Unfinished Muse Read online

  Unfinished Muse

  R.L. Naquin

  Bottle Cap Publishing

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, places, and characters are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any way whatsoever without the written permission of the author, except as brief quotations.

  Edited by Sara E. Lundberg

  Cover design by Yocla Designs

  Published by Bottle Cap Publishing

  Copyright © 2015 R.L. Naquin

  All rights reserved.

  Distributed by Smashwords

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Bonus Short Story: “Undercover Gorgon”

  About R.L. Naquin

  Other Works by R.L. Naquin

  For Kevin, who is the heart of every new project

  and gets the first book in every series.

  Without you, I'd be stranded in a cubicle,

  dreaming of becoming a writer.

  Chapter 1

  I’d owned that potted philodendron for two years without it ever uttering a word—so naturally, I ignored it when it finally spoke up.

  To be fair, I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anybody, let alone a figment of my imagination. Over lunch, I’d dumped my boyfriend, Freddy (it’s not you, it’s me, I hope we can still be friends), then finished out the rest of the work day at my crappy call-center job before packing up the stuff on my desk and telling my boss that I quit (it’s not working out, I’m not a good fit, you’d be better off finding someone more suitable for the position).

  I left the house that morning with a boyfriend and a job, then returned home single and unemployed. I supposed the last straw that changed everything came when I opened the door to the coat closet and the partially finished quilt I’d been working on for five years in short, fruitless spurts fell out and attacked me. Half the pins had come loose over time, and some of the blue satin squares flapped at me as I bundled it all up and shoved it into a garbage bag to throw away.

  Once I’d tied the bag shut in an act of finality, something inside my gut shifted and flipped over. My ears popped, and my arms broke out in goosebumps.

  And that’s when the plant spoke up.

  “Well, there you go,” she said in a shushing, grandmotherly voice filled with disapproval. “Nowhere to go from here but up.”

  I saw the leaves rustle when the voice spoke. I’d been looking right at it. If someone were playing a practical joke, it beat the hell out of me who it could’ve been. I didn’t actually have any friends in this town. I wasn’t very good at friendship, frankly. I’d only been in Topeka for nine months—plenty of time to go through three boyfriends, but not nearly long enough to make a friend. Friends required more effort.

  That didn’t make me sound like a very nice person, even to myself.

  “I suppose we’re moving again,” the plant said in an aggrieved tone. “I dry out on those long car rides, especially when we go to the higher elevations. I didn’t think I’d ever recover in Denver.”

  I’m losing my freaking mind. Plants don’t talk. I’ve had a hard day. Maybe my blood sugar is low. I should eat something.

  If I ignored Phyllis the philodendron, maybe had some protein, she—it—would stop talking and everything would go back to normal. A hot bath, maybe a glass of wine. Lots of people imagined crazy shit after a terrible day.

  Right?

  Phyllis didn’t stop talking while I was in the kitchen. But she did shout so I could hear her over the sizzling of the grilled cheese sandwich frying in the skillet.

  “Mark my words, Wynter. You’ll be glad you finally hit rock bottom in the end. Now we can really get to work.”

  I flipped the sandwich and opened a bottle of chardonnay I’d shoved in the back of the fridge behind the moldy lunchmeat and the leftover spaghetti.

  “Your whole life will open up to new possibilities! Wait till you find out what’s ahead!”

  I filled a bulbous glass and gulped down half the liquid.

  “I know you can hear me in there, Wynter. Ignore me all you want, but you can’t hide from your destiny.”

  I drained the glass and refilled.

  “Honey, I know this is hard for you to accept, but the sooner you do, the sooner we can get you started on your way.”

  The fire alarm went off, and I yanked my smoking sandwich off the burner. After throwing open the door and the kitchen window, I waved a potholder at the screaming alarm until it stopped. Two neighbors popped their heads out their back doors and gave me questioning looks across the inner courtyard.

  “It’s okay!” I yelled at them. “Just burned some toast. Sorry!”

  My landlady, Mrs. Terwilliger, scowled, shook her head, and slammed her door. Mark something-or-other, who lived directly across the courtyard, gave a friendly smile and shrugged before going inside.

  Or was it Mick? No, maybe it was Mike. I was terrible with names.

  “See?” Phyllis said. “I knew you were listening. Otherwise, how did you set your kitchen on fire? You were standing right there.”

  I refilled my wine glass and realized I’d already emptied three quarters of the bottle. I stuck a pinot grigio in the fridge. My bad day had progressed into a truly awful night. I grabbed my glass, my bottle, and a granola bar and left the charcoal-and-cheese sandwich to cool in the sink.

  “Ah, you’re back,” Phyllis said. “That’s not all you’re going to eat, is it? A bottle of wine and a granola bar? Oh, honey, you really have given up, haven’t you?”

