Scrooge

17. Alexander

17

ALEXANDER

P ulling up to the house, the street quiet, I see my security team stop a bit farther behind me. I would prefer to come alone, but the increased attention we have been getting means going solo these days would be a stupidly poor decision for everyone.

I peer out the windshield at the cottage that will house my first full family Thanksgiving Day. It is a small white weatherboard place, the cool air leaving a light mist around it. It’s cute, nondescript, and exactly what I expected.

I grab the bottle of red and the bottle of Whiteman’s Whiskey, not knowing what her father likes to drink, then make my way to the front door, glad I opted for a turtleneck today, as the temperature out of the city is much cooler than it was when I left the penthouse this morning. Frost is still on the ground, the snow probably a few days away.

As I stride up to the front door, my breath creates a cloud in front of me in the coolness of the air. I press the doorbell and wait, but the door opens almost instantaneously.

“Hello!” the voice says excitedly, and I look down, seeing a small girl with two pigtails and a big smile.

“Good morning,” I murmur, looking around her, but seeing no adults.

“Who are you?” another little voice says from the side, and I spot a little boy. Dark hair, freckles, maybe about ten or so.

“Shh. Mom said we have to be nice.” The girl nudges, and I frown.

“Mom?” I question, wondering who they are.

“What’s wrong with your shoes?” the boy asks, and his sister nudges him again.

“My shoes?” I question, squinting down at them. They look fine to me.

“They are so shiny.” He looks up at me, confused.

“Why are you so dressed up?” the little girl questions as the boy steps forward and peers down.

“What are you doing?” I ask, seeing the back of his head, and then looking up once more, wondering where the adults are.

“I think I can see my face…” he says in awe, as his face lowers even farther, seeking his reflection in my shoes. I lean over farther to see if that’s true, but all I can see is his dark hair.

“Kids!” a woman barks, and we all straighten quickly, like we have been caught with our hands in the cookie jar. “What did I tell you?” Jillian, Haylee’s sister, paces toward us with a scowl, and the two kids scatter.

“Sorry, they can be a handful. Come in. It’s cold,” she says, huffing a laugh, and I step inside, the warmth instant.

“Good morning,” I murmur. “I brought these.” I offer her both red wine and whiskey I purchased for this occasion.

“Thank you. That’s very kind. Here, let me take your coat. Haylee is down the back in her studio,” Jillian says, and I shrug off my coat. She hangs it on the back of the door with about six others.

“Her studio?” I question, glancing around the quaint home. It’s tidy and cozy, yet there are knickknacks and photo frames everywhere. There is a small living space off to the side, the sofas well-worn, covered in crochet blankets and throw pillows. The rug on the floor is covered in toys and books, and it is where both kids now sit, watching me inquisitively under their brows as they pretend to play with what looks like Legos.

“She has a room here, where she paints.” Jillian comes to stand next to me. “Just down the end of the hallway.” She nods toward the hallway to my left. “Go down and grab her. She has been there all day, and lunch is almost ready. I can take those for you.” Grabbing the bottles from me, she turns and walks away. I stand in front of the door, watching her move through a doorway into a small kitchen, Haylee’s mother busy over the stove.

“Why does he look like that?” I hear the little boy ask, and I look over to the kids sharply. He swallows, a guilty look on his face as his sister nudges him with her elbow.

“Shhhh, he can hear you,” she hisses back at him before I pull at my cuff and leave them to it, walking down the hallway.

It is small, my head almost touching the ceiling, not enough room for two people to pass. There isn’t a lot of natural light, as the house is old, and the windows are small. I pass a few bedrooms before I come to the end and stand at the open doorway. It’s a little brighter in here, the larger windows in this space bringing in more light. It is almost like it is a sunroom.

Haylee’s back is to me, sitting in front of an easel with a canvas in front of her. Wearing her signature look of blue jeans and a white top, this time she also has a few colorful paint splashes on her hands. She doesn’t notice me, her concentration fierce as she bobs her head a little, the large earphones on her head obviously playing music. While she is focused, I look around the space. Canvases line the room, stacked against each other, leaning against the walls, a few landscapes and watercolors in the far corner, but many look like portraits of people, like actual photographs, yet they’re painted by her. My eyebrows rise as I witness her skill in front of me.

“Tell me why!” she sings badly, and my head whips around to look at her as she starts to dance in her seat.

“Tell me why…?” she sings again as she places her brush and paint tray down on the small table beside her and sits up, looking over the work she has done so far. The song lyrics sound familiar, and although I don’t listen to music, I know it is the Backstreet Boys she’s listening to.

“This is amazing,” I say, truly captivated by what I am looking at.

“Shit!” she half screams, almost jumping in the air, clutching her chest in pure fright. “Don’t creep up on a girl like that!” she scolds me with wide eyes as she pulls the earphones from her head, throwing them on the small table too.

“Sorry.” Going to stand next to her, I put my hands in my pockets, my eyes firmly trained on the painting. “This is incredible.” My eyes haven’t left the painting for more than a second, full of awe.

“Hmmm. Not yet,” she murmurs, looking at her painting critically.

