Unfinished Muse (12 page)

I gave an awkward wave and darted out the
door. He may have watched me go, or he may have forgotten me the
minute I walked away. Either way, it felt like his gaze was a laser
between my shoulder blades the whole way out.

He was way too pretty for my current lack of
self-confidence. I’d have to work on that if I ever ran into him
again.

~*~

I sat in my car holding my assignment and staring at
the garish house I was supposed to enter. Dozens of moving,
spinning, reflective ornaments decorated the sparse lawn. The front
door was painted a pristine white, but the house itself was an
eye-bleeding yellow trimmed in lime green.

I checked my tool belt to be sure I had my
can of Beastie Discombobulator Dust. A house this showy no doubt
housed an array of pink and blue poodles wearing hats and
tutus.

Once I had the car parked the required block
and a half away, I returned on foot. At the mailbox, I touched the
button on my belt when I was sure no one was looking, then made my
way to the front door.

The invisibility thing seemed flawed to me.
What if it didn’t work? I’d have no way of knowing unless someone
started talking to me. Or, you know, screaming, if I were in their
house. I supposed if I could walk through doors, I should assume I
was also invisible.

I took a deep breath and pushed my hand
against the front door, then stepped through into the house.

The inside was every bit as disturbing as
I’d expected. Rows and rows of porcelain dolls sat on shelves
around the pink and white living room. Doilies decorated the arms
of two chairs and a rose-silk sofa, and the painted coffee table
was covered in carefully posed panda figurines.

Everything smelled like lemons.

I shuddered and stepped onto the clear
plastic floor runner to search for my target. A display of photos
led me down the hallway, telling the story of a happy family of
four—Mom, Dad, Sister, and Brother. Judging by the pointed collars,
Dad’s groovy sideburns, and the blue VW bus, I placed them in the
late 1960s. As I moved down the hall, the kids grew taller,
clothing styles changed, Mom’s hair got shorter, and Dad stopped
appearing.

I ran a fingertip over a
department-store-posed shot of the three remaining family members.
Both kids were in their teens by then, and Mom’s smile looked a
little forced.

It was the last photo on the wall.

At the end of the hall, I found a bathroom
and three closed doors. I tried to grab a doorknob and turn, but my
hand went through it.

“Woops.” The sound of my voice startled me
in the silent house.

Holding my breath, I stuck my head through
the first door. The room contained a white and gold dresser, a
neatly made bed with a pink chenille bedspread, and an army of
Precious Moments figures.

The next room had posters of ‘70s
heartthrobs on the walls. The tape holding them up was aged and
brittle looking. A twin bed was shoved into the corner with several
boxes piled on top of it, and a sewing machine held court in the
center of the room.

The third room smelled like muscle cream and
dirty socks. The bed was unmade, muddy shoes lay forgotten in the
corner next to a discarded pair of pants, and the dresser was
covered in loose change and receipts.

I had to assume my client lived in that
room. I wrinkled my nose at the odor and withdrew my head.

So, Alex wasn’t at that end of the house.
Back the way I came, the picture wall became the weird story of a
family of three who took anti-aging drugs and found a badly dressed
hippy to join their band.

I passed the living room and entered the
kitchen. Everything in there was covered in daisies. Even the
toaster hid beneath a quilted daisy cover. Pot holders, salt and
pepper shakers, dishtowels, soap dispenser, fridge magnets, table
cloth, placemats—everything everywhere was done up in daisies. A
giant daisy clock hung on the wall with a trailing stem swinging
back and forth like the tail on those old-fashioned, kitschy cat
clocks.

I cringed and headed for a door across the
room I hoped led to the basement.

A peek on the other side confirmed my
suspicion. And the light was on. I stepped through the door and
headed down the stairs.

A stout man—I assumed he was Alex—with
greying hair, three days’ worth of stubble, and the droopy
expression of the defeated sat at a long table fashioned out of a
sheet of particleboard and two plastic trash bins. A desk lamp sat
on the edge of the table, lighting what it could of the area.
Multiple types of glue, pieces of wax paper, scissors, razor
blades, chunks of wood in various sizes, and boxes and boxes of
toothpicks were stacked around the table.

