The Betrothed
for National Novel Writing Month
Day 25
Abby perused the selection of paintbrushes, gently running her fingertip along the shelf, trying to decide exactly which sizes she would need for the project she had in mind. Behind her, Angela idly scanned the aisles to either side, trying to find something that interested her. She’s probably wondering what she’s gotten herself into, Abby thought, wondering if she had taken undue advantage of the older lady’s enthusiasm for taking her young friend shopping. She had originally proposed the trip when she had noticed that her newest boarders were wearing the same few articles of clothing, going through their entire wardrobe in a week or so. Angela had been especially appalled that the young bride appeared to possess an even smaller selection of clothing than her husband – an unfortunate, if necessary, result of taking up valuable luggage space with her wedding dress, Abby admitted. Not that the result hadn’t been worth it. Still, it had left her with an embarrassing dearth of suitable clothing, and no sooner had Angela recognized the lack than she had began to schedule shopping trips with the “poor young thing”.
Abby smiled to herself as she slipped a few brushes out of their niches and into her shopping basket. Angela worked to make all her boarders into a family, but she had taken a special interest in Abby. Or, to be specific, she had taken a special interest in the young woman fleeting an abusive ex-boyfriend with her new husband, the two of them living in secret to avoid being tracked by the man who had already found her several times before. Abby had come up with their story off the top of her head as Darrick had been negotiating with Angela to let them live there on a cash-only, no-last-name basis. He had picked out the boarding house originally because it looked to him to be a place that might not need all the official paperwork of an apartment complex, but Angela had been reticent to take in two strangers with such unusual requests, even with Darrick offering to pay twice the asking rent. Acting on a sudden inspiration, Abby had taken her aside and told her the first thing that had come to her head; after that, Angela had been more than willing to protect their secrecy and take their cash. Darrick remarking that she really was the smarter one of the two of them was only icing on her ego’s cake.
Since then, Angela had checked on her at least two or three times a week, making sure she was feeling safe, that she was emotionally recovering from her harrowing ordeal, and taking her on outings for necessary “girl time”. Normally, they spent their time in the little boutiques and used clothing stores in the nearby bohemian district of Little Five Points, where Angela appeared to derive as much pleasure from helping Abby spend her seemingly inexhaustible money supply as from buying anything for herself. Abby knew that $75,000 was hardly inexhaustible, but it was surprising how far it went when monthly rent and food were one’s only real expenses. Recently, though, spending her days with Darrick in their little room or out with Angela on shopping trips had begun to pall; she needed more to occupy her mind. She had to admit that even a perfect partner wasn’t enough to satisfy her twenty-four hours a day. She wanted to get back to her art, to start creating again, and so she had asked Angela if they could drop by an art supply store instead of their usual destinations. Angela had agreed gladly once Abby had explained her feelings, but now she was obviously bored and somewhat lost, though she would never be so gauche as to say so.
She’ll have to hang on just a little while longer, Abby thought. I’ll make it up to her, paint her portrait for the common room or some landscapes for the boarder’s rooms. She’d like that, I think. The thought of producing even a basic landscape was exciting; it was a reclamation of a part of her she had left behind, that she had feared she might never get back. That was before she had known what Darrick was like, before she had known that he would want his own life as much as she did; now that she had the opportunity to explore her art once more, she was angry at herself for wasting six months of it. Well, maybe it wasn’t a waste, she thought as she remembered the highlights of the past six months of her life – entire days spent never leaving the apartment, sometimes never leaving the bed, Darrick and herself simply enjoying each other’s company; the two of them taking long, scenic walks; the long conversations that stretched hours into the night, never growing tired of each other’s company. No, not a waste. Never a waste. But the time had now come for something more.
Leaving the brushes, she turned back to leave that particular aisle, searching for the next items on her lists: the paints. Angela kept pace with her, and took one of the brushes from Abby’s basket, gently touching the bristles with her fingertip.
