The Lyons Next Door (A Lyons' Heart Book 1) Page 3

  I wonder for a minute if I have enough time to run upstairs, change into something that a semi-decent person might wear, and come back down looking like the picture of grace, but then decide against it. It’s rude to make whoever is at the door wait, and besides, it’s not like my parents would do that. We might as well present ourselves how we’re going to look ninety-nine percent of the time.

  The Cromwell’s might have won the lottery, but we didn’t win the style to go with it.

  Taking a deep breath, I walk over to the foyer while doing my best to fix my hair, placing my hand on the doorknob after I’m finished. But then suddenly an idea hits me. What if Headphones Guy is the one waiting for me on the other side, here to yell at me for being an accidental peeping Tom?

  Even so, I still have to open the door. He’d probably just come back later if I didn’t. And besides, I can always explain that I hadn’t done it on purpose. If you think of it, it was kind of his fault to begin with. There I was, taking in my new surroundings, and he just had to go and distract me with his good looks and adorable puttering. How was I not supposed to stare?

  I open the door, letting out the breath I had taken as I do.

  “Hello!” A woman I would suspect to be in her later forties greets me from the porch, her smile large and white against her beautifully tan complexion and dark hair. She has on an expensive looking power suit in ivory, matching her teeth.

  With her are two others. A little boy that looks around eight or nine, and a girl I would guess to be my age. Both kids have her same good looks, but the girl has green eyes whereas the woman has golden amber. The little boy has a headful of dark curls and glasses that sit adorably askew on his nose. His eyes are Pacific Ocean blue.

  “Hi,” I say, instantly feeling relieved when I don’t see Headphones Guy with them.

  “I’m Elise Lyons. And this is my son, Theo, and my niece, Rosaleigha. We live next door.” She nods towards the blue mega mansion, her eyes smiling when she looks at me. With how put together they all look (the teenage girl looking like a fashionista with her sunflower patterned crop top and artfully bleached shorts, and the boy looking cute in a dark red polo and tan khakis), I feel even worse in my work clothes than I did before I opened the door. I try not to fidget as she continues.

  “We saw you move in yesterday, and we wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.” I didn’t notice before, but she has a loaf-sized Tupperware pan sitting in her hands. She holds it out to me, and I take it from her, the ceramic still warm to the touch.

  “It’s banana bread. I hope you and your family aren’t allergic.” She looks genuinely worried about this possibility, her brow narrowing until I answer her question.

  I shake my head. “No. Actually, banana bread is my Nana’s favorite. She’ll be thrilled with this.”

  I must have taken her by surprise, because her dark brows lift in unison. “Oh, is it just you and your grandmother here then?”

  “My parents live here, too,” I’m quick to explain, though I don’t know why. “But my Nana has lived with us for as long as I can remember.” It’s only then that I realize I forgot to introduce myself as well. Sticking out my hand, I hold the banana bread solely in the other. “I’m Blaire, by the way. Blaire Cromwell.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Blaire.” Again with that warm smile. She seems like a nice person, and I’m not sure why that surprises me. In the back of my mind I’ve always figured privileged people must be rude, or self-centered. I never imagined they’d bake banana bread. “It’s so nice to have another young person in the neighborhood,” she says, looking delighted. “I’m sure my sons and niece here will enjoy your presence very much.”

  Before I can think to stop myself, I’m asking her, “Sons?”

  She nods, unperturbed by my squeaky voice. “Yes, my oldest, Beckham, just graduated this spring, and my middle son, Catcher, will be a senior, just like Rosaleigha. I think you three are around the same age, if I’m not mistaken.”

  My mind goes into overdrive, wondering which son I saw through the window last night. Though in the end, does it really matter? Either way, I’m sure he told his siblings about the weird new girl next door and her penchant for staring. That will put an end to my mother’s wish for me to make friends for sure.

  “Well, I think we better get back to our side of the yard. I know you must be busy unpacking still. We just wanted to introduce ourselves and let you know that if you need anything, our door is always open. It was a pleasure meeting you, Blaire.”