Alex huddled over a pad of graph paper,
drawing and erasing lines, muttering to himself, then ripping off
the top page and tossing it away in a crumpled ball. The concrete
floor was strewn with similar discarded failures.

Dude really needed a Muse pronto.

I ran my hands over my belt to find my
Thought Bubbles. Something near my foot yipped, startling me.

I’d been wrong about the poodles in hats and
tutus. It was a wiener dog in a sweater—a pink sweater with a daisy
on it, of course—and she was looking straight at me.

That was definitely not supposed to
happen.

“Oscar, what are you doing over there? Come
lay down.” Alex peered into the gloom and patted his leg.

Okay. So, first of all, yay, I really was
invisible. And second, the dog in the girly sweater was a boy. Very
progressive. Good for him.

“Hey, Oscar. That’s a great look on you.
Dapper as hell.” I unhooked my can of Beastie Discombobulator Dust
and twisted the top to open the shaker holes. No one had trained me
with the stuff, so I hoped I could figure it out. “How about you
forget you saw me, little guy? How would that be?” I flung the
contents at him, clutching the bottle in a vice grip so it wouldn’t
go flying.

Oscar blinked and sneezed. Dust coated his
fur like baby powder. He shook himself, ears flinging in the air,
then turned away, bumped into Alex’s leg, and flopped into a padded
basket to sleep.

Alex glanced at the snoring pooch. “Damn,
that was fast.” He jotted something down, tried to erase, then
moaned. “I can’t do this.”

I reattached the powder to my belt, then
freed my Thought Bubbles. “Dude, you need to chill. Try this.” I
dipped my wand into the solution, pursed my lips like Audrey had
shown me, and blew.

The solution splattered on my face.

I tried again. Dip. Purse. Blow.

One big bubble wobbled out and moved in the
direction of Alex’s head. It was close enough to brush his cheek,
then he bent over and scratched Oscar’s head.

The bubble drifted away without making
contact.

“Oh, for Hades’ sake, dude. Hold still.” I
blew again, this time a stream of smaller bubbles. Several went
wild and popped on the table, the ceiling, or the floor. But
several more hit the target in quick succession. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Alex froze for a moment, leaving me to worry
he’d felt the bubbles and would turn around any second to look at
me.

“Yes!” He punched the air, then bent and
resumed sketching, mumbling as he drew. “Everybody always does a
manmade structure. The judges won’t expect something from
nature.”

Judges? I scanned the table and found an
application for entry into the Mid-American Toothpick Championship
in Akron, Ohio. I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Seriously? This
was for a competition? I peeked over Alex’s shoulder to see what he
was drawing.

A series of intersecting lines formed a big,
shapeless blob on the page. From this close, I could see the sweat
beads forming on Alex’s upper lip.

“Here and here,” he said, adding lines. “And
when I get the cliff face done, I can add trees over here and a
river running down the center.” As he spoke, his pencil flew back
and forth adding lines until I realized what it was he was trying
to do.

“Oh, hells, no. Is that supposed to be the
Grand Canyon?”

It was terrible.

He paused and tilted his head, almost as if
he could hear me. “I’m going to need more toothpicks.”

I ran my fingers through my short hair in
frustration. This was not going work. “Dude. Nature doesn’t have
straight lines. That’s why they recreate architectural works of
art. Don’t you want to win?”

He chuckled to himself. “I’m totally going
to win this year.”

I groaned. “No. You’re my first project.
This is not going down like this.” I dipped my wand in the bottle
and blew bubbles at him, dipped, blew, dipped, blew. The room was
filled with bubbles bouncing and popping everywhere.

Including Alex’s head.

“Tiny donkeys carrying tourists down the
path,” he said, pounding his fist on the table. “This is going to
be fantastic.”

“No!” I paced behind him, shouting in his
ear, hoping something would get through to him. “Choose another
idea, you idiot. I just bombarded you with a dozen other choices.
What the hell is wrong with you?”

He continued to draw and mutter, pausing
occasionally to erase a line, then add another. After about ten
minutes, his momentum slowed until he stalled completely.

