Insult to Injury Page 10

  “She is!” Neill turns his bald head over his shoulder and glares at his fiancé. “Vivian Harding is the most amazing mezzo-soprano that ever lived. The music she creates with Chicory Ariose has placed her in her very own category. Have you really heard of any other opera singers who can improvise and do what she does with them? I think not!”

  Neill huffs and I smile, but also tune out their familiar type of banter. I spent most of last night talking about anything and everything, except what was on my mind, and now my brain insists I think of her. Of Romi.

  What the hell happened last night in the car? She was, of course, being sweet and helpful, but that wasn’t it. She stopped moving and my eyes got stuck in hers. I mean, that never happens to me. I’ve never been one for sappy, romantic stuff. No time for that. I’ve had my share of lovers, men and women, whenever my schedule has permitted it, but mainly for sex…and to have someone escort me to events. The music world can be as judgmental as any other, and though I’ve never minded my own company, my pride prevented me from arriving somewhere important alone.

  No. Not once have I lost my breath and gotten lost in someone’s eyes—and most certainly, if someone had tried such a thing with me back then, I’d have scoffed and made sure they didn’t “get stuck” again.

  I retrace what happened last night. I had been surprised at how Romi looked better put together and not as if her clothes were going to fall off her body because of wear and tear. The fact that she arrived with Manon Belmont, who may or may not be responsible for Romi’s wardrobe improvement, was beyond unexpected. Learning that Romi can sing had given me pause, but her objecting to wanting to pursue music as a profession sounded genuine, though that might be an act, for all I know. She also startled me when I realized she fell over in the company of the huge dogs. The girl is thin enough for a strong wind to blow her away to damn Kansas, after all.

  I’m not sure if I was imagining it, but I had the feeling she was deliberately pacing herself while eating. Do the people she lives with not provide her with food or clothes? Yes, she’s an adult, yet…It doesn’t make sense, and it’s certainly not right.

  The guys are still going on about the pros and cons of classical training when singing, and I lean my head back and cradle my arm. I never did catch what kind of song Romi performed when she caught Manon’s and Eryn’s attention. Apparently, Giselle and Tierney were present, and the young girl as well, Stephanie, during open-mic night.

  Last night, when I offered Romi a lift, I didn’t pay attention to any particular undertone. I simply asked as I tried to do the small-town thing and be neighborly. I mean, how would it have looked if I drove home and ignored a young woman who lived so close to me? This last thought derails my mind again. She lives so close to me, but where? She never volunteers any such information, and something tells me she’s ashamed of humble beginnings. Is it my wealth or status—or former status as it were—that makes her clam up? I know I intimidate some people quite easily, but with her, I’m not sure that’s why she’s tight-lipped about her actual address. I’m fairly sure she lives northeast of me, but I’ve never seen any lights that way, so it must be a bit farther than she lets on.

  “Is that perhaps the enigmatic Romi you don’t want me to ask too much about?” Neill asks and startles me out of my train of thought.

  I straighten my back and look out the windscreen. It is indeed Romi. We’re about five minutes from East Quay, and here she is walking along the side of the road.

  “It is.” I open my mouth to ask Neill to pull up, but he beats me to it.

  I roll down the window, suddenly mindful of not startling Romi by showing up in a strange car. “Hello.” I lose what polite greeting I meant to add after that one word as she turns to look at me. Her eyes are huge, and the intensity of her gaze makes my stomach tense.

  “Hi, Gail.” Romi takes a step back, away from the car.

  “We’re heading to have lunch at the Sea Stone Café. Jump in.” I point toward the back seat.

  “Ah. Um. No, thank you, that’s not necessary. I’ve called Mike and Vivian and canceled. I need to prepare for tomorrow.” Romi kicks at the dirt at her feet.

  “Oh, no,” Neill says and leans across me to look at Romi, inadvertently nudging my bad arm. I hiss and pull away from him. “Fuck. Sorry, Gail. I’m an idiot. I’m just so disappointed that I won’t get to meet your Romi.”