  “You, too, Mrs. Lyons. Thank you again for the bread.” I hold up the pan, as if she forgot what she herself brought me.

  My winning social skills strike again.

  She smiles, pretending she doesn’t notice. Grabbing the little boy’s hand, they walk back across the yard, but the girl stays behind on the porch, watching me with a big smile.

  “I know my aunt called me Rosaleigha, but I go by Leigha. Rosaleigha was my great grandmother, and I am not my great grandmother.” She sticks out her ring adorned hand and I take it.

  I smile at her, nodding. “Leigha. Got it.”

  “So, where did you move here from?”

  “Maryland.” Looking at the blue house out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Lyons and Theo walk through the front door, disappearing inside. “Do you all live here full time?”

  Her beautiful onyx hair that slowly morphs into a dark shade of bluish teal at the ends, swishes from side to side when she shakes her head no, shining even under the shade of the porch. It looks like the kind of health only achieved through expensive hair treatments at the salon. Not to mention her clothes, which I’m sure are designer. Unlike me, I think her pants were meant to have rips in them.

  “No, I just stay for the summer while my parents travel. But my aunt and uncle live here year-round. Crazy considering how bad it gets in the winter. What about you? Is this your family’s summer home?”

  She says it like it’s a normal thing for people to have multiple homes for different seasons. I guess if I want to blend in, I’m going to have to pretend that it’s normal, too. “No, it’s permanent. But then we haven’t experienced a New York winter yet, so who knows.”

  She laughs at this. “Yeah, that might change your minds.” Still giggling, she asks, “So, are you going to be a senior, too?”

  I nod my head.

  This makes her eyes light up, as if I told her I have the power to make all her dreams come true. “Cool. We go to Horton Prep. Is that where you’ll be transferring in the fall?”

  It is, actually. “Yeah.”

  “Yes! I was hoping you’d say that. We can totally show you around. I know my cousin will be anxious to meet you. We’ve been looking for our third Musketeer ever since Beckham graduated this year.” She looks back at the house, namely the second-floor window. “I’m sure you’ll be more fun than he was,” she says with a sarcastic chuckle.

  Before I can ask what she means by that, she’s telling me about a party she and her cousin are throwing on Saturday. “You’re more than welcome to come if you like. A lot of kids from school will be there, so it’ll kind of be like orientation but without the snobby atmosphere.”

  I’m instantly put on edge at the word “party”. As any of my old friends would tell her, Blaire Cromwell does not do partying. Or drinking. Or illegal things in the name of teenage rebellion. I’m much more into the idea of hunkering down in my turret for hours, slaving away on a painting with Leopold or my Nana as company.

  But she looks so excited about it. And at least she doesn’t seem like the catty sort I knew from my old school. She also doesn’t seem put off by my lack of social grace, which is surprising. But Leigha looks like the determined kind, and I fear that she’s going to make me her friend one way or another. It’s a sweet gesture, but still scary.

  For that alone, I should at least give her the impression that I’m considering it. “I might be busy, what with the unpacking and all.” Lie. “But I’ll try to make
it.”

  “Great! I’ll be looking for you then.” She starts to walk off the porch, but when she reaches the driveway, she turns around, walking backwards when she says, “Oh, and it’s beach wear only. We’re officially breaking in the pool this weekend.” She winks and then runs across the yard, taking my composure with her.

  I’m still computing all the terrifying words she used when I walk back into the house.

  Party. Beach wear. Pool…

  I don’t know how to swim. Which means I don’t even own a swimsuit.

  Well, I guess that decides it. I’m not going.

  ***

  “What a wonderful idea!” Mom says over dinner, consisting of turkey subs and large amounts of sour cream and onion crackers, my favorite.

  “It is not a wonderful idea,” I contradict. “Do you want me to drown?”

  “Well if you do, I bet one of those sons of hers will give you mouth to mouth. Still think it’s a bad idea?”

  “Nana.” We all complain in unison, Dad in particular.

  “Oh, honestly, that’s the least scandalous thing I could have said, trust me.” She admonishes, once again eating with a knife and fork. I know the woman has dentures, but seriously, she even eats scrambled eggs with both utensils.

