Colors: A Novel

Colors

by Leah McClellan

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019

Smashwords edition

Leah McClellan All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author and publisher.

ISBN-13: 978-1546459644

ISBN-10 1546459642

Simple Writing ebook edition March 2019

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

Design by Simple Writing

Photo: Nathan Siemers

Edited by Susan Semadeni

For more information: LeahMcClellan.com

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Other Titles

Connect with Leah McClellan

For Jack, who waited patiently.

Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow. Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place.

— Rumi

You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.

— Maya Angelou

Breathing in, I calm my body.

Breathing out, I smile.

Dwelling in the present moment

I know this is a wonderful moment.

— Thich Nhat Hanh

ONE

The horn blast shattered the silence. She jumped aside, heart pounding as she watched the black car speed past and ease over to the center of the lane. As it crested the hill and disappeared in the bright light ahead, she shivered, and after catching her breath, quickened her pace as she emerged from the forest and approached the driveway at the base of the downslope. Normally, this final half-mile stretch was a cooldown after a run, but not today.

She stopped just outside, panting. He shoved the suitcase to the side and opened a carry-on bag.

What was that about?

What was what about? He turned, unsurprised. He was unshaven, and his thinning, gray-black hair was uncombed.

You almost hit me! And what’s with the horn?

I don’t know what you’re talking about. His voice was flat, his face vacant except for his eyes. His eyes always widened slightly when he lied.

What? You almost hit me, she snapped. You were only a few inches away.

His expression didn’t change.

And why did you lay on the horn?

I was just saying hello, he said. I haven’t seen you in a week, Mack, and I’m on my way to Sydney now for ten days. I didn’t know if you’d be back in time from — wherever you were — before I leave again.

I was running, obviously. She gestured toward her neon green runners and running shorts and held up the flowers she’d picked. From here to Young’s Road and back. As usual. She clenched her teeth. Using her childhood nickname, Mack, was always a bad sign.

She tried to see his side. Maybe he meant well. And maybe he hadn’t realized how close he’d come to hitting her or how the horn would startle her.

She shook her head. His car was off the road, and she could still envision the passenger-side mirror only inches from her arm. The horn. She recoiled at the memory.

Mike, you were too close. You scared the crap out of me.

It’s not my fault you scare easily. His tone was even. Other people would just wave. Why can’t you be like everyone else?

She stared until he looked away. It didn’t make sense. If what he’d done was normal, then why... No. He’d almost hit her. Wrong. She glared and marched past him, head held high. He stepped back even though she left a wide berth, and his eyes widened again, if only by a millimeter.

Why did he back away? Shouldn’t she be the one to be afraid? She was on the defensive, after all. Nothing made sense except that he was lying; it was obvious.

She opened the door that led through the laundry room to the kitchen. Slammed it behind her.

Asshole.

She didn’t care if he heard her. Didn’t care whether he believed his behavior was normal or not; it wasn’t. If he were concerned, the situation would be different. But he wasn’t.

And where, in all of that, was the lie?

She took a shower, and he was gone.

*

Autumn Rose Mackenzie dabbed the last bit of paint on the canvas and stepped back. The blue flower, plucked that morning, was wilting in its vase as the late afternoon light faded behind gathering clouds. It was time to quit.

She rinsed her brushes in the kitchen sink and examined her still life from a distance. Good, but something was missing. A brighter highlight on the vase? A deeper shadow? Her eyes didn’t leave it as she drifted back to her studio — a repurposed breakfast room with three walls of windows plus skylights — and laid out her brushes to dry.

Back in the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator.

A bit of cheese. Old bread. Half a bag of wilted kale and a couple sweet potatoes decorated with white mold. She pushed some aging rice aside and spotted the baked tofu behind a near-empty bowl of spaghetti. Perfect. She pulled it out and set it aside. She’d already eaten half, but this was plenty.

In the freezer, a few frostbitten bags of vegetables were the only choices. And unless she ate kidney beans from a can, everything in the pantry needed preparation except for plain crackers and roasted cashews. That would have to do.

She sliced the tofu and arranged it on a plate with the crackers and nuts. And after contemplating a wine bottle on the counter, she uncorked it, poured a glass, and took it all to the living room where she curled up on her loveseat. She clicked the TV on.

Another night alone. Her best friend, Natalie, was out on the West Coast, and she hadn’t heard from her other friends in months. They were probably busy with the kids home from college for summer break. Why didn’t they travel like other kids, like she and Natalie had? Backpack around Europe or Asia and stay in hostels. Go somewhere. Anywhere. Or get a job. Give their parents a break.