  I want to smack him for making the pain soar in my arm, but mainly for calling Romi “mine.” Now I see how Romi hesitates, and before I quite realize my intention, I’ve unbuckled my belt and am outside the car, yanking the back-passenger door open. “Get into the front seat before Neill makes me want to take his head off. Romi, you can at least ride with us into town. We can drop you off before we head to the café.” I see she’s about to object, but something, and I’m not sure what, makes her change her mind. She rounds the car and gets in behind Neill. I slide into the seat behind Laurence.

  I buckle up, biting the inside of my lip so I won’t moan when I raise my arm to click the belt into place.

  “You okay?” Romi whispers.

  “I’m fine.” I know she knows I’m lying, but it doesn’t matter. “Neill, Laurence,” I continue and indicate the guys respectively, “this is Romi.” I’m not going to repeat the mistake I made last night when I mentioned the fact that she helped me with some heavy lifting.

  “Good to meet you, Romi. We’ve heard a little bit about you, which is a lot, considering it’s tight-lipped Owen doing the talking.” Neill smiles broadly through the rearview mirror.

  “Nice to meet you.” Romi tilts her head at me in a clear challenge. “I can’t say I’ve heard anything about you.”

  “Touché, Neill,” I say triumphantly. “That’ll teach you to be a smartass.”

  “Just kidding, just kidding.” Neill lets go of the wheel completely to raise his hands in defeat. It doesn’t surprise me at all that Laurence automatically reaches for it and steers the car safely while Neill is being silly. No doubt the more levelheaded Laurence is the reason they haven’t experienced the same type of wreck I have. The only reason I can ride in cars without panicking is that I have no memories of my accident. That’s what I think, at least. At the hospital I met a man who had yet to set foot in a car more than a year after his wreck. Sure, I’ve seen photos of my totaled BMW sports car, but it feels as if that’s someone else’s vehicle. Too surreal, even if my arm is a constant reminder.

  “Where are you going?” I now ask Romi, not sure why that matters, but it does. For some reason, ever since the night she passed through my garden, she has gone from being helpful to becoming fascinating.

  “I have to do some shopping. There’s a new shopping center west of East Quay and—”

  “We have time to swing by the shopping center.” I know I’m interrupting, but I just know she’ll insist on being dropped off close to the marina and will have to walk all the way to the shopping center if I don’t take the initiative.

  “You sure?” Romi pulls up her cell phone and checks the time. “Okay.” Coloring faintly, she wiggles the phone. “I haven’t had a cell phone in years, believe it or not. This is pretty cool.”

  “May I have your number?” I shock myself. And my cheeks grow hot, given the way my words could be received, and I’m sure are interpreted, in the front seat by the guys.

  “Um. Sure. Absolutely. Give me yours and I’ll send you a text.” Romi glances at me over her phone. “Can I snap a photo of you to put in my contacts?” Her eyes are sparkling now, and she looks so beautiful that I lose my breath.

  “Of course,” I say, my voice barely carrying. I hear her phone click right then and feel more vulnerable than I have in years. I manage to give her my number without sounding like a complete madwoman, and soon I get a text from her, which also contains a small photo of her.

  “For your contacts,” Romi says and shoves her phone back into her pocket, a crooked smile on her lips.

  Neill chooses this moment to bu
tt in. “So, Gail tells us you’re into music as well.”

  Romi stiffens next to me, her haunted expression back. “In a manner of speaking. I’m an assistant choir leader. Or I will be tomorrow if all goes well.” She presses her palms together and pushes her hands in between her thighs. I get the impression that her fingers instantly went cold right now.

  “You’ll do fine,” I say, sending a murderous glance toward the rearview mirror. Did Neill have to sound like I did nothing but talk incessantly about Romi last night? A thought strikes me. Did I? I think back to us sitting with glasses of red wine and talking until two a.m. Yes. I did mention Romi more than once. Nothing about the awkward moments of physical closeness in the car, but I did let drop little tidbits about her. How careless of me. Neill knows me better than anyone, and I can’t imagine, though it’s not surprising, that he noticed any tiny, even insignificant, detail I may have let slip last night. I want to groan and clasp my forehead, but naturally, all I do is direct my attention forward and disengage.

  After all, I’ve perfected that skill since that fateful day in the BMW.

