At five-thirty the next morning, I began ironing Thomas's work clothes. At six o'clock, I prepared an omelette, toast, bacon, hashbrowns, and pancakes (since I still wasn't entirely clear on his breakfast preferences). He ate half of it, which was really as much as I could expect an average-sized man to eat. I supposed I should take that as a compliment... but I found myself rather unsatisfied with that implicit flattery.

"Did you enjoy the breakfast, Tommy?"

"Huh? Oh, yes, it was fine."

"Should I do something differently tomorrow?"

"I said it was fine."

"Well, which part was your favorite?"

"Really, Rosie, I'm trying to focus on getting ready for work."

"Oh, sorry."

That conversation took place at seven o'clock, and thirty minutes later, Thomas slipped out the door without another word. I hadn't expected an 'I love you,' but I had perhaps hoped for a 'goodbye.'

"Have a nice day, honey!" I shouted at the very-much-shut front door.

I strode toward the sink to begin cleaning the pans... but then I noticed Thomas's half-eaten breakfast once more. Come to think of it, I hadn't eaten yet.

I dug in.

Everything tasted exactly as I had hoped, except for the hashbrowns, which were soggy rather than crispy. Maybe that was why Thomas hadn't said much about the breakfast—he was struggling to swallow those hashbrowns, and he hadn't wanted to offend me by mentioning it.

Well, at least now I knew. Tomorrow, the house would be cleaner, the hashbrowns would be crispier, and I myself would be transformed into something much closer to whatever it was that he imagined.

As I recleaned the TV room and baked some more muffins, I periodically glanced at the rotary desk phone in the kitchen. I knew my parents' phone number by heart, and I also knew they were looking forward to my call... but I was afraid they would ask me questions I wouldn't be able to answer.

I also glanced at least a hundred times at the slowly ticking hands of the grandfather clock. Because this afternoon, I had an appointment.

Six hours after Thomas left, I stood at Scarlett's doorstep. Even though I was only looking at her out of the corner of my eye (just enough to be sure I was talking to the right person), I could tell that colorful power-suit was far more chic than my own ratty blouse and patched jeans.

"Hello, Scarlett!" I combed one hand through my sloppy bangs while my other hand tugged at my drooping blouse. "I'm ready for your lesson."

Once again, she was silent for a moment, and my shame grew hotter with each passing second. A breeze rustled through the trees and bushes, and a leaf skittered across the front steps between us. That wind also carried Scarlett's scent to me: she wasn't smoking this time, and she smelled as though she had just bathed in berries and honey and musk. I hadn't minded the cigarette smell, but this was better.

She hummed—a hum that wavered with a barely-suppressed laugh. "You know, I'd be significantly more convinced of your readiness if you were looking at me."

"Sorry, it's just that the sun chose this very moment to shine straight into my eyes, would you believe it?"

"I wouldn't, no. The sun is behind you, Rosie."

"Oh my, so it is!" I forced a chuckle, and harder still, I forced myself to look straight at her. "Must have been the bright colors, then."

"You have a problem with my outfit?"

Only then did I allow myself to fully admire said outfit, which consisted of stylish shoulder pads, fabric dyed with jagged slices of bold colors, and a little black belt that accentuated her figure. Scarlett herself looked even more striking, with her dark hair, suntanned skin, and ruby lips.

I did have a problem with it, in a way—much the same way I had a problem with the sun on a particularly bright day. But who would ask the sun to stop shining?

"It's not a problem," I said, and I lifted the tupperware in my hands. "Also, I brought muffins!"

"Hmm." Her gaze skirted over me again, analytical and curious, leaving a tingle in its wake. "Well, then... do come in."

The first room was the kitchen, a room full of ivory tiles and varnished oak cabinets. I plopped the tupperware of muffins on the counter, grimacing at how dirty that overused tupperware looked compared to the tile beneath.

Scarlett didn't appear to notice; she tipped her head to invite me to follow and then ducked through the doorway.

The next two rooms were even more luxurious, with colossal leather couches, candles enveloped in intricate glass, and perfectly-trimmed potted plants. Above the glossy wood that panned the bottom of each wall was an elaborate wallpaper that shimmered even more brightly than the candles. Each thing I saw made me even more on edge. I had absolutely no idea how to behave in a house like this in front of a woman like Scarlett.

In the third room we entered, one piece of decor surprised me, so evocative that it temporarily transported me past all social anxiety.

It was a monochrome bird struggling against the midnight water, beating its wings amidst a flurry of droplets. Above, the amber-orange sunset invited its ascent, but below, the dark water appeared to be sucking it down. Squinting, I read the label scrawled in the bottom corner in swooping curves: 'First Attempt at Flight.'

"Wow," I whispered. "I've never seen such an evocative depiction of a loon."

When Scarlett was silent, I glanced at her, flushing. She just looked at me, gaze entirely unreadable. "You knew it was a loon?" she asked, quietly.

"Of course. There were loons on the lake near the farm where I grew up, and I always loved hearing their call."

Oh holy muffins, I had really revealed my true colors now. The truth was, I knew more about milking cows than I did about suburban politics. My parents had wanted an easier life for me, which was why they had been so delighted that my Aunt Bertha had chosen me to inherit her house. They were even more delighted that a future-minded "computery" boy had chosen me as his bride.

With my parents so in love with the life that they had managed to provide for their only child, I couldn't possibly let them down.

But the longer I looked at the loon, the more nostalgic I felt.

"That sounds lovely," Scarlett whispered, her eyes on the painting.

"I can take you there someday." It was an impulsive offering, and I flushed immediately after.

A tentative smile warmed her face. "I'd like that."