“I mean, I only saw her briefly and in the dark, but the likeness is uncanny.” The familiar face of Deloris looks back at me. Albeit unfinished, as her hair isn’t complete and she is missing one ear, but there is no mistaking who it is.

“Hopefully another week and she will be done.” She sighs, and I quickly look around the room again. I don’t know any other faces. But they all must have something in common.

“Do you know all these people?” I ask her, and she smiles.

“This one… This is Benny from Benny’s Bowling Alley.” Now that she says it, he does look familiar from when we were there. That face gave me the bright blue and red shoes.

“And this one is Tom. He is the cop who walks our street every second Friday. He usually pops his head in to say hello when we are closing the shop, ensuring that the front door is always closed and locked when we leave.” Her smile is warm, her eyes glassy as she reminisces about these people from her life.

“This one is Mary. She works at the sandwich shop at the end of our street. I get a chicken and mayo bagel every Tuesday so I can talk to her about her book club that she has on Monday nights. She has the best book recommendations.”

I swallow roughly as I listen to how Haylee knows so many people in the city. And not just their names or what they do, but she has memories with them. She looks forward to seeing them regularly. It somehow makes me feel even more lonely than I have before.

“Oh, this one…” she says, walking to the other side of the room and pointing to another portrait of a lady. “This is Betty. Betty has dementia and is currently living in an elderly care home down in Brooklyn. But Betty used to stop in the shop to get toys for her kids for their birthdays and every Christmas for decades until they were all adults. But by then, her memory started to go and she would come in to get them presents as if they were ten, even though they were thirty or forty. She always had the biggest smile. I am actually going to see her this week.”

“See her?” I ask.

“Yeah, visit her. Sometimes, she remembers me, sometimes she doesn’t, but her kids aren’t always able to see her regularly. They are busy, some live states away, so I make sure I visit for an hour or so each week just to say hello,” she says like it’s easy, like she looks forward to it, and I take a deep breath. The women I know would never know people like this. The amount of depth to Haylee is astounding.

“And you do this all because…” I ask. I wonder if Betty's family pays her to go and spend time with their mother. I have looked into the Tucker family. I know they don’t have a lot of money, and I wouldn’t blame Haylee if she had to take different jobs on the side. A strong work ethic is an admirable trait.

“Because it is a nice thing to do,” is all she says, looking at me confused, like I should already know that.

“There are so many people…” I shake my head as I take in the number of portraits in this room.

“They’re the people of New York.” She shrugs, and she is right. She is capturing everyday people, grabbing not only their likeness, but also their stories.

“Your talent is…” I start to say, letting my words trail off as I try to find one that encapsulates how I’m feeling. I shake my head, the feeling almost overwhelming. But the room is also very cramped. I have no idea how she works here; these canvases that are lying around the room need to be on walls, not hidden in this small back room of her parents’ cottage in Jersey.

“I know. It isn’t for everyone. My ex never liked them either.” Her shoulders drop, her face disappointed, and I frown. But more than that, I’m suddenly pissed.

“He clearly doesn’t know what he is talking about, because these are brilliant,” I tell her, wanting her to know exactly how talented she is, and storing the information about her ex in my mind for later. I have done my research on her, but I don’t know much about her last boyfriend, although he sounds like an insecure prick from just that comment alone.

“You think so?” she asks, her voice tentative, but the look in her eyes, it’s pure hope.

“They are really fucking amazing,” I say, appreciating them all, and while I am no art critic, I would buy something like this. You are amazing … The words sit on my tongue, and I bite it to prevent them from slipping. Spending time with Haylee these past weeks has been refreshing and surprising as hell. For the first time in forever, I actually look forward to our dates and spending time with someone. But I know it is all for show. Our agreement. So I can’t go getting any ideas, regardless of how sweet or funny or talented she is, or how good she looks in those jeans, or how her V-neck t-shirt slips from her shoulders a little, tempting me with her black bra underneath.

“You have a little…” I start to say, stepping toward her, seeing a dark streak of paint on her cheek.

“A what?”

I stop in front of her, our toes almost touching, and lift my hand to her face.

“A little paint… right… here…” I brush her cheek with my thumb, the paint coming off easily, before I coast my knuckles down her cheek to her jaw. I swallow, the tension in the room escalating as she stares up at me with hazy eyes and parted lips.

“Alex…” The way she breathes out my name, it should be a warning, but it sounds so needy and perfect, and my body pings. Without thinking, I move my hand around her neck and back up her jaw, wanting to cup her face and bring her lips to mine.

“Let’s go, people!” I hear Jillian shout from down the hall, and I drop my hand instantly and clear my throat. What the hell has gotten into me? I see her swallow before taking a breath, righting herself. Glad it wasn’t only me affected.

“Are you ready?” she asks, stepping toward me with the largest grin I have ever seen. I have no idea what I am about to walk into, my heart thudding as I look down at her, seeing the joy on her face.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I murmur before I feel her small hand, a little cold against my warm palm, and while there are no media here and her family out of view, I grip her hand like a lifeline, liking the feel of it in mine.

She looks beautiful with this smile. It looks genuine, even though I know it isn’t. She is only with me because she wants something. It was something my father drilled into me. People are only nice to you when they want something, and Haylee needs her shop. I must remember that.