Page 15 of Dream House
I turn and march back to the sitting room. Pen follows, muttering something like,you need to ask Hestia,Goddess of the Hearth, to help you ‘cause I won’t be liftin’ a finga.Nina’s still sitting on the razor’s edge of the rocker, but she gets to her feet as soon as we enter. I have a feeling that despite the distance and the thickness of the walls in this old house, she heard every word.
“You’re welcome to one of our rooms,” I say.
“If you have first month’s rent and the security deposit,” Pen blurts, sidling up beside me.
I toss her a scowl.“What?”
She gives a huffy shrug. “Have you ever rented anything without payin’ a security deposit?”
I have to admit, she has a point. I don’t bother telling her that because Nina is smoothing out the wad of bills in her hand. She counts it out and then looks up at me with an equal mix of hope and despair.
“I have four hundred twenty-three dol—”
“It’s enough,” I say before Pen can jump in.
Nina hands over the money, and the way she lets it go, I realize it’s all she has. All the money she has in the world. And there’s no bags. No belongings. Nothing else.
“I’m afraid the room’s not ready yet—” The color drains from her face so fast, I’m sure she’ll faint. “B-but, if you’d be willing to dust and vacuum it tonight, I’d pay you fifty dollars and you can move in immediately.”
Her color comes back, but she eyes me before shifting uneasily on her feet. “Fifty is too much,” she says, her mouth pinched.
I stare at her. She stares back. I don’t know much about Nina Lemoine, except that life has dealt her a shitty hand and she won’t accept charity.
“There’s two more rooms for rent that need cleaning.”
Her eyes widen—even the one that resembles a plum more than an eye—and she nods rapidly. “I can do that. And don’t worry,” she says in a rush, “I have a job. I’ll never be late on my rent.”
I nod, smiling. “I’ll show you upstairs. You can pick the one you want.”
We leave Pen in the foyer, but I’m almost positive I see her drawing some kind of symbol over the front door and muttering an incantation under her breath.
Whatever she’s doing, I hope we don’t need it.
The next morning,I’m in the kitchen with Maisy when Nina walks in. She stops dead in the doorway, staring at Maisy. Maisy looks back, and I’m sure she’s going to ask about Nina’s eye, which is an even darker purple today.
“Morning, Nina. This is my daughter Maisy.” I turn to Maisy who’s sleepily chomping on a bagel with butter. “Maiz, this is Nina. She’s going to live upstairs.”
Around her mouthful, Maisy asks, “Wif Pen?”
Smiling, I shake my head. “Nope, she’s staying in the room with the blue flowers.” Nanna went through a wallpaper phase in the nineties. There are worse things than nineties floral wallpaper. Changing that out in all of the bedrooms is a want, not a need.
“Can I have blue flowers inmyroom?” Maisy asks.
Uh oh.
“You have pink flowers in your room,” I say, “Pink is awesome.”
Maisy looks to Nina to see if my statement is trustworthy.
At first, Nina says nothing, but then she seems to jolt out of her own thoughts. “Pink was my favorite color when I was your age.”
She says it in a way I know she means it. Pinkwas her favorite color. It makes me sad and a little sick. Nobody deserves to be treated the way she’s clearly been treated. But pink is the color of innocence. And she said pinkwasher favorite. I’m almost afraid to ask what her favorite color is now.
Her clothing gives me no clue. She’s wearing the same T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops she had on last night, except the white of her shirt is now streaked with dust from her hour and a half spent cleaning the upstairs bedrooms.
I wondered about her all night. I offered her a change of clothes before I went to bed, but she turned me down, saying she’d get some today. Her hair is wet from the shower, so at least she’s had a chance to bathe, but I feel bad that she had to put on her dirty clothes.
“Would you like some breakfast?”
