The "What If" Guy (20 page)

“It’ll be fun having a social life again.” I stood.

“You’re going to love Fairfield when I’m done with you.” He took my hand in his and squeezed.

“Let’s not get carried away,” I joked. “I’m just looking for a fun way to pass the time.”

Henry’s grip loosened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it will be nice to have friends while I am stuck here.”

Henry let go and looked down. “Do you still plan on going back to Seattle?”

“Of course I do.”

He backed away and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“That was always the plan. I’m getting used to life here again, but this isn’t the place for me.”

As quickly as things had turned pleasant, things went bad. Henry crossed his arms. He looked at me with steely-gray eyes, heavy with frustration and disappointment. I immediately felt guilty. He was a small-town boy now. He had no intention of ever leaving this area, and my plan was to split the moment I got the chance.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” I picked up my purse, and headed for the door.

“Autumn—”

Tears of disappoint tears welled in my eyes. I was glad that Henry couldn’t see my face. “Thank you for your help with Elliott. We’ll see you later.”

Chapter Fourteen

The rumors were true.

All of the houses in Fairfield paled in comparison to Layla Deberaux’s house. The house was perched on Moon Hill, overlooking several smaller ones, right on the outskirts of town. The place had turrets, a koi pond in the front yard, and a four-car garage. A shiny, brass door knocker hung on the massive front door. An oversized, stained-glass window rose high above the entryway, depicting a scene complete with crashing waves and a topless mermaid. The spread was small-town opulence at its finest, and screamed of Layla.

I made my way up the winding sidewalk, and Layla threw open the front door. “Come on in.” A white teacup poodle trembled in her arms. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Humble?
I snorted, passing a yard statue of Athena.

“Thank you for having me.” I shifted my portfolio in my arms. “Your home is beautiful.” I stepped into the foyer, the profusion of fuchsia burning my retinas.

“Thank you,” she gushed. “I designed it myself.”

“I gathered that.” When Layla’s smile dropped, I corrected myself. “It’s so feminine and luxurious.”

She set the poodle down, and the dog scrambled across the floor to a fuzzy pink bed. “Isn’t it, though? I wanted it to feel like a love nest.”

I swallowed a giggle. “It certainly does.”

She led me down a hallway, into an all-white living room, where she sat daintily on the edge of a couch.

I sat across from her, and opened my portfolio. “Here are some pictures of my work. Most are paintings, but there are some snapshots of Elliott’s old room in Seattle. Oh, and there’s a picture of a small mural I did in the gallery where I used to work. It isn’t my usual style, but it’s got great colors and definition that I wanted you to see.”

Layla skimmed the pictures. “These are really impressive. I think you’ll do a great job in my daughter’s room.”

“Thank you. Could I see the space?”

Layla led me through the house, room after room of ornate décor and excessive amounts of pink. Located in one of the turrets, her daughter’s room was approximately the size of my father’s entire house. My eyes bugged.

Layla walked around the room, explaining her vision, and I pictured the end result in my mind—a room that other little girls could only dream of. She wanted a beach scene that evolved into a mermaid-filled underwater Atlantis. The water would stop at the edge of a cliff that dropped off into a forest featuring fairies of every color. The mural would take weeks to complete, but Layla said I could work around my pharmacy schedule. I couldn’t turn down the amount of money she offered.

“So, you’ll start tomorrow?” She handed me a key and led me back to the door.

“Sounds good.” I smiled. “I’ll sketch first, then probably start painting next week.”

I drove down the hill with a smile on my face, surprised that Layla had been friendly and kind. Of course she was narcissistic, not to mention sly. But there was something about Layla I recognized, something that I’d not realized about myself until recently.

Layla was lonely.

§

I spent the next two weeks working most of the time—mornings at the pharmacy, dusting shelves and restocking the cigarette dispensers, afternoons painting at Layla’s. I’d stop long enough to check on my father, then pick up Elliott at the bus stop and bring him back to the giant house on the hill, where I painted until dinner time. Sometimes he helped mix paints, or rolled on big sections of color for me. Other times, he played outside with Layla’s kids in the mild, late-March air.