  “You don’t even know if they’re attractive,” I point out.

  “They’re rich. Of course they’re attractive. Have you ever seen an ugly rich person?” she asks, cocking her head at me in challenge.

  “Donald Trump.”

  Her smug expression instantly deflates. “Shoot, I didn’t think of him.”

  “I personally don’t think you should go. I doubt their parents will be there,” Dad says, driving the conversation back to its original topic; a line of car grease smeared on his cheek.

  “I called to thank Elise for the bread, and she informed me that they will be there. And I doubt they would be serving alcohol to minors. Really, Herald, is our daughter having a social life such a terrible prospect?”

  They continue to bicker over whether I should or shouldn’t go, not even noticing when I leave the table with my food, deciding to go to my room to finish my dinner in peace.

  I know I should eat at my desk; that would be the normal thing to do. But something’s pulling me to the window, and it isn’t the view of Headphones Guy for a change. Sitting down with my legs crossed on the bench seat, I balance my plate on a pillow, placing my precious bag of chips in my lap. I sit on the opposite side of the bench this time, facing the water instead of the house next door. With the sun setting, it gives a beautiful cast of pinks, purples, and yellows across the lapping waves, helping to soothe my anxiety.

  I don’t know why I’ve always been like this. Ever since I was little, social situations have made me feel like a fish out of water. It wasn’t until I found my love for art, did I have an outlet for the negative feelings. All I would have to do when I felt anxious was grab my notepad and start doodling in it to feel better. That morphed into painting, and now it has become my full-time passion. I had dreams of art school when I was younger, Pratt in particular, but I knew that college was a far-off dream, unlikely to ever come true because of finances. But that was before my mom bought that ticket. Before the lottery happened. Before it caused us to move states away. Now, I guess anything is possible.

  When I finish dinner, I grab my old sketchpad out of my desk drawer and move back to the window seat, facing the water again. I do a rough sketch of the landscape, the curve of the shore, the willowy movements of the sea grass leading down to the beach. I try to capture the beauty of the sun kissing the water’s surface, transforming its opulent blue to a buttery yellow.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, eyes going from my paper to what lays outside the window. All I know is that eventually, I feel a prickle of awareness coat my skin, causing me to look up and to the left instead of the right.

  Headphones Guy is staring at me this time, standing in the window, head tilted to the side with an odd expression on his face. He doesn’t look shocked that I spotted him like I had when he spotted me. And he doesn’t immediately look away, either.

  He matches the darkness of his room tonight, wearing a navy blue T-shirt and dark wash jeans. His hair looks like he’s been running his hands through it, his headphones doing a poor job of concealing the curls.

  I wonder how long he’s been looking at me without my knowing.

  Before I can catch my breath, or heaven forbid, wave back and acknowledge his presence, that stupid curtain is being swept in front of him again. Gone, just like that.

  CHAPTER 3

  Blaire

  The next morning at breakfast, everyone is chatting at the kitchen island, eating eggs and bacon, talking about their plans. I keep silent, hoping nobody notices my brooding attitude courtesy of Headphones Guy and his polar personality when Dad turns to me, saying, “I forgot to give you this the other day.” He pulls out a shiny black credit card from his shirt pocket, sliding it across the counter to me.

  I stare at it, afraid to touch it, as if it might bite me.

  “Dad,” I start, but he cuts me off with an upheld hand and a knowing smile.

  “I know, I know. Miss Independent, wanting to pave your own way. But I’m asking you to do me a favor by humoring your old man and taking it. You’re a hard worker, Pumpkin. And I couldn’t be prouder of that. But I think it’s time we help you with some expenses.” He wiggles the card, inching it closer to me.

  I reluctantly take it, knowing he won’t let me leave the island without it. “I’m never going to use this, you know.”

  “I think you will, especially if you’re going to buy yourself a swimsuit today,” Mom says with a grin over her coffee mug, causing me to halt my fork halfway to my mouth.

  “I’m not going to that party, Mom.” I remind her.

