Chapter 12
The next couple of weeks passed in a slow, dreary procession of empty cloudy days. I thought of him every day and dreamed of him every night.
Even when I didn't remember those dreams, I knew exactly who'd been starring in them, whether from the tears on my pillow or from the sweet blissful feeling that faded the instant I realized that none of those dreams had been real, whether figurativelyorliterally.
All the while, I did nothing to try to contact him. I still had his money, and it wasn't the only thing I had. I had his clothes. I had his tools. I had his paint brushes and canvases, along with the few completed paintings that he'd been storing for who-knows-how-long.
Everything was exactly as he'd left it, whether in the guest house or in the studio above. It wasn't just sappy sentimentality that kept me from moving it to someplace else. Storage was expensive, and I could barely pay my gas bill.
With summer long-gone, I'd lost even my seasonal job at the cookie shop, along with the pittance I received for mowing the lawn and weeding the flower beds. No matter where I looked, everything felt dead and empty. The tourists were gone, the grass had gone dormant, and all of the flowers were long-dead.
With Aunt Gina in France, learning to be a chef, and Cassie visiting her parents in Indiana, I'd spent Thanksgiving alone, watching old movies and pretending that it was just another day.
In just a few short weeks, it would be Christmas, not that I cared. In fact, I was having a hard time caring about anything, no matter how much I tried to fake it.
I was also looking for work, not that I'd found any, which totally sucked, because I needed money now more than ever. Just before Thanksgiving, I'd developed a weird drainage problem in all of the bathrooms.
Every single sink, tub, or shower was draining so slowly, it took forever for the water to go down. After days of hoping things would magically improve on their own, I'd given up and done the unthinkable.
I'd called a plumber.
It was mid-morning, and I was expecting him any minute when the doorbell rang. But when I answered, it wasn't the plumber. It was Derek, dressed in a suit and tie.
He gave me a big salesman-like smile. "How's it going?"
I didn't smile back. "What do you want?"
"Oh come on," he said. "You can'tstillbe mad?"
Mad didn't even begin to describe it. While standing in the open doorway, I thought of everything Derek had done. He'd blackmailed me with threats. He'd sent a fake letter that convinced Joel to give up any artistic aspirations. He'd hired a giant moving truck –withoutmy permission, no less – to haul away Joel's stuff.
And now, on top of everything else, he kept stopping by, even though I'd made it perfectly clear that he wasn't welcome. Ignoring his question, I said, "You're supposed to call first, remember?"
"I did call." He frowned. "Twice."
"Yeah. I know. And I didn't answer, so you should've stayed home."
"I wasn'tathome," he said. "I was at the office."
"Well, goodie for you."
Derek's jaw tightened. "I know you don't believe this, but I'm here as a friend."
Sure, he was.I muttered, "Some friend."
He gave me a pleading look. "Has it ever occurred to you that we had your best interests at heart?"
I wanted to slap him. "Look, we've been through this. For the millionth time, no. It has not occurred to me. Wanna know what I think?"
"What?"
"It's notmyinterests that you care about."
His eyebrows furrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know what it means. Between you and your dad, you're determined to keep me under your thumb." I lifted my chin. "Well, I'm tired of it."
"Yeah," Derek said. "I heard."