Layla breezed in and out while I painted. She spent her time working for her father at the bank—although I had no idea what she actually did there—and shopping, socializing, or “doing lunch.” She attended to the ever-trembling poodle, and gossiped into her Bluetooth more often than she talked to me—exactly how I preferred it.

I listened to her end of numerous conversations and discovered that Smartie Guire had attempted armed robbery when he was in his teens, Ray Fisk had cheated on Ramona in the early eighties, and the pastor of the Presbyterian Church was a pathological hoarder. It was clear that Ramona had some pretty serious competition for the title of town gossip.

I had a lot of time to think while I painted. I thought about my dad, and how thankful I was that Elliott and I were back at home with him. He seemed grateful for my help, instead of bitter and unruly. And he’d surprised me by having a long talk with Elliott after the fight at school. He’d explained that defending a woman was noble, but that violence should be reserved as a last resort. He still drank, but he kept the alcohol out of Elliott’s sight, and only drank enough to keep his hands steady. It wasn’t perfect, but I could tell he was trying.

Elliott was now the object of Tabitha’s full-fledged adoration. When we went to the Judds’, she turned eight shades of pink and giggled incessantly while Holly shook her head. Elliott reveled in being a hero, letting Tabitha’s little brothers
ooh
and
aah
over his black eye.

I spent much of my painting time contemplating my last conversation with Henry. It had gone so well—until the end.

He’d finally
asked me on an actual date, instead of making out with me, then treating it like a dirty little secret. But when topic of Seattle had come up, everything had crumpled. I was starting to appreciate—and dare I say enjoy—the small town of my youth, but I had no intention of staying here any longer than I had to. I wanted to work in a gallery again. I wanted a loft with battered wood floors and exposed brick walls. I wanted Elliott to attend his private school again.

There was no way that a relationship between me and Henry could work long-term. His life was here, and eventually, my life would be elsewhere. The realization squeezed my heart and left me aching like I’d fallen out of a tree and hit every branch on the way down. Having Henry in my life for a second time had proven to be less about romance and more about heartache. I was weary of it.

So, I threw myself into my painting. The intricacy of each character was impeccable, and I outdid myself in the usage of color. The mural evolved from soft and dainty, to wild and vibrant, then settled on earthy and rich. Once Layla showed me the custom bedding and fixtures, it was clear that this would be a room that could be featured in an interior decorating magazine.

“Hey, Mom?” Elliott’s voice came from below me.

I balanced precariously on a ladder, painting a V of wild geese soaring into the blue sky. “Yeah, babe?”

“Marshall called.” He pushed up his glasses with a grin. “His mom is taking him to Spokane for pizza. He wants to know if I can go with them.”

“Sure.” I set down my paints and pulled some money from my pocket. “Here. I’ll call and check on Grandpa.”

El took the money. “Already did. He said to tell you that he knows how to microwave a pot pie and to stop worrying about him. He also said a few cuss words, but I figure you’d prefer I left those out.”

“Thanks.” I chuckled. “Layla is leaving soon, but I think I’ll keep painting for a few hours.”

“Cool. I’ll go wait outside for Marshall.” El charged for the door. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.” I smiled.

Layla had come home an hour ago with several shopping bags, announcing that her parents had taken her kids for the night. She had a date and was bubbling over with excitement.

I came down the ladder and turned on the small radio sitting in the corner. The music echoed through the empty room. I be-bopped around, adding details to the wings of some of the fairies. I thought about Layla down the hall, getting ready for her date, and felt a pang of sympathy for her. Sure, she was a first-class bitch, but she wanted what all of us wanted. Someone to love, who loved her back.

After an hour, Layla called, “Can you come and help me?”

I put down my bottle of paint thinner. “Uh, sure. Where are you?”

“I’m in my bedroom.”

I scrunched up my face. I wasn’t interested in seeing where the magic happened. Even so, I pushed open the door and found a trail of discarded clothing running from her closet to her bed. The room was all white and incredibly understated. “Wow.”

She peeked out of the walk-in closet, her hair curled and coiffed into a perfect golden mane. “Yeah. I haven’t had a chance to decorate in here yet.”