“I never knew you were a painter, Abby,” she said with a patient smile. “You always see these people with their easels out on Moreland and Euclid, and I was always jealous of them. It looks so relaxing. Rewarding, too, I guess. I never had the knack myself, though.”
“Have you ever tried?” Abby asked. “I’d be happy to give you a few pointers. Give me a few months, and I’ll have you painting as well as some of those roadside artists on Moreland.” She snorted. “Give me a few hours and I’ll have you painting as well as some of those hacks on Moreland.”
“Oh, I dabbled,” Angela responded, nostalgia lightening her voice. “Back in the sixties, you know. Everyone was writing poetry or playing music or painting or something back then. I even went out to San Francisco for a while, like you, lived in the Haight. But I’m afraid that my talents lie purely in unbridled capitalism.” She shook her head ruefully.
“And in watching out for young couples on the run,” Abby said. She wished that she could tell Angela their whole story, but she and Darrick had agreed early on that no one could know. She was fully behind their decision, but she still felt guilty about deceiving her friend, winning her sympathy through a fraudulent sob story. Especially when she thought the true story could have gotten them sympathy enough.
“Well, you know Albert and I never did have any kids,” Angela said, referencing her dead husband with a sigh. “With him gone, I need someone to watch out for. Jimmy thinks he can take care of himself – though I was able to get him off those horrible cigarettes, at least around the house – and Carmen . . .” She shook her head in disapproval.
“Too far gone?” Abby asked rhetorically, recalling the woman’s amorous nighttime exploits with a blush.
“I’m no prude,” Angela protested. “Like I said, I went through the sixties. Free love, drugs, the works. But that girl’s a bit too free with her love, if you ask me.” They walked into the paint area, the walls and shelves lined with every shade imaginable. “Normally, I would say live and let live. Her business isn’t my business. But I’ve seen the way she looks at your husband, and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Watch out for her.”
“Oh, that doesn’t worry me,” Abby said lightly. “Darrick wouldn’t ever do anything with her. Let her try; she’ll just get frustrated. Then she’ll be really fun to listen to at night.” She chuckled. Angela looked as though she were about to say something more, but only shook her head silently, with a shrug that Abby interpreted as “whatever you say”.
“So, what do you need?” Angela asked, gesturing to the gallons and gallons worth of paint on display, all in little bottles arranged in neat rows. Abby had a list in her head, based on the picture she could already see in her mind, but looking at the massive amount of shades on display, she wondered if she could ever find them all. The rows seemed to extend back into infinity, every bottle a slightly different shade she would have to search through to find the perfect one, the exact color without which her work would be nothing but an amorphous blob with no meaning or emotion. She realized that she couldn’t even remember the colors she needed, or see her planned painting in her mind; all that she could see were miles and miles of tiny little bottles, labels blurring together and mixing up. How can I ever choose? What am I doing? I can’t do this! There’s too much! I can’t make a decision! A sharp pain in her chest told her that she wasn’t breathing, but she couldn’t bring herself to take a breath; the blood was roaring in her ears as her heart thrust it through her body double-time. Oh, gods, what’s happening? Have to breathe. Must breathe. She forced herself to take a breath, and suddenly she was sucking in great gasps of air, unable to calm herself down to a normal level. On the edges of her perception, she was aware that Angela had her hand on her shoulder and was asking what was wrong, while behind her a crowd was gathering, drawn by the loud sounds of her massive breaths. I can’t be seen like this! I can’t be seen at all! What if they tell my parents? What if they think I’m a freak? What if they tell Darrick and he doesn’t want me anymore? I have to get out of here!
“I have to get some fresh air,” she finally managed to whisper to Angela. “Here, hold these.” She shoved her basket into her friend’s hand and ran out of the shop as quickly as she could manage without completely losing her dignity, only stopping when the cold outside air once again stole the breath from her lungs.