  Chapter Twelve

  Romi

  After hurrying out of Gail’s friends’ car and thanking them for the lift, I stride past the shops in the shopping center. I’ve already used the brand-new smartphone I got at the store connected to the Belmont Foundation to find the closest camping store in the area. As it turns out, one has recently opened in the new shopping center, and the initial sale is still going on.

  I have to get out of Gail’s house ASAP, and buying supplies at the camping store is the only way I can think of. I can’t say I look forward to sleeping outdoors, but the way I see it, I don’t have a choice. If I overhear more tears during confidential talks in the spy corner, I won’t be able to live with myself. And who am I trying to fool? Running into Gail seems to be a frequent thing and something I want to be able to do without a shroud of guilt suffocating me.

  The camping store is enormous. I pass fishing equipment, clothes for hunting, rifles, literature about any outdoor activity, climbing gear, and then, finally, stuff for campers. I’ve already spotted a sleeping bag that can tolerate temperatures down to fifteen degrees that’s within my budget. Or, rather, it’s within range of what cash I have left and still have enough to buy food. I’m going to have to figure out a way to get my nicked preserves from the secret room out of Gail’s house, though.

  I find the sleeping bag, and to my joy it has been marked down by an additional twenty percent. This means I can buy a solar-powered lantern, an inexpensive backpack meant for kids, and a camping set holding a plate, utensils, a mug—all kept in a plastic storage container. They also have a sale on self-inflatable camping mattresses, and I choose a blue one.

  “You’re not really thinking of getting that sorry excuse for a backpack?” an amused male voice says from behind, making me jump.

  I turn and see a guy my age. He’s wearing a shirt that tells me he works in the store and that his name is Ben. “I really just need one to carry my stuff in. I don’t care that it says Spidey on it.” I shrug.

  “Aha. Hmm. Wait. I just can’t let you do this. Honestly.” Ben shakes his head and rounds the shelf. He returns with a camouflage-patterned backpack three times as big as the Spidey one.

  “I can’t afford that,” I say, squirming inside.

  “It’s ten bucks more. This is a demo exhibit from our former stores. Surely you can add ten dollars?”

  I calculate in my head. Between the cash I earned helping Gail and the advance from Manon—and if I stick to eating from the preserves and an occasional cheeseburger—I can perhaps get it.

  “You know what? I’ll knock another five bucks off. You’d be helping us get rid of it, actually. That can be worth five dollars.” Ben grins at me.

  I haven’t survived in Manhattan for the last six years by being too proud. “Deal,” I say quickly, before he regrets it.

  “Fantastic. Let me help you get all this to the checkout. Oh, and by the way, that camping mattress comes with an inflatable pillow. Pretty cool, huh?” Ben’s enthusiasm is contagious, and I find myself returning his smile effortlessly. I think he may be flirting with me, and I hope he doesn’t think I’m responding on that level.

  I adjust my features when we reach the checkout. I count the bills as I place them on the counter, and my stomach is turning, as I have never spent this amount before in one go. Forcing myself to not yank the money back from Ben’s hand, I watch him put it in the till and place my items in the backpack.

  “There you go,” he says, beaming. “Unless there was anything else?”

  “Um. No, thank you. This is it. And thanks again for the discount.” I accept the backpack and place it over one shoulder.

  “Need help adjusting it?” Ben tilts his head, and I know it’s time to leave.

  “Thanks. I’ve got it.” I nod and walk out of the store. I’ve lucked out more than I deserve, but I’m not going to stay around long enough for Ben to think I’m that grateful.

  As I step outside, I find the sun’s come out and it’s turning into a beautiful day. I figure out the straps of the backpack and put it on. Surprised at how light it feels despite my purchases, I begin walking back toward the farmhouse. If I hurry, I might be able to be out of there, glass jars and all, before Gail and the guys come home.

  My new sneakers help the walk seem easier and less cumbersome than usual, and I make good time. I think about what I’ll have to buy next time I get paid. Batteries. Yes. And I’ll have to be sure I charge my cell phone whenever I’m working or visiting someone. I’ll also need one of those cheap coolers. Yes, there’s an old, big one in Gail’s basement, but I’ll be damned if I steal that as well. The food, yes, she won’t miss. I admit my reasoning isn’t logical as a theft is a theft, but at least I’ll be out of her house and not such a creep. All I have to do is remember the time I heard her cry in the spy corner, and my resolve strengthens.

