Free Warpaint by Stephanie A. Smith Page A

reminded her of San Francisco. By contrast, everything she’d seen in Connecticut was fatally suburban. She didn’t say so to either Molly or C.C., but her nerve was beginning to fail. Leaving Paris was one thing. Selling the Chelsea flat another. There’d be no going back.
    â€œIt’s not encouraging, Molly. This place.”
    The real estate agent cocked her head. “No, I agree with you. Well, I have one more condo on my list today. It’s a little more irregular than this place.”
    â€œIt’s all just so ordinary. Plain but not simple. Why would anyone want it?”
    â€œSecurity,” said Molly, gathering up her papers. “It looks just like every other place. People find that comforting. But you’re different. Come on. I think you’ll like the next one.”
    Molly was right. Quiola decided to make a bid, even before they set foot inside the place, but not out of passion, out of practicality. The two-bed, one-bath condo was five minutes, if that, from C.C.’s “shed”, plus the place was new, yet designed to look old on the outside. Inside, it had high ceilings and plenty of light. Within the month, she had the keys. When she walked over the threshold for the first time, she had her new kitten, Amelia, in her arms. The day after the movers had come, Quiola, on her knees in front of her coffee table, exclaimed to C.C., “Would you look at this! It’s cracked and they didn’t bother to tell me.”
    â€œYou’ve got to expect damage. When Mom and Dad sold the farmhouse, they lost a hallway mirror that’d been in the family since the last century. Shattered to bits.”
    â€œSeven years bad luck. How are you feeling?”
    â€œLousy.” C.C. sat down on the sofa. She tucked her feet up under her. “I’m tired. And the chemo goes on until November! Then, radiation – god knows what that’ll be like. Honestly, I don’t know if I can stand it.”
    â€œBut you will.”
    â€œWill I?” C.C. closed her eyes. “I sometimes wonder if it’s worth it.”
    â€œDon’t say that. C.C.? Please.”
    But the older woman had fallen asleep.
    Later that week, C.C. told Quiola: “Look, why don’t you take the day off? I can drive myself to chemo.”
    â€œI don’t think so –”
    â€œI do. I’ll be fine. It doesn’t bother me so much now, I told you.”
    â€œYes, but you’re tired all the time. You sleep in a wink.”
    â€œI’ll be fine.”
    And she was. Confident from her smooth ride up to New Haven, all chemoed up, C.C. marched back from St. Matthew’s to the Heap, pleased. She started the car, which belched as usual, and backed out, slipping easily onto the highway. The miles zipped by until, just as her exit was at hand, C.C. noticed that the sunlight was getting a little dim, then dimmer, then suddenly –
    â€œHey –” she said, and aimed at the exit ramp. The next thing she knew, a car horn was blaring in her ear, and a worried man’s face peered through the windshield, which seemed to have grown a crack.
    The man had to shout over the horn. “Ma’am? Ma’am? Are you all right?”
    â€œI think so. I don’t know.” She moved. Nothing hurt. “Can you get the door open? Open the door! What’s the matter with this dang horn –”
    The door opened, and she popped off the seat belt. The Heap was smaller than it should have been, and she had to crawl out the half-crumpled door, into the stranger’s arms. He helped her stand, and looked her over.
    â€œMy cell’s in the glove box,” she said.
    â€œI already called it in. Saw you fly off the ramp like the car had wings.” He shook his head. “Never seen anything quite like it – like you was heading for the woods on purpose. I thought for sure you’d be –”
    â€œI’m fine,” she said