  I charged through the living room and around the corner without comment or pause. While I ran hot water in the tub, I ate my granola bar and reveled in the fact that I could no longer hear a voice yelling at me from the other room. Either getting a little food in me had done the trick, or the sound of running water drowned out the voice that had to be coming from my own head and not from a potted plant someone at a farmers market had given me for free two years ago.

  When I shut off the tap, I discovered it wasn’t the granola bar silencing the voice. It had definitely been the sound of the water.

  The voice was quieter, since it came from the other end of the apartment, but still easy to hear. “You’re not going to drink that entire bottle in the bathtub, are you? That’s not going to solve your problems, you know.”

  I refilled my glass, chose a mystery novel I’d been meaning to read, and turned on the radio. Loud.

  Once I sank into the hot water, the tension melted, and I closed my eyes. The music covered the disconcerting voice I still heard through the bathroom door, and my head buzzed pretty hard from drinking so much so fast. Without the bossy voice distracting me, pictures of Freddy’s sad, puppy face flashed behind my closed eyelids.

  I frowned. Dealing with a talking plant had been less upsetting than thinking about the breakup.

  Mind you, it wasn’t like I’d never had the same exact breakup conversation several times before. That didn’t make it any easier. But what’s the point of continuing to go out with someone when you know it�
�s not going to last forever? Freddy was really sweet, but we’d already had All the Conversations. Once the initial giddiness burned off, we didn’t have a damn thing in common.

  Try explaining that to a guy, though. They never understood. It was easier to try to convince them you were broken in some way. Hell, maybe I was broken. Maybe it really was me and not him. Still, I didn’t see the point in putting all that effort into a relationship if I didn’t want the guy to eventually move in with me or walk down an aisle or share babies. Freddy was vanilla ice cream. I wanted mint chocolate chip. Was that so much to ask?

  Still, I’d done a crappy job of breaking it to him, judging by his reaction. I felt like a total bitch. And proving what a nice guy he was, he still picked up the tab at lunch and offered to drive me back to work.

  But honestly, he was a little too clingy, calling several times a day, even when I was at work. He wanted more of me than I was ready to give. Two months was too soon to start having serious conversations about refrigerators. Refrigerators. Seriously. I didn’t have anything edible in mine besides ice and a few slices of processed cheese. Asking me what kind of refrigerator I wanted in my future house was like asking which rocket ship I wanted for a hypothetical trip to Venus. Or, you know, whether I wanted to breastfeed or bottle feed someday. I figured we had maybe three more dates, tops, before he asked that one.

  His horse was so far ahead of my cart he was about to lap me.

  Plus, I never did quite understand what he did for a living. He said he was an actor, but in the few months we were together, he never talked about rehearsals or invited me to a show he was in. He didn’t appear to be hurting for money, though. It all seemed a little weird.

  I wrung out a washcloth and folded it into a rectangle to drape over my eyes. The radio DJ made some crack about a local politician, then the air went dead for about fifteen seconds before the new song started.

  The brief silence was filled with what sounded like a raunchy sea shanty being sung from my living room by someone’s maiden aunt. I pretended not to hear it.

  After an hour or so, the water was too cool to be comfortable, the wine was gone, and my stomach was telling me to get my ass into the kitchen and make it some pie. Or at least order a pizza. I’d never even opened the novel I’d brought in with me. Concentration was seriously lacking.

  My head spun when I stepped from the tub. I tucked a towel around my middle, shut off the radio, and stuck my head out the door.

  The singing had stopped, at least. Cautious, I tiptoed down the hallway clutching the empty glass and bottle.

  Nope. No talking plants here. I’m not in the least bit crazy. I stepped into the living room.

  “Oh, there you are!” Leaves shivered above the plain terracotta pot. “I was worried you’d dozed off in the tub.”

  I froze for a second, then ducked into the kitchen. The empty bottle made a loud clank when I dropped it in the trash. Noise seemed like an excellent response to what was going on in my head. The pan in the sink banged on the porcelain with satisfying volume, though the charred sandwich made a disappointing thud when I tossed it on top of the dead wine bottle.

  The knowing voice of my conscience, now in the handy form of a talking plant, shouted an admonishment at me from the next room. “You should really start recycling your bottles if you’re going to drink that much, dear.”

  I rolled my eyes and banged the pan around the sink while I scrubbed black crusty stuff and melted cheese from the cheap non-stick surface. Through the doorway behind me, the voice cleared its non-existent throat and belted out an off-key rendition of “I Am a Pirate King” from Gilbert and Sullivan’s Pirates of Penzance. Disturbing didn’t begin to describe the sound of a grandmotherly voice singing about sinking ships and doing dirty work. Especially when the voice couldn’t possibly exist, so must be something my brain was regurgitating.

  Because the plant couldn’t really be talking, right?

  I placed the pan upside down on the counter to dry, wiped my hands on a moderately clean dishcloth, and turned to face my own insanity.

  The plant I’d been calling Phyllis since she was a scrawny branch with a few dry offshoots went quiet. I moved with slow deliberation into the living room and stood before the perfectly normal plant. With tentative fingers, prepared to pull my hand back at any sign of sharp teeth or suckered tendrils, I poked at the dirt in the pot.