Autumn sipped her wine and softened. Maybe it was money. Maybe they had to cut back on extras like the long lunches they used to have. Beth and Kyra were a few years older and well established in their careers, but they had younger kids, too, and they had to be prudent as they doled out hard-earned savings for college and expenses.

At least they never reminded Autumn that she wasn’t a parent and couldn’t possibly understand. She’d heard that one far too many times. But Autumn understood kids and college and budgets; she’d grown up with a budget. Her mother had told her it was life preparation. A budget is the difference between rich and poor, she always said. Her father agreed, and she wanted to honor them and pass that tradition on to her own family, but her husband refused.

Why bother, Mack? he always said. We’re worth millions. We invest carefully and spend conservatively. We’re not reckless with money. What’s the point?

Autumn hated it when he called her Mack. It was his tit-for-tat game: If she annoyed him, however unwittingly, he would provoke her in ways easily defended as harmless or mere habit. Mack had been her childhood nickname, after all, and that’s what everyone had called her. But as she got older, especially after her parents died, she asked friends and colleagues to call her Autumn instead. Autumn was a fine name, though she’d been teased in school, and it was hers.

She had asked her husband to stop using Mack, too. Her father had given her the nickname, fondly calling her his little Mack truck, and she couldn’t stand to hear Mike use it. He obliged for a short time but soon forgot, and when he saw it troubled her, he adopted it as a weapon. But she didn’t care anymore. It wasn’t worth it — whether she gently explained how his jabs hurt, whether she got angry and upset, or whether she ignored him — nothing changed. He seemed oblivious to her pain, and his hostility only worsened as time went on.

She picked at her tofu and imagined a real dinner: a spicy vegetable curry with fragrant rice, a hearty soup, a rich vegetable stew. Or at least a sandwich with all the trimmings.

What she really needed was a housekeeper who could cook. Darly, the woman who came to clean once a week, was thorough and dependable, but cooking wasn’t part of the deal. Autumn was a good cook when she was motivated. But for herself — her husband rarely ate dinner at home — she just couldn’t muster any enthusiasm. And her diet had been terrible lately; she barely ate sometimes. She rode her bike or ran a few miles almost every day, and she had to eat right if she wanted to stay healthy.

She pulled her laptop closer from where it waited on the ottoman and keyed in terms like housekeeper and cook, personal cook, chef service, and home meal delivery. One company looked promising, but the menus revolved around meat. Another one offered a vegetarian option, but even though the ingredients were cut, chopped, or otherwise prepared, she’d still have to cook and clean up. The other options were for the sick or elderly. Didn’t regular people have cooks or private chefs? She knew a few semi-celebrities who did, and she’d heard it was becoming more popular. She clicked through her search results and experimented with keywords.

She snorted and shut the browser down. She needed a wife, a traditional wife like her mother had been, someone to wait on her, make her meals, call her when it was ready. Or just some help. All she wanted to do was paint; she had put it off far too long. And it had to be now — or never.

If only she hadn’t believed a house in the country, in a tiny town called Embreeville, was the answer to her problems. An hour from Philadelphia, she thought it would mean less stress and more creative time. She could relax after work and on the weekends, and she’d have more time to paint like Monet at Giverny or Thoreau at his pond — or so she had thought. But it only meant isolation, especially after she lost her job. And now she was like a farmer without a farm, someone who had to go into town to get anything done. No take-out, no delivery, and a twenty-minute drive to a grocery store. But even though she missed the city, she knew the problem wasn’t living in Embreeville; it was her marriage. And she had to make a decision.

Her heart raced as her thoughts turned to her husband again. Why had she married him? They’d never really got along. Never had a normal sex life, not with his ED and uptight attitude, his refusal to talk about it or get help. Eight years, and she couldn’t remember what it felt like. And always, always the put-downs, the criticism, the mockery. And now the incident with the car... was he really just being friendly? If he was, what was wrong with her?

She swirled her wine and watched the tears slip down the sides of the glass. It wasn’t his money. She came from money and didn’t care about it. And her thrifty parents had left her, their only child, an inheritance in trust that was almost obscene. Plus, after college, she had risen quickly through the ranks and earned a salary that anyone might envy. She was smart, savvy, and creative, and with her double major in marketing and psychology from Cornell plus an MBA from Wharton, she could go anywhere.

And here she sat, unemployed six months after DeFacto Marketing and Advertising’s restructuring and layoffs. She knew it wasn’t her fault. That morning, the CEO was almost in tears. He’d done his best to keep her, but the board of directors wouldn’t make exceptions.