Alex stared at his graph paper drawing.
“This is the stupidest idea I’ve ever had.” He dropped his pencil,
then rubbed his face with both hands. “I suck.”

I leaned closer to him. “You don’t suck. It
was one bad idea. Come on. Work with me.”

He rose from his stool, stretched, then bent
to pick up the limp, unconscious dachshund. “Let’s go upstairs,
Oscar. I’m not getting anywhere down here.”

“No. Don’t go.” I tried to stand in his way,
but he walked right through me.

Alex trudged up the stairs carrying the
little dog while I stood below, watching him go. At the top of the
stairs, he flipped a switch and closed the door, leaving me alone
in darkness.

My first day on my own, and I was an
absolute failure as a Muse.

Chapter 10

One of the problems with working in a field-agent
type of department is the lack of people in the actual office. By
the time I got back, nobody was there. Polly wasn’t in her office,
and Audrey’s belt wasn’t on the wall. Neither was Trina’s. I didn’t
know enough people in the department to tell how many of the belts
on the wall were from people who’d already come back for the day,
but several of the belts were still out.

On the bright side, I didn’t see Dave or
Jeremy’s belts, either.

I unlatched my supplies, refilled the
bubbles and the dust, and put them away in the closet. My belt hung
neatly beneath my name. Everything was in its place. Back at my
desk, I dropped my paperwork in the inbox, then changed my mind and
stuffed it in my bag. I wanted to do a little research on Alex. And
maybe tomorrow I would come in early to talk to Polly about what to
do when the client didn’t cooperate.

In the meantime, I was going home to open a
bottle of wine, eat an entire pizza, watch television in my
pajamas, and maybe bitch at my houseplant for getting me into all
this.

On my way out the door, Trina burst in,
nearly knocking me into the wall.

“Oh! Hey, Wynter. How was your first solo?”
She grinned at me and bounced from foot to foot almost as if she
had to pee.

I gave her a pained expression. “It could
have been better.”

Her smile wavered and she nodded. “Yeah.
That happens.” She sighed. “A lot.”

“What do I do?”

She patted my shoulder. “Go back tomorrow
and keep trying until you get through.”

I frowned. “Then what?”

“You go every day until they get it.” She
bounced past me down the hall. “You’ll break through eventually.
Don’t worry.” She disappeared into the prop room.

I shrugged. “Okay, then. I guess I’ll stop
worrying.”

A little less stressed, I went home to
discuss it with Phyllis.

Phyllis was not amused. “So, what? You’re
just going to be all casual about it? It’ll take as long as it
takes?”

“I guess. Trina said—”

Phyllis sputtered at me, and three leaves
drifted to the floor. “Trina said? That girl has been through two
transfers already. Her status as a Legacy is the only thing that’s
kept her from being reassigned to the Underworld. Do
not
follow her lead.”

I scowled. “Well, at least she’s giving me
advice. I can’t get anybody to teach me anything in there. I might
as well take my time if I’ve got to figure it all out myself.”

All of Phyllis’s branches stood up straight.
“Take your time?” She waved a few leaves at me, as if waggling a
finger. “Take your time? Did you even
check
the deadline on
your assignment?”

I blinked. “Deadline?” I rummaged in my bag
and took out the paperwork.

Phyllis let out a heavy, dramatic sigh.
“What? Did you think you could just go there every day for a few
years, watching him, hoping eventually he’d figure it out
himself?”

I scanned the categories on the page. Name.
Address. Art. Terms. And there it was at the very bottom. Deadline.
Each of the fields had been filled in the old-fashioned way—by hand
in black pen.

I really needed to pay attention to the
paperwork these people gave me. The print was small, but it was
there. I had twenty-eight days. Worse—according to the terms I’d
also failed to do more than skim—my mission wasn’t fulfilled until
Alex was entirely finished with his project. It wasn’t enough for
me to help him figure out the perfect idea. He had to bring that
idea into concrete form. And he had to get his ass to Akron, Ohio
with his finished project to compete in the Mid-America Toothpick
Contest.

I slapped the paper on my kitchen table.
“Why didn’t anybody tell me about this?”

Phyllis was gracious enough not to yell.
“Wynter, it was on the assignment. They did tell you.”