forehead with an open palm, but I didn’t want to make a sound.
Despite my curiosity about my landlord, which was like an itch I couldn’t reach to scratch, this was not how I wanted to meet him. We needed neutral ground or something.
There was movement behind the glass doors, and a bald, bearded man peered at me through the narrow window on the side of the double doors. He blinked. I didn’t move. Would he think I was a piece of furniture? A delightfully random sculpture, perhaps?
His gaze held mine, and he waved one big beefy hand. I realized he could see me quite clearly in my awkward frozen crouch, and I likely looked like an idiot. I waved back and then pretended to tie my shoe, yeah, because that was going to fool him. My heart was beating hard in my chest and I felt suddenly sweaty.
I rose and crossed the room to the doors. Steeling myself with a big breath, I unlocked the doors and pulled open the one on the right. “Hello,” I said. I made my voice cheery and, I hoped, innocent sounding. Just me eating a bowl of ramen, nothing to see here.
“Hi, I’m Jackson Popov,” he said. So he was not Mr. Daire. My spine relaxed and I drew a relieved breath.
“Annabelle Martin.” I pointed to myself.
“I know. I work for Mr. Daire. He asked me to bring you this.”
He held out an envelope. I didn’t take it. His eyes went wide as if he didn’t know what to do with my nonparticipation. But really, why would I want to take what was likely an eviction notice? I felt like I was being served legal papers, and I wanted no part of them. He flapped the envelope at me. I kept my hands at my sides.
He pursed his lips and squinted one eye as if he was unclear on what to make of me, and it gave me a chance to study him. I guessed him to be in his early to mid-thirties, despite the bald head, which looked shaved rather than the result of hair loss. He was built huge in height and width; the T-shirt he wore strained to cover the muscles that rippled beneath his skin with every move he made—even in his neck. Impressive and fascinating.
I wondered what he did for Mr. Daire. Bodyguard? Personal trainer? Enforcer? The last one made me pause, but his friendly face didn’t seem like the type to crack skulls for a living. Still, the possibilities were endless.
“Is he throwing me out?” I asked.
He shrugged his massive shoulders. Seriously, if he tried to come in, he’d have to turn sideways to manage it. He held the envelope out and said, “There’s only one way to find out.”
Reluctantly, I took it. I glanced at him and asked, “Scale of one to ten—with one being ‘What infraction of the rules?’ and ten being ‘Let’s stone her to death!’—how mad was he that I used the hot tub?”
Jackson’s lips twitched. “Funny you should use the scale of one to ten.”
“Just trying to get an assessment of the potential fallout,” I said.
“Understood.” He looked up at the dark night sky and then down at the ground while he considered his answer. “I’d say a solid seven. It’s all he talked about today.”
“Oh,” I said. The envelope in my hand felt suddenly hot. “Sorry.”
“No, trust me, it was a nice change from the usual,” he said.
I wondered what “the usual” was but didn’t ask. Instead, I said, “Do you want to come in? Can I get you a glass of wine?”
“You’re stalling,” he said. His pale gray eyes glinted with understanding.
Of course I was, but I did appreciate that he could see my BS for what it was. I glanced down at the envelope and saw the precise handwriting on the outside: Ms. Martin.
Was it a promising sign that I had been upgraded from Tenant? I wasn’t sure.
A chime sounded and he took his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the display. “Gotta go,” he said. “Nice meeting you.”
Then he turned and walked down the steps. He didn’t stay and wait to see if I had a reply for Mr. Daire, as if this were an Austen novel and he was the footman with a return message. I wondered if that meant this was an eviction notice. Clearly, in that case, there’d be no need to wait since there was only one way this was ending.
I closed the door and locked it as he disappeared from view. I turned and tossed the envelope onto the counter. It didn’t feel as thick as the original rules. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? I had no idea.
As long as I didn’t open it, then I could live in blissful ignorance. I went into the kitchen and picked up my spoon. I ate at the counter, staring at the envelope, trying to guess what was inside. I lifted it up to the light, wondering if I would see the words Get Out through the envelope. No such luck.
I put it back down and chewed on my noodles. The soup was spicy and I began to sweat. I refused to believe it was from nerves, and I took a fortitudinous sip of my wine. When the soup was gone, I washed out the plastic dish and put it in the recycle bin. I debated putting on my pajamas and going to bed. See? I can do avoidance like nobody’s business.
I suspected I wouldn’t sleep without knowing the contents of that stupid envelope. I picked it up and used my thumb to break the seal. One sheet of paper fell out. It fluttered to the counter like a bird with a broken wing. I scooped it up and read.
Ms. Martin:
The hot tub is a part of the pool and as such is off limits.
Daire
Well, that was coldly to the point, wasn’t it? I sighed in disappointment, knowing that I should be grateful that he hadn’t decided to kick me to the curb, given that this was my thirty-day probationary period and all. Still, I was a bit hurt that there was no acknowledgment of my drawing. My artist’s pride was not taking it well. Daire had probably thrown it in the trash. One woman’s art was another man’s garbage, after all.
I wandered over to the window and glanced out at the pool, which was empty, and the hot tub, also vacant, and then turned my gaze to the house. The drapes were all drawn. Jackson had been the first sign of life I’d seen from the big house and now he was gone, swallowed back up into the cloaked abyss. In a weird way, the lack of life about the place depressed me. Much like the bare walls in this guest house.
Daire had probably already gone to bed. If he had a live-in caregiver, or whatever Jackson was, he must be in very poor health. I managed to dig up a little empathy for him, but it was a struggle as I gazed at the lovely purple glow of the hot tub and pondered how glorious a glass of wine would be while soaking under the stars. My sigh was as gusty as a storm front that vanishes right before the rain.
There had to be a way to get Daire to give in, and I was just the woman to find it.