I shake hands with both of them and try to keep the weird smothering sensation that’s suddenly sitting in my lungs from nestling any deeper into my chest. It’s great that my graduate adviser, Maxine, and my old boss at the campus museum, Sera Beth, both sang my praises—that made landing a gig like this much easier. But hearing mention of Martin is another story. Even now, when he and I are over, I still feel like I’m standing in his shadow somehow.
“I’m glad it worked out, too.” I paste on a smile. “But to answer your questions, I’m pretty easy when it comes to work spaces. Light or no light, I can make almost anything work. As for the Fenton program, I haven’t heard back yet. It’s a long shot, though.”
Saying that the Fenton award is long shot is a generous way of putting it, given that it’s the most prestigious artist-in-residence program in the Southwest. Awarded every five years, the winner receives a part-time teaching position at the Fenton Ranch for the Arts, a year-long stay in a cottage on the ranch, and dedicated studio space. All that, plus a stipend—real money to take care of the basics, like feeding myself and paying off student loans. It’s a dream come true for artists like me, who aren’t established enough to survive on sales of their art alone. Still, I’m not indulging in any what-if fantasies about the Fenton. That will make it hurt more when I don’t get it, even if losing out means I’ll finally know where I stand in the art community. At least, that’s what Martin told me when I applied.
Just remember, some people don’t have it. The sooner they realize that, the sooner they can figure out how to work with what they have, he said. He didn’t even have the decency to flinch when he said it, either. Instead, it was like he thought that by shattering my confidence, he was somehow doing me a favor.
What makes it all so much worse is that deep down, I want the Fenton. I really, really want it. But I refuse to say that out loud to anyone… because I can’t. It means too much.
Two hours later, Gwen and Jack have gone over every detail of the sprinkler system, the solar panels, the programmable thermostats, the voice-controlled light dimmers, the robotic vacuum cleaner, and weekly rotation of Mr. Snickers’ Fancy Feast dinner choices. Then we head out as a group so they can show me where to collect the mail and on the way back to the house, Gwen gives me a rundown on the neighbors.
“The Sullivans are on the end here. You’ll see them spending plenty of time outside, keeping after their landscaping.” Gwen sends look toward the Sullivans’ boxwood hedges, with edges so perfectly squared they look fake. “Retired CPAs,” she adds.
Jack scoffs quietly. “He trims his hedges with a pair of manicure scissors. Who does that?”
Gwen chides him a little, then gestures toward the next house, a two-story that is finished in bright coral-colored stucco.
“The Kang family lives there. Jeffrey still works but Melanie is retired from nursing. Their grandson is here this summer, so try to keep an eye out for him when you drive. Kevin’s been known to ride his bike into the street without looking.”
Jack tucks the stack of mail under one arm. “Look for a kid dressed like Elsa from Frozen but wearing a Spider-Man mask. Occasionally he’ll stand in the front yard and belt out a pop song like he’s auditioning for some TV show. You can’t miss him.”
I grin a little. Kevin sounds like my kind of people. Gwen gestures to the other side of the street and before she has a chance to speak, Jack tenses and sighs.
“The Hintons,” he mutters. His attention fixes on a big pickup truck backed into the driveway, its wheels and tires caked in a thick layer of red mud. A giant oil spot under the front end of the truck stains the otherwise pristine driveway.
Gwen lowers her voice a notch. “Their nephew is staying with them. He’s trying to find his way.”
“He doesn’t need to ‘find his way.’ He needs a job. And a haircut,” Jack mutters.
Just as the three of us make it back to the Greenes’ house, another retiree-aged couple walks down the driveway directly across from theirs. Gwen immediately waves them over.
“Ben! Delilah! This is Anya! She’s the house sitter we told you about!” Gwen grasps me by the shoulders, jostling me around like a rag doll. Just in case they might not be sure who she’s talking about, I guess.
“The Maxwells,” Gwen tells me in a stage whisper. “He’s retired Air Force, she’s a homemaker. They’re practically the perfect neighbors. Nice but not nosy, helpful without being overbearing. Their son is staying with them right now, but it’s nothing like what the Hintons are dealing with. Jericho does nothing but work.”
The Maxwells are a matched a pair like Jack and Gwen, just shorter and more traditional-looking. Mrs. Maxwell is dressed in a bright pink short-sleeved top adorned with sequined butterflies, white pedal pushers, and shiny purple Sketchers. Mr. Maxwell is in pressed khaki pants, a plain white t-shirt, and a pair of no-nonsense tennis shoes. He’s standing ramrod straight with his shoulders pulled back and his hands clasped together at the small of his back, rigidly enough that I end up straightening my own posture, too. When he extends a hand my way, I brace myself for a firm handshake that’s bound to leave my fingers aching.
“Just let us know if you ever need anything,” Delilah says. “Feel free to knock on our door whenever. We’re home most days, but if we’re not, Jericho may be home. His work schedule is demanding, but when he’s off duty, he’s very available.”
At the mention of her son, a grin creeps across her face and Gwen follows up with the same look. Jack rolls his eyes. Ben groans. Then they both speak at the same time.
“No, Delilah.”
“Don’t start, Gwen.”
Gwen and Delilah both try to look innocent, but it’s too late for that. I might be newly single again, but I still remember what awkward matchmaking looks like.
Just then, a black SUV turns onto the cul-de-sac, and when Delilah spots it, her face lights up. She starts waving her hands in the air, working to catch the driver’s attention as they roll to a stop in the Maxwells’ driveway. She’s hollering that way before the car door is even open.
“Jericho! Come say hello to the Greenes! And Anya!”
I hide a smirk because I’m pretty sure that poor Jericho is stalling, since it seems to be taking an unusually long time for him to get out of the car. He has my sympathies, though. First off, his name is Jericho, which is one hell of a name to carry around. Plus, his mom clearly thinks that something needs to be done about his “available” status, and pronto. I wouldn’t be surprised if he keeps up a demanding work schedule just to avoid his mom’s attempts to auction him off to the nearest eligible female.
Finally, the car door opens and a guy steps out. His back is to us, wearing a sleeveless workout shirt that shows off broad shoulders and strong arms. Add in the black jogger pants he has on and the sports drink clutched in his free hand, and it’s a sure bet that Jericho knows his way around a gym—which is probably where he wishes he was, since that’s good place for him to be whenever the latest bachelor auction is in the works.
As we wait for him to head this way, my eyes move over his arms, covered from shoulder to wrist in tattoos. The tattoos beg for my attention because even at a distance, the ink seems… familiar.