Page 41 of Scrooge

“Good morning,” I murmur, looking around her, but seeing no adults.

“Who are you?” another little voice says from the side, and I spot a little boy. Dark hair, freckles, maybe about ten or so.

“Shh. Mom said we have to be nice.” The girl nudges, and I frown.

“Mom?” I question, wondering who they are.

“What’s wrong with your shoes?” the boy asks, and his sister nudges him again.

“My shoes?” I question, squinting down at them. They look fine to me.

“They are so shiny.” He looks up at me, confused.

“Why are you so dressed up?” the little girl questions as the boy steps forward and peers down.

“What are you doing?” I ask, seeing the back of his head, and then looking up once more, wondering where the adults are.

“I think I can see my face…” he says in awe, as his face lowers even farther, seeking his reflection in my shoes. I lean over farther to see if that’s true, but all I can see is his dark hair.

“Kids!” a woman barks, and we all straighten quickly, like we have been caught with our hands in the cookie jar. “What did I tell you?” Jillian, Haylee’s sister, paces toward us with a scowl, and the two kids scatter.

“Sorry, they can be a handful. Come in. It’s cold,” she says, huffing a laugh, and I step inside, the warmth instant.

“Good morning,” I murmur. “I brought these.” I offer her both red wine and whiskey I purchased for this occasion.

“Thank you. That’s very kind. Here, let me take your coat. Haylee is down the back in her studio,” Jillian says, and I shrug off my coat. She hangs it on the back of the door with about six others.

“Her studio?” I question, glancing around the quaint home. It’s tidy and cozy, yet there are knickknacks and photo frames everywhere. There is a small living space off to the side, the sofas well-worn, covered in crochet blankets and throw pillows. The rug on the floor is covered in toys and books, and it is where both kids now sit, watching me inquisitively under their brows as they pretend to play with what looks like Legos.

“She has a room here, where she paints.” Jillian comes to stand next to me. “Just down the end of the hallway.” She nods toward the hallway to my left. “Go down and grab her. She has been there all day, and lunch is almost ready. I can take those for you.” Grabbing the bottles from me, she turns and walks away. I stand in front of the door, watching her move through a doorway into a small kitchen, Haylee’s mother busy over the stove.

“Why does he look like that?” I hear the little boy ask, and I look over to the kids sharply. He swallows, a guilty look on his face as his sister nudges him with her elbow.

“Shhhh, he can hear you,” she hisses back at him before I pull at my cuff and leave them to it, walking down the hallway.

It is small, my head almost touching the ceiling, not enough room for two people to pass. There isn’t a lot of natural light, as the house is old, and the windows are small. I pass a few bedrooms before I come to the end and stand at the open doorway. It’s a little brighter in here, the larger windows in this space bringing in more light. It is almost like it is a sunroom.

Haylee’s back is to me, sitting in front of an easel with a canvas in front of her. Wearing her signature look of blue jeans and a white top, this time she also has a few colorful paint splashes on her hands. She doesn’t notice me, her concentration fierce as she bobs her head a little, the large earphones on her head obviously playing music. While she is focused, I look around the space. Canvases line the room, stacked against each other, leaning against the walls, a few landscapes and watercolors in the far corner, but many look like portraits of people, like actual photographs, yet they’re painted by her. My eyebrows rise as I witness her skill in front of me.

“Tell me why!” she sings badly, and my head whips around to look at her as she starts to dance in her seat.

“Tell me why…?” she sings again as she places her brush and paint tray down on the small table beside her and sits up, looking over the work she has done so far. The song lyrics sound familiar, and although I don’t listen to music, I know it is the Backstreet Boys she’s listening to.

“This is amazing,” I say, truly captivated by what I am looking at.

“Shit!” she half screams, almost jumping in the air, clutching her chest in pure fright. “Don’t creep up on a girl like that!” she scolds me with wide eyes as she pulls the earphones from her head, throwing them on the small table too.

“Sorry.” Going to stand next to her, I put my hands in my pockets, my eyes firmly trained on the painting. “This is incredible.” My eyes haven’t left the painting for more than a second, full of awe.

“Hmmm. Not yet,” she murmurs, looking at her painting critically.

“I mean, I only saw her briefly and in the dark, but the likeness is uncanny.” The familiar face of Deloris looks back at me. Albeit unfinished, as her hair isn’t complete and she is missing one ear, but there is no mistaking who it is.

“Hopefully another week and she will be done.” She sighs, and I quickly look around the room again. I don’t know any other faces. But they all must have something in common.

“Do you know all these people?” I ask her, and she smiles.

“This one… This is Benny from Benny’s Bowling Alley.” Now that she says it, he does look familiar from when we were there. That face gave me the bright blue and red shoes.

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