Chapter 7

When I pulled into the driveway, my grandfather was losing a fight with the garden hose. It was an old thing that we barely used, at least since we'd left the garden to grow on its own, and I could feel my forehead beginning to crease. I got out of the car and walked closer, still not seeing a reason for him getting it out.

"What are you doing, Frank?" I asked.

"Nothing?" He abruptly dropped the instrument, but the nervous vibes he was giving off didn't decrease in the slightest. I felt my teeth start to gnaw at my lip.

What has he done now?

I saw him glance at the back entrance. "Well, don't mind me then," I said. I was damned if I didn't find out what he was hiding. I took a few long strides forward, but Frank stepped between me and the door, looking panicked.

He kneaded the hem of his blue-and-black button-down in his hands. "I didn't think you'd be back so soon." He gave me a sickly smile. "But, uh, good that you're back?"

"Is that a question?" I arched an eyebrow. When I tried to move around him, he immediately lifted his hands in defence.

"You can't go in there!"

"Why not?"

"Martha is, uh … She is … not decent," he whispered, and a deep red blush tinted his cheeks.

My eyes almost bulged out of their sockets. "She's not what?"

He couldn't be talking about our sweet new neighbour from Louisiana, could he? My jaw worked, but nothing came out. If possible, he turned even redder. I wasn't far behind. So much for only wanting an innocent conversation over some cookies!

Oh, god.

He weakly gestured toward the main entrance at my prolonged silence. "You, uh … can use the front door."

I somehow managed to chase away the images of my grandfather and Martha doing who knew what on our kitchen table. Then I was in full-on retreat to the front of the driveway, only to draw up short when a small red coupe passed by the house, its merrily-waving driver none other than our new neighbour. My eyes trailed after her in disbelief before I whipped around to my grandfather. The old man visibly started to sweat.

"Seriously?" I pressed out, not certain whether I should be relieved Martha wasn't currently hunting for a dress and pearl necklace in our kitchen or pissed about Frank's bogus lies.

He tried stepping into my path again, but this time I wasn't having it, using my agility to duck around him. Trailing after me, he still tried to keep me from walking through the short hallway into the kitchen, mumbling something about physical endangerment. When I entered, my mouth formed a perfect O, and the breath rushed out. Frank hovered behind me while I stood frozen in the doorway.

"What in the name of…"

Red. Everywhere was red. Gushy, gloopy, syrupy red. Like someone had filled a bathtub to the brim with tomato sauce and then thrown a piece of dynamite into it.

Most of the ground was covered in sanguine shades, as well as the stove, the fridge, even the sink. The walls celebrated a meat frenzy. Slices of sausages were glued to the tiles, utterly defying gravity. And even from the other side of the kitchen, I could see splatters of the goo on the white-rimmed windows. The counter was an even bigger mess. Soggy bell peppers rested on the top, together with something that looked vaguely triangular. It wasn't the only oddity to behold, considering that translucent golf balls formed heaps on my favourite table. Some of the onions had found their way into the fruit bowl, drawing my attention to the lake of crimson seeping into the rifts of the yew wood. A drip disturbed the miniature sea's calm surface. Then another. My eyes wandered upward.

Three shelled shrimps adorned the gleaming chandelier. A staccato beating rhythm drummed in my ears at seeing the mangled antique, and I could only mutely watch how more red drops dripped from its arms.

I spotted a giant cooking pot lying forlornly on the ground. Just next to it, a single blue slipper lay on its side, miraculously untouched.

My shaky hand moved toward the doorjamb in support.

As if the visual assault wasn't enough, all of it was accompanied by an overwhelmingly strong scent of burnt Cajun. I flared my nostrils, still trying to process the scene. This wasn't just a mess—this was some next-level shit.

I turned to Frank with a heavily twitching eyelid, shocked at the carnage the old man had wrecked in a single afternoon. "Care to explain?"

"I tried to make … gumbo. For Martha. She was a bit homesick, she said."

Our sweet, kind-hearted neighbour. So that was the reason. It was almost cute. Almost.

"You tried to pour it away in the sink and slipped?" I asked, eyeing the slipper.

He nodded sheepishly. "It made a huge pirouette in the air."

"No kidding. It's a miracle you didn't burn yourself. We had a deal you wouldn't cook on your own. And next time you have a disaster this big, please call me."

The most puzzling thing remained the garden hose. I tried not to think about how he could've flooded the kitchen, but images of a red sea came into my mind. The thought of how much worse that mess would‘ve been made me curse Frank's stubborn independence streak. His refusal to ask for help would end up being the death of me.

"I didn't want to bother you," he said, handing me the mop. "Said to myself, ‘Frank, this ain't so hard. All's needed is a little elbow grease.'" Giving a chagrined shrug as he plucked up some peppers, he added, "Guess that didn't turn out so good."

I sighed deeply as I began pushing onions into the trash can. My left arm pulsed unhappily at the motion; the fall from the oak tree had caused a nasty bruise. "We need to talk about your definition of not so good. And for heaven's sake, no more of those outrageous cover-up stories."

"Yeah, uh … how about we don't, uh, mention any of this to Martha. Ever?"

"I certainly won't!"

A nervous chuckle escaped the old man before he cleared his throat. We continued cleaning in blessed silence after that. When we dumped the last of the failed stew into the trash, I'd finally calmed down. And, because Frank looked like someone had run over his cat, I invited Martha over. In the end, the old man seemed pacified with how his gumbo attempt had turned out.

I was just packing up my painting supplies to head to the park when Martha knocked on the door. I led her toward the wooden wicker chairs at the edge of the porch. Its view over the expansive fields framed by wild roses and cherry trees was still beautiful, even in October. Maybe, it was that view that gripped our guest the most.

