The Girl He Needs (4 page)

Hope you’re well,

Jo

No sooner do I send out Will’s email than one from the rental place comes in. The landlady, a Mrs. Cramer, invites me to see the place today and I quickly respond with a resounding yes, using lots of exclamation points. The address she gives me is only minutes from the beach where I sit. The drive there is down a lovely street, lined with giant oaks and ficus. I can see the Halifax River on my left and hear the ocean on my right. A second chime from my GPS prompts me to turn left into a driveway leading to a large stucco house with rear views of the Halifax River.

I’ve worn an apple-green T-shirt with long black shorts and paired the outfit with simple flip-flops, a plain belt, and braided my hair down the back. I’m trying for a conservative look. The henna on my calves is fading and if this place pans out, I might be able to squeeze in some time to do some more artwork before my next shift. I’ve gotten pretty good at creating various patterns and enjoy doing my stomach and legs the most.

The front door opens before I can ring the bell and what looks to be the sweetest older lady stands before me. We’re dressed almost the same except her T-shirt is white and black polka dots. Her hair is teased out and sprayed stiff, as if she’s just come from having it done and set.

“Hello, dear. Are you Josie? I’m Eleanor Cramer.” She extends an evenly tanned, manicured hand.

“Yes, ma’am.” We shake hands and her grip is firmer than I imagined. She makes me think of those southern-born ladies who belong to the Daughters of the American Revolution, and I imagine somewhere in her house a map of her lineage hangs.

“Well, it’s like I said in the email, I’m very open to a longer stay than a few days or a week.” She places a warm hand on my arm. “I have to admit. I was not keen on this idea. It was my son’s. He kept saying it’s a wasted opportunity, but I’m the one, not him, that lives here and will have to deal with the revolving door. So your inquiry suits us both. Please come in.” She steps back to give me room.

“I’m glad you’re open to the possibilities. You have a lovely home,” I say, looking around. I expected it to be decorated Florida retirement-home style with a beach theme and white wicker furniture. I don’t know why. But it’s not; it’s French country with creamy leather couches and toile and checkered pillows and curtains in vibrant reds and yellows. My eyes settle on a painting hanging over an antique oak table in the foyer. I step closer and gasp.

“Is that an original Frederick Remington painting?” I stare at the work. “It’s extraordinary.”

“Yes, my husband loved all things Remington.” She stands next to me as we look up at the painting of
The Soldier
.

“My father does as well. He has several original bronze statues. He’s made it his life’s hobby to try to collect everything he can. If he knew a private owner had this, he’d never give you a moment’s rest. It’s a nice piece.”

She shrugs. “I like landscapes myself. Not paintings of cocky men.” We laugh together.

“Let me show you the apartment. Like I said, it’s over the garage, but you’ll have a separate entrance and one of the garage spaces is for you. I certainly don’t need three spots.” She leads me through the house, where I see several landscape paintings. Through the French doors off the living room, I catch a glimpse of a pool. The backyard is fenced, offering privacy, but a gate in the back opens to the dock on the river. I cross my toes and hope the pool’s included.

“What brings you to Daytona, Josie?”

“I thought I’d come and try to spend some time with my brother.”

“Does your brother live close?” Following a quick smile, she leads me through the kitchen, stopping to pull a set of keys off a holder by the backdoor before going outside. Across a breezeway is a side door that opens into a well-lit garage. Stairs are tucked along the side wall.

I don’t want to lie, but I’m not sure how to explain the situation with my brother without sounding crazy.

“Are there two entrances?” There’s an additional set of stairs outside her backyard fence with access from the driveway.

“Yes. One to the front of the apartment and this one is private. If you decide you want it, I’ll include the pool. Since it’s just you. It is just you, correct?”

I can’t contain my smile. “Yes, it’s just me.”

“The rent also includes all utilities, cable, and I’ve a dock to the river if you have a boat.” She leads me upstairs.

“I love the idea of a pool. I’m originally from New England so weather for pool opportunities is limited.”

“The pool will be happy to know it. My grandkids come on holidays only, they’re at the age where hanging out with their grandma isn’t cool, so aside from their visits and my morning swim, it rarely gets used. New England, you say?” She pauses a few steps up to ask.