She hugged him good-bye and kissed him full on the lips instead of the quick peck on a cheek she usually gave him at holiday parties or on his birthday. And he’d returned her fervor, pulling her close for one scorching moment before breaking away. His face was flushed, and she saw the burning in his eyes, heard his quick breath, felt the heat between them. It had always been there, had always made it fun to work together and even dangerous, knowing if she let her guard down or crossed a line, something could happen. But she’d never cheat on her husband, and now it didn’t matter anyway.

He chuckled as he regained his professional demeanor and looked around.

You’re in shock, Autumn. Everyone is, and I’m sorry we couldn’t let you know before today. He slapped her gently on her back and walked her to her office. Your desk is already packed, and you can go home.

He nodded and stepped aside as she lifted the box and approached the door. You’ll be all right. Take a break and work on priorities. What do you need most from life? He glanced over her quickly. I’ve been asking myself that for years, and I still don’t know. But you’ll figure it out. I know you will. You’re one of a kind. Their eyes locked as the current between them charged the air. He apologized again; this time, though, his voice broke oddly, as if he were a teenager.

She was silent. And she could see he knew. He knew what she was missing. He probably had a similar problem in his own marriage, which explained the constant sexual buzz though neither had acted on it until that last day.

She stabbed another piece of tofu and popped it in her mouth.

It was done, and she didn’t want to think about it. She’d had her month of shock and grief and moping, and she’d chosen to paint for now, to see what she could make of it. And that was that. Life goes on.

She grabbed the empty wine glass and headed to the kitchen, but the tofu suddenly tasted wrong. She rolled it around in her mouth. Spit it out. Grabbed the plate and flicked on the overhead kitchen lights. Her stomach churned at the black mold filaments intertwined with oregano and basil. She rinsed her mouth as the tofu swirled down the drain, glanced at her wine glass, and slapped it into the ceramic sink.

The glass shattered as she walked back to the living room. She couldn’t mope around and drink herself to sleep again. She was better than that; she was her dad’s little Mack truck.

The clock on the microwave said 6:50 p.m. It wasn’t too late to get some shopping done in West Chester if she hurried. She’d stockpile groceries and some healthy frozen food that wouldn’t take too long to heat. Vegetables for a stir-fry or two. Fresh fruit and greens. She resolved to cook and prepare enough for a week, and she scribbled a list after checking the pantry and refrigerator again.

Autumn was halfway to West Chester in her white Mercedes when she slapped the steering wheel.

Damn it!

The shopping list. She’d forgotten it. Her hands clenched the wheel. She tried to shake it, but it remained impassive. She pounded the dashboard with her fist, but it wouldn’t break. Her foot slammed the gas hard as she downshifted and swerved around the car in front of her. She sped around curve after curve on the two-lane country road, tires screaming. Passed trucks in a no-passing zone. Barely missed a car in an intersection.

As she wove in and out, tempted almost beyond control to hit someone, she imagined closing her eyes. Relinquishing control of the car she hated but that her husband had insisted she buy. Giving up. Ending it. But if she closed her eyes, she’d see her parents even more clearly than she saw them now: her dad’s jaw wired like a ventriloquist’s broken sidekick. His mouth toothless and slightly agape, his prominent nose blending with his cheek’s black flatness. And her mother’s head hidden by a tight cap that flattened her hair; she’d hate that. She reached out to remove it but shrank from the icy flesh. This wasn’t her mother. This bruised, bloodied face was not her mother. Yet it was. She nodded to the attendant who gently took her arm and escorted her out.

Shaken by the unbidden memory, she released the gas pedal. Breathed in deeply once, twice, and again. Exhaled slowly. Counted each breath. At five, she shook her head and slowed in a flurry of straw and feathers flying from a battered old pickup truck. Laughed a short laugh at herself and her misery and the way she’d let her life fall to pieces. How she’d married the wrong man for reasons she didn’t understand. Stayed married despite her unhappiness. She could be free, if she gave herself permission. Calm settled over her. She would call her mother’s lawyer the next day.

If they were alive, her parents would be unhappy if she divorced her husband, but they’d be supportive. If only she could talk to them, if only that 18-wheeler hadn’t smashed them to bits, they’d understand. They’d see her side, even without the details, just because they believed in her. And she had no other choice. Her husband wasn’t going to change, but she could change her situation. He wasn’t due home for a week, and maybe she could have papers ready by then. She’d have to move out, though. He’d probably sign with no fuss, but he’d make her pay for it later, if only because it wasn’t in his plans.

And to hell with the list. She knew what she needed and could buy whatever caught her eye. She didn’t need to follow a budget, not for groceries. She didn’t need to follow anything or anybody. And maybe, just maybe, she could finally live her life on her own terms, her way, and follow whatever she damn well pleased.