  “You’re dry,” I said. “It’s supposed to rain tonight. Fresh air should do you some good.”

  “What are you doing, Wynter?” The branches quivered, and a leaf dropped from a stem. “Do be reasonable, sweetheart. If you don’t like operettas, I’ll sing something else.”

  I didn’t respond. Why should I? It was all happening in my head, so my delusion already knew what I had in mind. Trying not to show fear, I grabbed the dish beneath the pot and carried the whole thing out the back door into the courtyard, placed it beside the door, and went inside.

  The silence was amazing.

  And a little lonely, now that I didn’t have a made-up problem to distract me. I checked my phone and saw that Freddy had left two voice messages as well as a text that said “Thinking of you.”

  I sighed and left the phone on the counter without listening to the messages. The text was sweet, in a way, but I’d never gone back to a guy I’d broken up with, and I didn’t mean to start now. The ones who kept trying after the breakup were even less likely to get me to give in and try again.

  I turned off the ringer. If Freddy wasn’t done trying to convince me to work on our relationship, he’d be calling back. I’d rather miss a call than ignore it. One action was without knowledge, the other was deliberate. If I didn’t know about the call, I didn’t feel as much guilt over not taking it.

  I plopped on the couch and turned on the television to veg over some sitcom doomed for early cancellation. I didn’t really follow the plot and got lost halfway through. Mostly, I was distracted by the idea that I’d have to go looking for a new job come Monday, or pack up all my stuff and move in with mother. Again.

  I cringed at the idea of living with Mom again. I was twenty-four. I shouldn’t have to keep moving back home. And my mom leaned well toward the bonkers side, so there was that.

  One of the characters on television pulled out a box of the same cereal I’d seen advertised during the commercial break.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Product placement.” I clicked off the television. It was early for a Friday night, but my day had been draining. All I wanted was to crawl into my bed and hide until at least tomorrow. Besides. I probably needed to get dressed, since I’d been wrapped in my towel long enough that not only was I dry, but so was the towel.

  I sighed and unfolded myself from the couch, running my fingers through my short, blonde hair and leaving it spiked around my head. By morning it would probably be flat on one side from the pillow.

  After throwing on a tank top and a pair of underwear, I deserted the towel in the middle of my bedroom floor and crawled under the covers. My eyes burned from weariness.

  I managed to doze for a few hours before the courtyard erupted in a rap song. A loud rap song.

  I listened for a moment before I realized it was the theme song to The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, as sung by someone’s beloved Nana.

  I groaned and wrapped the pillow around my ears.

  A few seconds later, a window facing the courtyard lit up and someone yelled for quiet.

  My mouth went dry. Oh my God. They can hear it, too.

  I scrambled out of bed and pulled on a lavender kimono I sometimes used as a bathrobe, then ran for the back door and flung it open.

  In the glow of Mrs. Terwilliger’s porch light, my philodendron bopped its leaves to the beat of its own song. “…to the cabbie, ‘Yo, homes, smell ya later!’”

  “Wynter, is that you singing?” Mrs. Terwilliger yelled across the space.

  “No ma’am!” I yelled back, then hissed between my teeth and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Wo
uld you stop it! You’ll get me evicted.”

  I snatched up the singing plant and rushed inside. As soon as I closed and locked the door, she stopped singing.

  “You know, it’s cold out there, Wynter. That was a mean thing to do.”

  “Waking up my neighbors was mean, too,” I said. I shifted my feet, self-conscious about talking to a plant now that the plant could talk back.

  “Can we stop with the games now and discuss this like rational adults?” Every word she uttered was accompanied by a shushing sound of leaves rubbing against each other.

  “It’s the middle of the night.”

  There was a long pause before she spoke again in a tight, disapproving voice. “It seems to me you have nothing better to do anyway.”

  “Don’t you judge me. You’re a freeloader hanging around all day while I work at a crappy job taking shit from customers. I got tired of people yelling at me. Don’t I deserve better than that?”

  “Do you think you do?”

  I opened my mouth to argue—as if arguing with a houseplant were the most natural thing to do in the middle of the night—then snapped my jaw shut, frowning. “Are you trying to psychoanalyze me?”

  “Do you think you need therapy?”

  “Are we playing the question game?” I tilted my head at her.

  “Would the question game help you make better decisions?”

  “Can you help me make better decisions?”

  “Yes. Yes I can.”

  I grinned. “I win. That wasn’t in the form of a question. Thank you for playing.” I poked at her soil. “You’re still dry. I guess the weather girl was wrong.” I put the pot in the empty sink and sprayed water on the soil. “I’m going to let you sit here and drain for the rest of the night. While you do that, I will be sleeping. If you wake me up, I will chop you into tiny pieces with kitchen scissors. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she said in a mopey voice. “Though I’m not in the least bit afraid of you. Get some sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning. We have a lot to discuss.”