Page 13 of Henhouse
Effie must have been staring because Hope said, “I’m trying to embrace it and celebrate the changes.” She sat in the chair opposite Effie and rested a hand on her belly.
“Of course. Sorry. I’m still getting used to it,” Effie apologized.
“Me too.”
“And this man of yours? Is he getting used to the idea?” Beatrice dared ask, and Effie was impressed with her gumption.
“I decided not to tell him,” Hope admitted, but she glanced sideways at Effie while Aunt Bea checked the dryness of her paint, which meant there was more to the story. Effie had guessed things had gone sideways, but not that Hope hadn’t even uttered the truth.
“I’m not sure that’s fair of you,” Beatrice said, giving voice to Effie’s thoughts.
“I know it isn’t,” Hope asserted. “I’ll tell him. Eventually.” Effie couldn’t imagine what had changed. Couldn’t imagine keeping such a big thing from the father of her baby. She couldn’t actually imagine being in Hope’s position at all, and maybe that was even scarier.
Hope’s sadness filled the air. Effie didn’t say another word about it and neither did Beatrice. They knew they’d have to run interference for Hope as best they could, but the Thatcher women could only be swayed off the scent of fresh meat for so long. Eventually, Braydenwould join the ranks of those devoured by their disappointment.
Effie hadn’t wanted to leave Hope in such a state of distress. It was Effie’s night to teach a class at the store, though, so gossip and man-hating would have to wait until later.
Effie did weekly classes in embroidery, but one Wednesday a month, she offered a special workshop where guests could bring their own wine and partake in some kind of craft. Frequently, they practiced floral arrangement, collage, or cookie decoration. Tonight, they were making faux stained glass. It was a simple enough project that wouldn’t get too much in the way of the mingling and sipping her guests usually enjoyed.
Six people had registered to attend. She lamented that their system only captured emails, and she couldn’t practice people’s names and taste them before they arrived. She didn’t need to offend anyone. Effie reached into her tote, printed with various illustrations of tea canisters, in search of her gum. Real flavors trumped word flavors, so it was easier to get through a class without too much interference from her taste buds when chewing gum. She opened the pack to find it empty. “Sugar stacks,” she cursed. She couldn’t very well swear like everyone else and sayshitwithout tasting that too. The unfortunate circumstance of an early association being made when her mom bemoaned stepping in dog shit on a walk when she was five. She would have much preferred the word being associated with surprise or being startled; then it might taste like birthday cake or starfruit. Effie dropped her tote to the floor beside her.She’d just have to suffer through.
Effie laid the materials out on the large bench used for cuttingfabric. She covered it with a tablecloth so it wouldn’t get ruined and went to work creating stations. Each consisted of a picture frame with real glass, craft paint, Elmer’s Glue, black puff paint for the leading, palettes, and junky paintbrushes that wouldn’t mind the glue. She set cups of water at each station to rinse the brushes, and in the center of the long table, copies of various designs ready to be traced onto the glass.
Effie had created a design of a lady slipper orchid, her favorite flower. Another depicted a teacup atop a stack of books. The last was a simplistic rendering of a cardinal on a birch branch. Each was already divided into sections to mimic the look of stained glass so that her students could focus on tracing and color placement.
Effie picked the book and teacup design for herself and sat at the end of the bench with her supplies. She checked her watch, bouncing her knee. Her stomach always housed a swarm of butterflies before class started. The prospect that she might have to engage with someone under the age of fifty always triggered her anxiety.
The bell chimed, and a couple of greying heads bobbed down the aisle to her counter. It was Mr. and Mrs. Robecheck. They were both teachers at the local high school and very kind. They frequented Effie’s classes and fondly remembered her as a quiet yet diligent student in their English Honors and culinary classes respectively.
“I’m excited for this one!” Mrs. Robecheck chimed as she took a seat and drew a bottle of cabernet from her oversized tote. Effie loved that they always brought gaudy goblets to drink from too. The ones she had tonight bore stems cast into gold talons. Effie was grateful they were the first to arrive. She settled into excitement instead of letting the butterflies win out.
The bell chimed again, and Effie recognized one of Ellen’s mom friends and her husband. Not exactly Effie’s peers, but it was more intimidating trying to entertain someone closer to her age. They smiled politely and took their seats as well, unpacking their picnic-style wineglasses and a bottle that Effie herself would have bought just based on the label, bedecked in dazzling floral illustrations.
“We’re waiting for two more,” she announced. “But if you want to choose your designs, there are few options in the center. If you’re feeling extra adventurous, you can grab a blank sheet and draw your own while we wait.” Everyone leaned in and picked a premade design.
“Did you draw these yourself?” Ellen’s mom friend asked.
“I did,” Effie proclaimed with some pride. Her little band of pupils nodded, impressed. It was a morsel compared to Hope’s fame or Louisa’s talent on the stage, but it was enough for Effie. At least it used to be. Rumblings of wanting to be singled out and admired rapped against her mental walls. They had worked their way forward in incremental gains since she realized life would be different all over again with the arrival of Hope’s baby. She chalked it up to envy and shoved the thoughts back to their cells.
After only a couple minutes wait, the door chimed again. Effie’s stomach shot up her throat as soon as she realized who walked in. Theodore Tillerman. And he wasn’t alone.
8
Brayden walked the manicured path from the parking lot in the center of his condo complex carrying Thai takeout.
The buildings were nice, the green spaces well kept, but he was eager to move to his house and away from the cookie cutter he no longer fit into. Brayden noted the For Sale sign with an arrow pointing down the path toward his corner unit on the far end. He gritted his teeth, burying the anger that boiled.
He had bought the two-bedroom unit almost six years ago, right after college. His grandfather had established a trust for him when he was born, and it was bequeathed to him when he turned twenty-two. It was a substantial amount of money. Honestly, that was an understatement. He could have bought an already finished estate near Market Square with plenty to live off of for at least a decade. But Brayden’s family had always been in the habit of using their wealth to make plans, make improvements, invest in their community. So he had bought a little fixer-upper condo, did the cosmetic upgrades himself,and bided his time until a property he could revitalize to raise his kids in came on the market.
He jumped at the chance to buy the Islington house, excited at its potential to hold his dreams. That was three years, endless permitting, and innumerable marital mistakes ago. He could have hired someone to do all of the work for him, but there was something satisfying about plastering walls, laying tile, and crafting his home with his own hands. He also couldn’t wait for it to be finished.
That, among other things.
He pulled a key from his pocket as he reached the front door only to find the deadbolt already open. He eased inside and slipped his shoes off by the front closet in the narrow entry hall, the air stagnant and stale.When was the last time he’d opened a window?
He entered the small kitchen that looked over the living room with its big glass slider onto a rear deck and a woodburning stove. Thestairs leading to the two bedrooms were opposite the kitchen.
He unpacked his dumplings and chicken pad Thai, but his eyes were on Chloe, who’d made herself comfortable beneath a crocheted afghan with a bottle of wine and a bowl of potato chips. “I didn’t expect you for dinner,” he said as he carried his meal for one to the small dining table that stood between the island and the living room.