  “Yes, you are. Your dad finally agreed with me that it will be a good environment for you to make some friends. You don’t have to swim, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “What part of that was supposed to make me feel better?” I ask, the question dripping with sarcasm. “Even if I knew how to swim, I wouldn’t want to go. Dad, back me up here.” I turn to him with big, pleading eyes, hoping he’ll throw me a rope I can hold on to.

  He sighs, giving me an equally sad look. “It’s not that big of a deal, really. All you have to do is go over there for five minutes and come back if you want. Let your mother believe she’s being a good parent by socializing you for a bit.”

  She quickly smacks his shoulder, scowling at him.

  “It’s not like he’s wrong,” Nana says in his defense, a rarity for her.

  Mom leans back against the counter, not bothering to hide her look of defeat.

  “Oh, alright. I’ll go, are you happy? But it’s only going to be for the five minutes you said.” I point at Dad when I say this, hoping he keeps his word and lets me get away with the bare minimum.

  “That’s fine.” Grabbing the keys to the car out of her pocket, Mom hands them to me. “Now, get in the car, go to town, and buy a suit. And if you really want to make me happy, buy a little something extra for yourself. Maybe a new paint kit or a canvas stand, hmm?” she says, fully knowing I will not be doing that, but she continues to hope anyway.

  Some habits die hard.

  With a tight-lipped smile, I nod, taking the keys and shoving my butt off the barstool. Apparently, it’s time to go shopping.

  ***

  Ten minutes into shopping at one of the little boutique shops in town, I know this was a huge mistake. Because one, this particular shop doesn’t sell one-pieces, or even tankinis. And two, the prices on these tiny scraps of fabric are insane. I mean seriously, two hundred dollars for a bikini? This is robbing people, straight up.

  Walking through the store, I feel the eyes of the sales associate following me everywhere I go, as if she’s just waiting to pounce on me if I so much as breathe wrong on a suit. I know I’m not dressed like most of the people
that shop here. I have on my signature overalls cut into shorts, and my shirt is a shade of blue that brings out the color in my eyes, though it’s a little stained around the edges. But in my defense, I found it that way at a thrift store. It was only thirty cents. I couldn’t pass up a deal like that.

  For two hundred bucks, I could have a field day in a thrift store, I think to myself as I stare at the expensive bikini in my hands. If only one of those existed around here. Unfortunately, they don’t. I already checked.

  With a sigh, I continue to peruse the racks until I find a bikini in a dark mustard shade that hopefully won’t reveal how pale I am. It’s also on sale, score.

  When I pull out the black credit card at the counter, the pretty sales person with the unimpressed expression gives it a wide-eyed glance before throwing me a beaming smile, her aura completely different now with the knowledge that I actually have the ability to buy this suit.

  She rings me up and tries to start a conversation about a new line from Paris they’re getting in next week. She then puts my purchase in a beautiful bag with black and white stripes on the side and bright blue tissue paper cascading out of the top. When I go to leave, she invites me to come back any time.

  I think I know now what Julia Roberts felt like in Pretty Woman.

  Since I’m here, I walk around the small town for a while, my bag swinging in my hand next to me. It’s a beautiful day, and multiple couples are taking advantage, holding hands and going in and out of shops, smiling and laughing. I sort of feel like a ghost as I drift through a few stores, looking but with no intention of buying. That is until I come to a storefront that has art supplies displayed in the window, the green and gold painted sign over the shop welcoming passerby to Edwin’s Art Corner.

  Ahh.

  When I step inside, I take in a big lungful of air filled with the aroma of a burning apple candle and cold-pressed paper, bringing an uncontrollable smile to my face. Looking around, I see the shop is filled to the brim with every sort of art supplies an artist could ever dream of. One aisle contains just oil paints, arranged in a rainbow, just like my own art room. And then another has solely sketchbooks and pads of watercolor paper – canvases placed near the end. Finally, I come to the watercolor section, my hands dancing over a box containing a Winsor and Newton watercolor palette. I’ve always wanted one of these. It’s like the pinnacle of professional grade watercolors, the kind only artists in galleries would use. Precious and very, very expensive.