By the gods, what is happening to me?
for National Novel Writing Month
Day 25
Abby perused the selection of paintbrushes, gently running her fingertip along the shelf, trying to decide exactly which sizes she would need for the project she had in mind. Behind her, Angela idly scanned the aisles to either side, trying to find something that interested her. She’s probably wondering what she’s gotten herself into, Abby thought, wondering if she had taken undue advantage of the older lady’s enthusiasm for taking her young friend shopping. She had originally proposed the trip when she had noticed that her newest boarders were wearing the same few articles of clothing, going through their entire wardrobe in a week or so. Angela had been especially appalled that the young bride appeared to possess an even smaller selection of clothing than her husband – an unfortunate, if necessary, result of taking up valuable luggage space with her wedding dress, Abby admitted. Not that the result hadn’t been worth it. Still, it had left her with an embarrassing dearth of suitable clothing, and no sooner had Angela recognized the lack than she had began to schedule shopping trips with the “poor young thing”.
Abby smiled to herself as she slipped a few brushes out of their niches and into her shopping basket. Angela worked to make all her boarders into a family, but she had taken a special interest in Abby. Or, to be specific, she had taken a special interest in the young woman fleeting an abusive ex-boyfriend with her new husband, the two of them living in secret to avoid being tracked by the man who had already found her several times before. Abby had come up with their story off the top of her head as Darrick had been negotiating with Angela to let them live there on a cash-only, no-last-name basis. He had picked out the boarding house originally because it looked to him to be a place that might not need all the official paperwork of an apartment complex, but Angela had been reticent to take in two strangers with such unusual requests, even with Darrick offering to pay twice the asking rent. Acting on a sudden inspiration, Abby had taken her aside and told her the first thing that had come to her head; after that, Angela had been more than willing to protect their secrecy and take their cash. Darrick remarking that she really was the smarter one of the two of them was only icing on her ego’s cake.
Since then, Angela had checked on her at least two or three times a week, making sure she was feeling safe, that she was emotionally recovering from her harrowing ordeal, and taking her on outings for necessary “girl time”. Normally, they spent their time in the little boutiques and used clothing stores in the nearby bohemian district of Little Five Points, where Angela appeared to derive as much pleasure from helping Abby spend her seemingly inexhaustible money supply as from buying anything for herself. Abby knew that $75,000 was hardly inexhaustible, but it was surprising how far it went when monthly rent and food were one’s only real expenses. Recently, though, spending her days with Darrick in their little room or out with Angela on shopping trips had begun to pall; she needed more to occupy her mind. She had to admit that even a perfect partner wasn’t enough to satisfy her twenty-four hours a day. She wanted to get back to her art, to start creating again, and so she had asked Angela if they could drop by an art supply store instead of their usual destinations. Angela had agreed gladly once Abby had explained her feelings, but now she was obviously bored and somewhat lost, though she would never be so gauche as to say so.
She’ll have to hang on just a little while longer, Abby thought. I’ll make it up to her, paint her portrait for the common room or some landscapes for the boarder’s rooms. She’d like that, I think. The thought of producing even a basic landscape was exciting; it was a reclamation of a part of her she had left behind, that she had feared she might never get back. That was before she had known what Darrick was like, before she had known that he would want his own life as much as she did; now that she had the opportunity to explore her art once more, she was angry at herself for wasting six months of it. Well, maybe it wasn’t a waste, she thought as she remembered the highlights of the past six months of her life – entire days spent never leaving the apartment, sometimes never leaving the bed, Darrick and herself simply enjoying each other’s company; the two of them taking long, scenic walks; the long conversations that stretched hours into the night, never growing tired of each other’s company. No, not a waste. Never a waste. But the time had now come for something more.
Leaving the brushes, she turned back to leave that particular aisle, searching for the next items on her lists: the paints. Angela kept pace with her, and took one of the brushes from Abby’s basket, gently touching the bristles with her fingertip.