  I turn the corner and see the farmhouse, and it’s as if my mind splits in two. I see it the way it looked when I lived here with Aunt Clara. Perfectly straight rows of flowers, berry bushes that needed tending to in the summer, fruit trees, the greenhouse, and the entire kitchen garden with vegetables I had to weed. How I hated it. Not the work per se, even if I was a lazy teenager at times, like most of my peers, but the feeling of not belonging, of being taken for granted as a farmhand and never receiving any praise or recognition. It all made me loathe living here. And now, when Gail lives here and I’m nothing but a trespasser, I can’t understand why leaving hurts so badly.

  I hurry into the basement and into the bomb shelter. I manage to shove four jars into the backpack, together with the rest of my things. Pretty sure Gail won’t notice, or miss, one of Aunt Clara’s old shopping bags on wheels, I add the rest and the books from my room. What little I had when I arrived at the farmhouse fits on top of the last jars.

  Quickly, I poke my head out the door and listen. No voices. No engine. This is it. I tug on the backpack, which is much heavier now. I pull the bag on wheels after me and push the shelf door closed. Pulling the bag behind me, I drag it up the few steps and then turn around to close the door. My fingers tremble when I hide the key in its usual place. With my entire being, I want to linger, to change my mind, but I can’t. As long as I figured I was staying in an uninhabited house, I could justify my presence, but not the way things are.

  I pull the bag behind me through the shrubbery, cursing as it keeps getting stuck on the uneven ground. Tears stream down my cheeks now, and I can’t quite grasp what I’m about to do. It doesn’t matter that I tell myself this will be better than sleeping under a bridge with unstable people as neighbors. At least I’ll have a roof over my head. Sort of. It’ll still suck. I’ll be alone, and it’ll only get colder. Yes, today is a great autumn day, but the nights are bitter already.

  Sobbing, I chastise myself. I have to get a grip. This is temporary. I have a job, albeit not full-time, but I’ll hav
e more money than I’ve ever had, and I’ll be able to save some. After all, I’m used to living on practically nothing. Perhaps I may even be able to rent a room at one point.

  If I tell Manon I’m once again homeless, not that I ever was anything else these last few years, she may ask about details, and there are some things I can never share with her—or I’ll lose this chance. She must have googled me, and perhaps run a search of me within the state, but if she finds out about the arrest, it won’t matter how wrong the accusation was. I’m supposed to be taking care of young kids. Yes, she must’ve found gaps in my history, naturally, but clearly they haven’t been enough for her to have second thoughts. If she thinks I was homeless here in Rhode Island, gaps won’t stand out as something unexpected.

  Fuck. I’m turning into such a liar. It’s true, once you start, one lie leads to another. My stomach lurches again, and when I see the abandoned house appear between the trees and overgrown old garden, I almost drop to my knees and wail.

  The front door is half ajar, and I enter carefully, hoping not to find any rodents, skunks, or whatever. Not even cute chipmunks or squirrels. Damn. I don’t want to be here.

  Making my way into what used to be the living room, I hope it will be in better shape than the kitchen, which is just plain gross. I’ve been in here twice before, checking it out, and am certain that going up into the attic is not doable. The stairs are rotten, and half the steps are missing.

  The living room boasts two wooden chairs and a rickety table that perhaps I can fix. I determine which corner looks less bad than the others and use one of my old T-shirts to sweep away as much of the dust as I can. The sun shines in through barely transparent glass in the only window. It’s the only unbroken one in the entire house, which is a blessing, as it will keep rain, and oh, God, snow out.

  Now my knees do give in, and I fall sideways down onto one of the chairs, burying my face in my hands. I can’t take much more right now, but at least I’ve done the right thing. Now Gail’s house is just that. Her house. No uninvited squatter will be hiding in her basement and lying to her with every breath. When—if—I see her again, I can at least give her that. Her privacy. Her own space no matter which corner, in whatever room, she chooses to sit in.