"Such a hospitable neighbourhood," she drawled in her Cajun English, sitting down next to Frank and lightly patting his arm. "I so appreciate the invitation."

The old man grinned before taking a deep puff of his pipe. "T'is our pleasure. Can't have been easy to leave the place you lived all your life. The least we can do is make a welcome."

"Yeah, it was a real wrench." The older woman twisted the thick amber ring on her tanned finger. "But … my daughter moved here some time ago, and I wanted to be with her and whatever little adorable small ones she pops out. Family"s more important than any single place, after all."

"Wow, you moved for your daughter and grandkids? That"s really thoughtful. I'm not all that great with change. This one's mum emigrated here from England to be with my son." The old man gestured in my direction with his pipe. "But I doubt I could do it, regardless of how much I love the kid."

"Hey!"

"I'm kiddin", I"m kiddin'."

"And after what just happened, as well!"

Martha looked curiously from one of us to the other. "Did something happen?"

Frank took a nervous puff of his pipe. "Oh ... um ... nothing ... Just a mess my own adorable grandkid helped me out with."

Adorable, huh. Way to cover your ass.

"Ah, you see, that"s why I came here, for moments like that. Even if it does mean living on my own. But, oh well, good company makes up for them lonely nights a lot," she said with a twinkle.

I snickered at my grandfather's blush and hefted my bag to leave. As I reached the kitchen, I looked back at them relaxing on those wicker chairs. Martha seemed really nice, and I could see how much Frank had already taken to her. A familiar pang settled in my belly. Even Frank kept his eyes open. I, on the other hand, was alone. Would it really be so bad to have someone to sit with on a lovely fall night? Someone who made you feel good about yourself, someone you could share things with?

I didn't have a ready answer. Not like I usually did.

In the car, the what ifs didn't let go of me. Maybe I was still off-balance after meeting Emmanuelle yesterday, or maybe the air just had a strange scent to it today. One of possibilities. One of hope. Would I be less of a recluse if my mother had lived? Less emotionally distant? More inclined to take a risk?

Maybe, the pull of the past was the reason I felt such a strong urge to go and paint in the park. While the gardening work with Frank filled me with peace, creating art had always given me freedom—a way to escape. Whenever I painted or sketched, all the bad and the ugly stayed tethered to the ground while my imagination let me soar away. I felt stuck with the blue painting for the moment, Harry's words still ringing in my mind, but there was no reason I couldn't start something new. Working on either painting was better than secretly sketching a certain French artist, too. I just couldn't seem to get her out of my head.

The trees were swaying gently in the breeze when I arrived at the park, and the last rays of the sun warmed my cheeks on my way to the lake. I set the canvas up to the left of it, just far enough away from the weeping willow to centre it on an old woman with a blue-dotted trench coat on a bench. My brushes went onto the folding table next to the tubes of paint, and, with a concentrated frown, I pictured the image I wanted to capture.

An hour later, I put the brush aside. The painting wasn't nearly close to being finished, but tomorrow would offer a few more precious hours to further its progress. The light had been great today, and I hoped I could catch more of it. Before packing everything back into the car, I spent a long minute deliberating whether to walk over to the old woman on the bench. The thought made my stomach bubble with unease, but a look at the canvas stopped me from indulging my need to escape. The painting deserved to be finished. I just hoped the woman wouldn't think I was some weird creep for painting her without asking permission.

Come on, what's the worst that could happen? asked the imaginary angel on my right side.

She could think you're shady, sozzled, or a few sandwiches short of a picnic, the devil on the left supplied helpfully.

Okay, I had to stop watching cartoons when I couldn't sleep, even if they helped me to compose myself after a nightmare. With clammy hands, I finally walked over, trying very hard to appear as a mix of harmless, paint-splattered, and nice.

"Hello. I, ah … know this probably sounds a bit strange, but are you by any chance going to be here tomorrow?"

The old woman's curious expression was so direct that it made me shift. "I come every day to feed the ducks. After, I often sit here for a while when the weather is nice enough."

"So you're usually here sometime during the day?" She nodded, but both eyebrows were still raised quizzically. "I'm painting the lake," I admitted bashfully and pointed at the easel by the weeping willow. "And you're a part of the image."

Sudden understanding dawned on her face, and I was relieved that she didn't look upset.

"I should be flattered." She coughed slightly. "You're welcome to paint me, whenever I sit here."

For the first time, I met her eyes and even managed a thankful smile. But I was still glad when I could walk back to my canvas.

No matter how many times I got over the reluctance of approaching strangers, it never got easier. My father had made sure of that. I would forever remember the day he made my six-year-old self get up on stage and play the piano in front of two hundred strangers. He and Mum had argued about it, too, after she found out he'd volunteered me to play at a nursing home. But even my mother hadn't been able to get him to reconsider and, in the end, he'd simply forced me to go.

The seat had felt uncomfortably hard, too high for my small frame to properly reach the pedals, but I was just too intimidated to say it. To make things worse, two keys had been off-tune, and the sheet music was missing its last page. Feeling my father's dissatisfied gaze on me the entire time I played had just ended up being the last nail pounded into my coffin.

I'd somehow got through the performance—only to be met with his wrath as soon as I rushed off-stage. He never hit me, but that one time he came very close. Still, verbal abuse was just as bad. I'd only ever been a disappointment to him, and he made sure I knew. But his attempts to toughen me up only had the opposite effect.

Alive, he'd been large, bull-headed, and quick to anger. We'd never really connected, and it hadn't surprised me when his obnoxious attitude had pushed my brother to move several hours away. But I never hated my father … at least not until that one fateful day.