“I never knew you were a painter, Abby,” she said with a patient smile. “You always see these people with their easels out on Moreland and Euclid, and I was always jealous of them. It looks so relaxing. Rewarding, too, I guess. I never had the knack myself, though.”
“Have you ever tried?” Abby asked. “I’d be happy to give you a few pointers. Give me a few months, and I’ll have you painting as well as some of those roadside artists on Moreland.” She snorted. “Give me a few hours and I’ll have you painting as well as some of those hacks on Moreland.”
“Oh, I dabbled,” Angela responded, nostalgia lightening her voice. “Back in the sixties, you know. Everyone was writing poetry or playing music or painting or something back then. I even went out to San Francisco for a while, like you, lived in the Haight. But I’m afraid that my talents lie purely in unbridled capitalism.” She shook her head ruefully.
“And in watching out for young couples on the run,” Abby said. She wished that she could tell Angela their whole story, but she and Darrick had agreed early on that no one could know. She was fully behind their decision, but she still felt guilty about deceiving her friend, winning her sympathy through a fraudulent sob story. Especially when she thought the true story could have gotten them sympathy enough.
“Well, you know Albert and I never did have any kids,” Angela said, referencing her dead husband with a sigh. “With him gone, I need someone to watch out for. Jimmy thinks he can take care of himself – though I was able to get him off those horrible cigarettes, at least around the house – and Carmen . . .” She shook her head in disapproval.
“Too far gone?” Abby asked rhetorically, recalling the woman’s amorous nighttime exploits with a blush.
“I’m no prude,” Angela protested. “Like I said, I went through the sixties. Free love, drugs, the works. But that girl’s a bit too free with her love, if you ask me.” They walked into the paint area, the walls and shelves lined with every shade imaginable. “Normally, I would say live and let live. Her business isn’t my business. But I’ve seen the way she looks at your husband, and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Watch out for her.”
“Oh, that doesn’t worry me,” Abby said lightly. “Darrick wouldn’t ever do anything with her. Let her try; she’ll just get frustrated. Then she’ll be really fun to listen to at night.” She chuckled. Angela looked as though she were about to say something more, but only shook her head silently, with a shrug that Abby interpreted as “whatever you say”.
“So, what do you need?” Angela asked, gesturing to the gallons and gallons worth of paint on display, all in little bottles arranged in neat rows. Abby had a list in her head, based on the picture she could already see in her mind, but looking at the massive amount of shades on display, she wondered if she could ever find them all. The rows seemed to extend back into infinity, every bottle a slightly different shade she would have to search through to find the perfect one, the exact color without which her work would be nothing but an amorphous blob with no meaning or emotion. She realized that she couldn’t even remember the colors she needed, or see her planned painting in her mind; all that she could see were miles and miles of tiny little bottles, labels blurring together and mixing up. How can I ever choose? What am I doing? I can’t do this! There’s too much! I can’t make a decision! A sharp pain in her chest told her that she wasn’t breathing, but she couldn’t bring herself to take a breath; the blood was roaring in her ears as her heart thrust it through her body double-time. Oh, gods, what’s happening? Have to breathe. Must breathe. She forced herself to take a breath, and suddenly she was sucking in great gasps of air, unable to calm herself down to a normal level. On the edges of her perception, she was aware that Angela had her hand on her shoulder and was asking what was wrong, while behind her a crowd was gathering, drawn by the loud sounds of her massive breaths. I can’t be seen like this! I can’t be seen at all! What if they tell my parents? What if they think I’m a freak? What if they tell Darrick and he doesn’t want me anymore? I have to get out of here!
“I have to get some fresh air,” she finally managed to whisper to Angela. “Here, hold these.” She shoved her basket into her friend’s hand and ran out of the shop as quickly as she could manage without completely losing her dignity, only stopping when the cold outside air once again stole the breath from her lungs.
By the gods, what is happening to me?
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