“No, I like it.” I went in and sat on a chaise. “It’s serene.”

Layla harrumphed. “I have big plans for this room.”

Too bad.

“So, what do you need?” I asked, anxious to get out of her den of sin and back to my painting.

“I need your opinion.” She came out of the closet wearing nothing but a black push-up bra and the tiniest panties I’ve ever seen.

“Gah.” I covered my eyes. “Good grief, give a girl some warning.”

She laughed. “Please. We were in gym together every single day from sixth grade until graduation. You’ve seen it all before.”

Not in its surgically-enhanced form
. “So,” I focused my gaze on the floor, “was one of your husbands a plastic surgeon?”

“You noticed the boobs?”

“Hard not to.”

“They were a gift from my second husband,” she said. “I got them right after he left me.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“It’s okay. I can’t complain. As long as he lives, I get half of his money. And I got new boobs. It’s a win-win.”

I felt like I was talking to Jackie Collins. “Congrats,” I said, studying all of the gorgeous clothes on the floor. Kind of slutty, but all name brand, some still bearing tags.

“Will you help me pick out something to wear?” Layla asked. “I want to make an impression tonight.”

I wound my hair up on the back of my head and secured it with a paint brush. “What kind of impression?”

She smiled audaciously. “The kind of impression that will make him come home with me tonight.”

My jaw dropped. “Whoa. That’s straight to the point. Okay, show me what you’ve got.”

We spent the next half hour going through her wardrobe, piece by piece. She tried on several dresses, most either too short or too low cut—in my opinion, anyway. We finally settled on three outfits which Layla modeled for me no fewer than four times each.

“What do you think about this one?” She turned in a circle in front of me. It was the only dress of reasonable length that I could talk her into, although it was an underwire, black satin number.

I forced a smile. “Um, it’s nice. But…your boobs. Wow. Va va va voom.”

Grabbing her breasts, she grinned proudly. “I know, right?”

“How about the red one? Can I see that again?”

Layla darted into the closet, reappearing in a flouncy number with a plunging neckline, “Is this the one?”

“It’s, um…” I scratched my neck awkwardly. “Very feminine.”

She examined herself in the mirror. “But does it make you want to be my new boyfriend?”

“How long have you two been dating?”

“This is the first time we’ve hung out.” She looked in the mirror and adjusted her hair. “I think I’m going with the satin.”

“Your first date, and you want him to be your boyfriend already?”

“Definitely.”

“Well, that dress will make him your boyfriend for the night, at the very least.”

She winked at me. “You gotta start somewhere.”

“I’ll file that little nugget away for the future.” I stood and stretched in my paint-splattered jeans and T-shirt. “Can I stay after you leave and finish up the section I’m working on?”

“Of course.” She applied another coat of mascara. “Make yourself at home. My mother put a casserole in the fridge this morning. Eat it for me. I absolutely cannot.”

“Why not? Is she a terrible cook?”

“No.” She swooped down and grabbed her stilettos. “I don’t indulge in calories the way you do.”

And she’s back.
I excused myself and headed down to Layla’s kitchen, shaking my head. During the weeks I’d been working at her house, I’d actually caught myself starting to enjoy her company. Sure, she was flighty and self-obsessed, but she’d been nice to Elliott, and had given me creative liberty on the mural. It stung to have the Layla I remembered return.

The water turned on upstairs, and I smiled. She was doing a serious amount of preparation for her date. I took a small portion of the casserole, cast a dirty look towards the stairs, then took another spoonful. As the microwave heated my dinner, the doorbell rang.

“Layla?” I called up the stairs. “Your date’s here.”

“Let him in.” she said. “I’ll be right down.”

I looked down at my sloppy clothes. Great. Now I was going to meet one of Layla’s sleazy dates, and I looked homeless. I blew a curl out of my eyes and trudged to the door.

“Hurry.” I swung open the door. “Your future boyfriend awaits.”

Henry stood on the doorstep.

“Are you kidding me?” I said, venom in my voice.

His eyes got as wide as plates, and his mouth dropped open. Guilt and embarrassment splashed all over his rugged face.