“Yes, ma’am. Stamford, Connecticut.”

“Oh, I’ve been there. It’s lovely. Lots of big houses. McMansions, I think they’re called.”

I stifle a laugh because the first time someone called our house a McMansion my mother nearly lost her mind. “That they are.”

At the top of the stairs, she fits a key and swings open the door to present a small but functional laundry room. Painted a soft blue with two small white cabinets and crown molding, the space is large enough for a full-size washer and dryer and holds an abundance of character. I clutch my hands together in delight and to contain the rush of hope and fear. I can’t afford to fall in love with a place I’ll be leaving. That’s why renting a room was always the smartest option.

“The apartment comes furnished and that includes the washer and dryer. Some of my children lived here while they were in college though my mother was last to live here before she passed.” She turns and places her hand on my arm. “But I don’t want you to worry. She didn’t pass here.”

“I hadn’t given it a thought,” I say, which is true. I’m completely captivated by the place and if need be would share it with a ghost. Sold by the simplicity of a laundry room. When I entertained the idea of an extended vacation rental, I never imagined I’d get so lucky.

A pool? My own laundry room? In the last two years I rarely had both if either at all.

“We’re coming in at the center of the apartment so I’ll take you to the front and we will work our way back.” She turns right out of the laundry room and walks down a bright hallway into the living room.

It’s small but larger than any place I’ve stayed since I started my journey. The ceilings are high and large solid planks of wood, stained a dark espresso, make up the floor. The apartment is tastefully furnished like her house. It runs the length of the garage and is longer than it is wide with the front door centered on the end wall and large windows on both sides of the living room. One set of windows allows for views of the river.

“Is that the ocean?” I ask as I point toward the blue horizon out the opposite window.

“Yes, it’s only three blocks from here.”

A delightful sigh escapes. I can easily live here while I wait.

I head into the kitchen and look out the window over the sink. It’s a view of the pool and the river. I run my hands over the full-sized fridge. I can buy a whole gallon of ice cream and store it without worry. The kitchen is painted a buttery yellow and reminds me of my mother’s. I can almost smell the cranberry scones my mother’s chef bakes every fall.

“It’s just the one bedroom but it’s large. The apartment includes all the essentials. Such as a TV, internet, a five-piece kitchen, and full bath.” She leads me down the hallway. The bedroom has French doors that open out onto a small balcony and a simple but elegantly made queen-sized sleigh bed. I imagine staying in bed all day reading a book. I imagine making dinner for Will and catching up as we sit on the balcony or even the dock. Once I have that vision, I can’t imagine anything else.

It’s more than I dreamt, or dared to hope for.

Suddenly, I’m afraid she’ll turn me down. I look up at the ceiling and the fans that turn slowly, trying to steady my racing heart. Standing here fills me with a sense of coming home that I don’t want to lose. Part of me screams to run away as fast as I can but another part, the one that’s done without for two years, stamps down the screamer and convinces me to stay.

“I love it,” I tell her. “I would love to fill out an application. I can pay for six weeks upfront. I know I’m young and maybe not your ideal tenant”—I gesture to the henna that covers my legs and arms—“I don’t do parties. I like to keep to myself.”

I want this place, admitting that scares me. As I take in the space around me, I push back a longing to customize it by buying throw pillows for the couch in chevron patterns with funky colors. I want to buy a giant bottle of detergent instead of the little boxes from the vending machine. For the first time, I experience pangs of angst knowing the last two years of my life do not scream reliable or dependable.

“Let’s go down to my kitchen and write out the agreement over a glass of iced tea,” Mrs. Cramer says.

“Thank you.” I take her hands in mine. “Thank you,” I gush.

I want to say more, to let her know she’s safe taking a chance on me. I want to hug her. I open my mouth but struggle with the words.

She pats my arm. “I’ve good instincts about people, my dear, and I believe we’ll be a good fit. After all, how many people out there know Remington did paintings? Most just know about the bronze pieces.”

The first thing I’m going to do after I move in, besides buy a car, is sit on that balcony and watch the sunrise with a cup of coffee. Then, because I’ve now committed to a large expense, I’m going to find a second job.