*

Autumn barely noticed the parking lot as she pulled in at Organic Originals. If she were going to live on her own terms, she couldn’t wait four years for inheritance disbursements to start. She’d need a steady income starting now.

She knew she could sell her paintings somehow. They weren’t as polished as she’d like, not yet, but maybe, if she painted something simple every day and sold it, she could live. She’d have to talk with gallery owners and other artists to get feedback, especially about pricing. And she’d take lessons; her month of study in Provence was a long time ago, right after high school, and she hadn’t been committed to practice more than casually.

She considered keeping her plans quiet until she was already earning money. Her husband would scoff and belittle, and she couldn’t risk falling backward into wine and depression. But she needed help so she could focus. Especially with cooking. Her husband might even like that; he liked to see her weak and needy and spending money on things only upper-class people could afford, acting like the wife he wanted her to be. She imagined him bragging in his twisted way, making fun of her and how she’s such a lousy cook she needs to hire one. She didn’t care. She’d never hear it. And for now, she’d pay for it with money from the household account. His money.

She considered details as she walked toward the store in the evening sun’s warmth. An ad in Craigslist or Philadelphia’s weekly newspapers might work. Maybe other people like her had placed ads; she could use those as an example and even call to commiserate and get advice. Wanted: Chef experienced with vegetarian and vegan cooking to prepare meals privately. Two or three days per week. Hours and salary negotiable.

As she maneuvered through the busy entrance and grabbed a cart, fresh-cut flowers and a plethora of potted plants greeted her. She inhaled deeply and savored hyacinth, lilac, roses, and lavender. Cinnamon and nutmeg and baking smells swirled with the rich ripeness of mangoes, pineapple, and kiwi fruit that overflowed baskets next to the plants. The fragrances swirled as she selected bananas and oranges, lemons and limes. Local strawberries were next, and though they probably weren’t as sweet as she liked since it was early in the season, Autumn tucked a box in her cart anyway.

Fresh mint overflowed a display next to the berries, and she snapped off a leaf, rubbed it between her fingers, and fanned it under her nose. The aisle was decadent with red, green, yellow, and purple hues adorning the refrigerated wooden bins, and her mind reeled. Such bounty. Such wealth. How could she be unhappy living in a place where every conceivable need or desire can be met?

She stopped at the mounds of slender white and deep-green asparagus piled high. The Season is Short. Get It While It Lasts! a large sign ordered. The tightly budded stalks seemed fresh, but did she feel like asparagus? What would she do with it other than steam it as a side dish?

Are you finding everything you need, miss?

A male voice jolted her. She smiled automatically and looked up. A clerk with an unruly shock of shiny brown hair and matching eyes stood only a few feet away. He was a little taller than her five-foot-nine-inch frame, but not by much. A student, probably, a graduate student, older than most. His jeans and crisp white shirt were protected by a long, green apron. He seemed friendly. Happy. A welcome intrusion.

No, not really. What I need is a personal chef. She heard her words as if on replay and immediately regretted them.

I also need that million-dollar check that’s hidden here somewhere, and I wonder if you can give me a hint. She rolled her eyes and snickered, hoping he’d treat her slip as a joke.

Well, I don’t know about the hidden check, but I can ask my manager about it. He grinned. But what do you need a personal chef for? Are you planning a wedding or a party? He took a half step toward her and rested a hand on the asparagus bin.

Autumn exhaled audibly. She didn’t normally blurt out her thoughts like that, but she decided to be honest.

No, I was thinking of household help. You know, someone who visits every few days and cooks a batch of healthy food — veggies and all that — and does it all over again a few days later. And cleans the kitchen, too. She laughed again. I am so not domestic. You wouldn’t believe it. She smoothed her hair back and tucked one side behind her ear. But I’m just thinking, for now. Isn’t it a common thing these days? I don’t know where to start looking though I searched a little online.

Sure. Lots of families on the Main Line or in Center City have their own chefs. It’s usually celebrities or the über rich, but not always. I know the CEO of a small company who has a private chef. His wife owns a business, too, they have kids, and neither has time to cook. Then there’s a local TV news anchor who has one. He was seriously overweight, and he did it for his health and his job. He nodded knowingly; he was obviously in good shape.

Is there anything I can help you with? Local asparagus is at its peak, and the prices are great. He waved a hand toward the bin. Do you like asparagus?

Yes, I love it, Autumn said. But I don’t know what to do with it other than steam it. You know, with olive oil, garlic, lemon juice, the usual.

The clerk’s eyes sparkled as he launched into cooking methods and recipes for asparagus. Creamed asparagus, asparagus soup, roasted asparagus with mushrooms... She watched as he described combinations with other vegetables, stews, and gratins.

