Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(15)

It couldn’t be more opposite of the living conditions I had in the city. For five years, I had the same neighbors—ones whose names I never knew but whose routines I had memorized by the sounds blaring from their apartments.

“We haven’t really gotten a chance to talk about what you want to do here,” Harper says with her eyes still closed. “Besides working for me, obviously.”

Even though she can’t see me, I shrug. “I don’t really know. Everything happened so fast. I guess I didn’t plan far enough out.”

She opens one eye. “You did good, Avery.”

“I know,” I say, trying to quell the bubble of uncertainty threatening to pop in my gut. “I’m happy I’m here. Honest. But what kind of adult decides to move across the country on a Wednesday and has her stuff in the car by Friday, with virtually no plan at all?”

Reality takes a swipe my way. My heartbeat quickens as a miniscule amount of panic begins to grow. I did this. I’m here. Fish out of water with no real plan to find a new sea.

“The kind that has an awesome aunt like me that has only begged you to come here for the last, what? Five years? You had to get out before Hollywood ate your soul.” She sits up and yawns again. “But to answer your question seriously, the kind of person that does something like that is someone that’s learning to identify what’s right for her. That’s hard for anyone to do, let alone someone that’s the child of your mother.”

It’s my turn to close my eyes.

My mother’s face wastes no time popping into my mind, chastising me for ruining my life. The little caricature reams me for taking all the advantages she worked so hard to give me and throwing them away. She’ll never understand that I prefer conversations and family holidays and peace in my heart.

My stomach knots.

“We’re going to have to find something to occupy your time,” Harper says. “Otherwise, you’re going to sit here and overthink everything.”

I look at her. She grimaces.

“I’m not overthinking anything,” I say. “I’m just . . . thinking. Without the ‘over.’”

“I’ll bet.”

“I am. Promise.” I push the button on the side of the recliner. It sits me up with a ping. “Not that I plan on being a social butterfly, but what is there to do in this town? Anything?”

She laughs. “Not much. Most people hang out at Mucker’s at night. If you want a fancier meal, you have to go to Rockery. They have a steakhouse and seafood shop over there, a couple of bars, that kind of thing.”

“But what do people do to kill time? Is there somewhere to shop? Outdoor music? A cute tennis pro that gives lessons at the club?”

“What club?” Harper laughs. “You need to remember where you are, girlfriend. The only club this place has is the bowling club on Thursday nights, and I have a feeling that’s not what you’re looking for.”

I slow blink. “People still have bowling clubs?”

“Shocker, I know.” She gets to her feet and stretches. “We’ll find you something to do. What do you like to do? Have any hobbies?”

“Well, let’s see . . .” I think back to all the things I’ve done and wonder how much of it would be useful here. “I like animals. I worked in a pet shop once. Tons of fun until your favorite animals get adopted, and then you cry because you’ll never see them again.”

“That would be me,” Harper says. “What else?”

“I like to lie on the beach, which will do no good here. It actually didn’t do me any good in California, either, come to think of it,” I note. “What else? Let’s see . . . I like to sew a little, but I’m not very good at it. I sat with the costume department during an entire movie production when I was twelve, and they taught me the basics. It was the most fun I ever had on a set.”

“I tried to sew once. Sewed my finger to a pair of pants. Never tried it again.”

I laugh. “You sound like my mom.”

Harper’s face twists in horror. “That’s blasphemy.”

I laugh harder. “Sorry.”

She nods, letting my comparison go. “So animals and beaches and sewing. Anything else?”

“Well, I like to paint.”

“Like paint-by-numbers, paint houses, paint portraits?”

I tilt my head back and close my eyes. Vivid colors stream through my mind as I remember the little painting nook I had at my apartment in Los Angeles. The walls were lavender and the flooring a warm oak. When the early-morning sunlight would fill the room, it was perfect . . . until my last boyfriend decided he needed that space for his office. He sweet-talked me into giving it up.

I’ve always regretted that. It wasn’t about losing my space per se, but about losing a part of me and what makes me happy. Losing my voice. Giving things up way too easily because of some smooth-talking man.

“I just like to paint,” I say, holding up my hands. “I haven’t had official classes or anything. But I did well in art class in high school, and the art teacher knew a group leader at one of the local latchkey clubs. So she hooked me up, and I painted murals over some graffiti they had on the outside wall. That parlayed into teaching painting one summer to the kids, and that rolled into teaching a class for women that really just liked to drink and paint by number.”