I follow Mrs. Cramer down the stairs, back through the garage, and into the house and it dawns on me. I’m filled with such a sense of peace and contentment that surely I must be doing the right thing. I look around one last time, excited to make this place my home. Temporarily.

I ease the beer tap back and pour a perfect draft, lost in my thoughts of the simple luxury I found this morning as I walked around my apartment. Alone. Not a roommate, a fear of spycams, or loud neighbors. Just me, my T-shirt nightie, and a cup of coffee. A week of living there and I’m still awed by my luck.

It’s glorious.

Having arrived at work between the happy hour and dinner shifts, I found Jayne, the bosses’ daughter, sitting at the corner of the bar with papers spread before her. According to her, she’s been at it for over an hour. Apparently, this is her alternate office. She’s always here.

Her normally well-groomed appearance is offset by the fact that she’s chewed off all her lipstick. Her chin length ash-blond bob looks windblown and a pencil pokes out from a small knot she’s made. She stops to look at me when I deliver her dinner order, but I don’t think she sees me. She jolts out of her reverie before scanning the half-full restaurant. The dinner rush is over and the bar is in that state of rest as we wait for the families to leave and the partiers to arrive.

“I think I blacked out and lost time,” she says as I slide the plate of fish and chips next to her ledger. “My only hope is that this accounting was masterfully completed while I was having my fugue. If not, there may be violence.”

I shrug an apology because I’m one hundred percent certain the fugue state she thinks she experienced was just a small daydream. “If the guy at table three pinches my ass one more time when I pass to use the restroom, there’ll be violence,” I tell her. “Must be that kinda night.”

She reaches over the top of the bar and pulls out a bottle of malt vinegar from the shelf below. After dousing her fish and chips, she shoves a handful of fries into her mouth then returns to beating her calculator to death with the eraser end of her pencil.

“Buggering bloody bollocks. These numbers! They refuse to balance. If I can’t get this worked out I’ll commit an act of cruelty to my own person.” It’s hard gauging the severity of her words because she’s English and seriously, what sort of act would she commit? Their cops don’t even carry guns. She stabs at the calculator again and takes a long swig of her wine.

The last few nights I’ve worked, Jayne’s been on the same stool, her business books spread before her. Try as I might to avoid developing anything further than a superficial friendship with her, as this tends to be the easiest for all parties, Jayne makes it hard. She’s warm and as welcoming as her parents, and even though she successfully runs her own clothing boutique, she can be found helping out when there’s a shortage, without complaint. She’s comfortable in her own skin and has a dry, self-deprecating sense of humor I understand. A large portion of my time at the bar is spent chatting with her, laughing about some of the patron’s antics, and discussing our common interest in Graham Norton, who we both binge watch whenever possible.

Making friends with girls has always been difficult for me. Maybe because my only real friend was Will and perhaps because of that I relate better to guys. Either that or Jayne’s different.

“Just a thought, but it might not be a numbers issue but more a you’ve-had-too-much-to-drink issue and this place is distracting. I can see from here that you’ve miscalculated column two.”

She groans and stares at the numbers. I touch my finger to the set where she went awry.

“It doesn’t help that you’ve been making eyes at tall, blond surfer over there.” I place a glass of water next to her wine.

“You’re a buzz kill,” she says in a bang-on American accent. Usually so posh with her Oxford English, it cracks me up when she does her American speak. She pushes the water back toward me.

“You should put this away and relax.” I tap her papers. “When do you do that? Relax?” She’s here every time I am and I imagine she’s here when I’m not.

She purses her lips. “Quite right. I haven’t relaxed in a long time. A good shag would fix that right up.”

I lean against the bar and rest my elbows on the top. “Is there a Mr. Jayne?” It’s my attempt at making casual girlfriend talk even though it feels intrusive.

She snorts. “No boyfriend. I’ve been casually seeing this guy, Brad, who, it would seem, is really just a scheduled shag when he’s driving through town. Which is about every other week. Clearly, not enough.” She smirks and nods toward the blond surfer. “How about you? You’re fairly new here, and if you tell me you’ve got a steady I might simply lose it. Not that I don’t want you to have someone but the reflection back into my own wasteland of a sex life...well.” She waves her hand dismissively.