He gestured with his hands as he talked. They looked strong, graceful but a little rough, and she imagined he did other work or spent time outdoors. His shoulders were broad though bordering on thin, and his legs looked lean yet toned as he turned to pluck an eggplant from a display. He was cute, handsome even, possibly a cyclist or a runner, or maybe he climbed. She saw now that his otherwise ordinary brown hair was laced with blond streaks. Salon highlights, maybe, or time spent in the sun. They framed his face beautifully.

Are you a student? she blurted again. She bit her lip. I’m sorry. Long day. Those are all great ideas. She nodded enthusiastically. I’m just curious, since you’re obviously so knowledgeable, why you’re... She stopped herself this time.

She wondered why he worked at a grocery store instead of something else, something more at his level. Something a bit more... advanced. He seemed too intelligent or knowledgeable for this kind of work.

He laughed. Yeah, I’m a student. And I know what you’re thinking. He lowered his voice. Have you ever done mindless work in the short term so you can get something accomplished in the long term?

She wasn’t sure what he meant, but she nodded. In college, I guess.

Well, I’m finishing my master’s degree — I’m almost done with my thesis — and I do this on the side just for some spare cash plus the employee discount and freebies. I get to write all day, go to classes, and eat good food in exchange for working fifteen or twenty hours a week. If I want a serious hot meal plus a few extra bucks, I work for my dad.

What does your dad do?

He owns some restaurants in Philly. Jamie Dumas. Have you heard of him? He shrugged and laughed a short laugh that was more like a snicker.

Jamie Dumas? Of course. He owns everything. He’s your dad? She stared. That might explain the rough hands. She had toured one of Jamie Dumas’s restaurant kitchens, and the work looked backbreaking. So why...

Why do I work when my dad’s a mega-star restaurant mogul? The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened as his smile widened. He didn’t seem bothered, but Autumn backtracked.

No, no. I don’t need to know that. I get it. I like to work too, whether I need the money or not.

And you don’t have time to cook because you work, he said. Direct but friendly. Whether you need to or not. Plus the kids keep you busy. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

That’s almost right, but skip the kids part. She looked away and focused on a heap of green beans. That was as far as she would go. She wondered how to escape, how to close the conversation. They stood in the narrow aisle with people milling around, blocking it, bound by an exchange of words that somehow couldn’t be broken.

I could be your personal chef.

He couldn’t be serious. She turned to him and blinked. He watched, and his eyes held their gaze. She looked away again as her face flushed and a blossoming flame burned hotter.

No, no. That’s okay. Her eyes drifted back. I was... just thinking about it for now. I’m sure you know how to cook. But I’m nowhere near ready to make a decision. She let out a little laugh. Ran her fingers through her hair. I guess I should put an ad in a newspaper or online. But I’ll probably get a bunch of wackos applying.

And you’d better not let on you’re a woman at first, or the wackos will apply in droves.

She could almost feel his eyes. Electricity. A shimmer. A tightness in her abdomen she hadn’t felt in years. Almost pain, an aching pain. Her breath quickened. She wore only a thin bra under her blouse, and she knew her nipples were visible in the chilly air.

His eyes flickered down and back up, not quite meeting her eyes. The blood in her lips pulsed and a warmth spread over her skin; even her ears flamed. Locked in an invisible embrace, an inescapable hold, she couldn’t look away when, once again, his eyes searched hers, as if he were unraveling every secret she’d ever had.

The flush that came over his face, the way he bit his lower lip broke the spell. A weak laugh escaped as she looked around. What could she say or do? Say good-bye and thanks for the help? Thanks for the flash of desire? Invite him for a drink? She was older, so she should buy. Or maybe she would just let him take the lead. If he didn’t, so be it.

Well, she said. She cleared her throat. I have to get going. It’s getting late, and I need to get some... food, if I’m ever going to eat again.

He reached in his pocket without moving his eyes away. As if assessing. As if confused. He scribbled on a card and held it out.

Call me, he said. Or… may I call you? He shrugged lightly. She stared at the tan and green business card and traced it with a fingertip, as if it were a delicate butterfly or a flower petal, before taking it and, once again, returning his steady gaze.

She contemplated his curved, full lips. Studied them, wondered how they would feel against hers. His chest, his partially open shirt — she almost reached out to push his apron aside but envisioned her hand slipping under instead. She watched the pulse in his neck throb and longed to kiss it as a small smile lifted her cheek. Her eyes traveled leisurely as she imagined her lips in the hollow between his neck and collarbone, breath hot under his jaw, at his neck, his temple.

A distant clatter and voices