I flushed harder. I wasn't sure what to say next, so we were both silent for a bit. Then Scarlett drew a breath.

"Rosie... we don't have to go through with this agreement, if you're not entirely comfortable."

Well, that was it—she didn't want to paint me anymore. My admission of my farmgirl childhood had surely erased every interest she had inexplicably once held. I searched for something else I could give her, but I found nothing. Really, I couldn't even pay her with money. Tommy was constantly saying we were just about to get rich, but I still wasn't sure if this whole computer business would take off or bury itself right into the ground.

"Ok, Scarlett." I swallowed hard. "I understand."

She tipped her head and planted her hands on her hips, further amplifying how those suit pants flared out beneath the belt on her waist. "You understand what?"

My next swallow was even harder—almost painful—and my voice came out hoarse. "That you don't want to paint me anymore. And I know I have nothing else to offer, so I don't blame you for backing out."

"Rosie." For some reason, she sounded just as pained as I did. "That is very much not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying?" I managed, in a croak.

"Well, the rumors about you were not very informative."

"Rumors about me? Already?"

"Just that you're a righteous and 'godly' woman, though your muffins are a bit dense."

"My muffins are what?"

"What I'm saying is, you're not what I expected, and making you uncomfortable doesn't sound nearly as fun as it did before." When I bit my lip, she rushed on. "But that doesn't mean you have to leave! We can just chat over some tea and muffins. Believe it or not, I do at least know how to make acceptable tea—with or without brandy."

"That's very nice of you." And it was, especially the thread of self-deprecating humor at the end which clashed with her perfect make-up and 'look at me' power-suit.

She was trying her hardest to give me an easy out.

But I hadn't tried my hardest yet.

"I'd like you to paint me, Scarlett—if you're still interested."

She nodded, slowly. "I am interested in painting you, of course, but what you're asking me to teach you is..."

"Still part of the agreement," I finished, firmly. I was afraid she was about to say 'something you can't possibly learn,' and if she had said that, I might have lost all hope.

"Ok," she said, but with the two syllables so far separated, her statement didn't sound particularly affirmative. "Shall we start with the painting part, or the lesson?"

"Well, my parents always taught me to pay first."

Scarlett led me into an alcove with a slanted window that doused the whole room in sunlight. A variety of paintings hung all over the room, whimsical landscapes and pensive portraits that tugged at my heart.

"Did you paint all of this?" I said, turning a slow circle as I took it all in.

"Yes."

Looking a little closer, I noticed that each painting contained a title made of swooping curves. "Oh, those letters look just like—you painted the loon too, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Scarlett, these paintings are stunning! Sorry if this is too forward, but are you looking to sell any of these? Because my cousin works in an art-gallery, and I know she's been looking for some more pieces to sell just like—"

"No. Trust me, Rosie, your cousin doesn't want these."

"Why not?"

"Richard once looked for buyers, and my artwork just doesn't sell. Now he uses these paintings as a token of gratitude when a buyer closes the deal."

"He just gives them away? He must at least ask your permission first?"

Despite the shoulder-pads and vibrant colors, Scarlett suddenly looked small. "He got my permission for all things when I agreed to marry him."

The itch came back, but this time, it was uglier—more turbulent. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Her jaw clenched, and her eyes fixed on something behind me. "I believe we have a deal, and I'm still waiting. But if you'd rather leave, feel free."

"And if I'd rather stay?"

She pointed behind me.

I turned around, and my stomach did an unsettling flip. Right behind me stood a gold-studded teal chaise adorned by a fluffy peach throw-pillow, with an empty space clearly prepared for a naked body.

Mine.

"It's not that I want to leave," I said, clasping my hands together in front of me. "It's just that your paintings, and that couch, well..." My fingernails bit into the back of my hands. "Everything in this entire house is lovelier than me."

"Rosie, even from only the parts of you I can see right now, I already know that's a lie."

My swallow sounded particularly unflattering this time, like a cat trying not to reject its dinner. I was overloaded with emotions: the itch, the embarrassment, and something else I couldn't quite name.

"You'll realize how mistaken you are when I take my clothes off," I mumbled.

She smiled, though her eyebrows were still furrowed just below that stylish blanket of bangs. "Try me."

I reached for the bottom of my blouse—then stopped again, face hot and heart thumping. "In full disclosure, the last time I took my clothes off in front of someone else, they said, 'Rosie, have you no decency? Why are you stripping in front of a man?' And while I'm definitely not overly sensitive, I do wonder if the sight of my naked body might be just ever so slightly..." I cleared my throat. "...offensive."

She stared at me. "Thomas said that?"

"Well, considering the circumstances, he was being rather polite."

"Considering the circumstances? If I were a man, I'd be dreaming about how your soft strawberry hair might slip between my fingers, I'd be starving for a taste of those sweet lips, and I'd be aching to find out what lies beneath that unflattering blouse."

A good deal of heat rushed over my skin and swirled in my belly before I managed to focus on the last (more answerable) portion. "Unflattering, really? My mother gave me this!"

"I'm sure your mother is very sweet, Rosie." She was back to cool and composed, and every part of her emanated belligerent confidence, from the sharp angle or her shoulder pads to the perfectly accidental skew in her bangs. "Now, do you still want to do this, or not?"

I drew a shaky breath. "I do."

"You don't sound sure."

"I'm sure!"

My voice was loud enough that Scarlett and I both raised our eyebrows. Whoa, rein it in, I told myself. If you scare off even Scarlett, you're really doomed.

But Scarlett didn't look scared. In fact, when her eyebrows settled back down, her lips hooked in a crooked grin.

"Then strip like you mean it, Rosie," she dared me, still studying me closely as if expecting me to back down. "And lie down on that chaise."