The Worst Thing I've Done by Ursula Hegi Page B

the admiration she was getting. Wanted to be her inspiration. Wanted it all to come through him and for nothing to matter to her except their love. Whatever came out of that love would enhance her work. But there must be nothing to come ahead.

    O PAL ADORED BigC, who let her swim in the indoor pool that was surrounded by an endless mural of a Mediterranean landscape. Greek-looking buildings. Lots of columns and gardens. Everything was the wrong size. Buildings smaller than rocks. Jars larger than people. Black moss shimmers on rocks, makes them look mottled, weird.
    â€œGhastly,” Annie said the first time she saw the mural. “The way Lucian Freud paints skin.”
    Realtors warned BigC’s prospective tenants that she’d spy on them. But even tenants who were sure they wouldn’t let her in didn’t know how to send her away when she stopped by to bring them additional keys, or to pick up steaks she supposedly forgot in her freezer, or to show them how to close her sun umbrellas properly. On the patio were so many chairs and tables and umbrellas and flowerpots that Jake said it looked like one of those places along Route 27 that sold outdoor furniture.
    Part of the rental package was Aunt Stormy, who maintained the house and was supposed to call BigC if tenants trashed it. But she said BigC was good to work for. Respectful and generous. Every spring she gave a benefit for the women’s shelter.
    One afternoon, when BigC was installing wind socks along the railings of her boardwalk, Aunt Stormy said, “She only gets weird when it comes to ducks. She likes watching them in the water but gets savage when they land on her boardwalk.”
    â€œThe ducks may not quite understand her reasons,” Mason said.
    â€œShe once told me that people who pay a shitload of rent have every right not to want to wade through duck shit.”
    â€œWeird enough,” Annie said, “but how much is a shitload?”
    â€œYou don’t want to know.” Aunt Stormy shook her head. “Fifty thousand.”
    â€œPer year?”
    â€œOh no. Memorial Day to Labor Day. Pays her mortgage year round.”
    â€œThat’s crazy.”
    â€œIt is getting crazy out here. Places selling for many times what they cost a few years ago. Grown kids of local people can’t afford to live here. It creates resentment. Last year, a lot of the locals were angry when summer people suggested we do our grocery shopping during the week, so that stores wouldn’t be so crowded on weekends. You should have seen the letters to the editor.”
    â€œThat whole thing of how we share space…” Annie said. “It’s so complicated.”

    M ASON KNOCKED on the door of her studio. “Can you help me with something?”
    â€œDepends on what it is,” Annie shouted.
    â€œMoving the Wall of China.”
    â€œWhat?” She opened her door. Frowned at him as though he’d yanked her away from something more important.
    â€œYou need to learn to be interrupted.”
    â€œI can’t work with you here.”
    â€œYou work with Opal here.”
    â€œNot fully.”
    â€œI stop what I’m doing when you—”
    â€œWhen you’re here, I count on you to take care of her, to give me some time alone.”
    â€œI wish I’d never built the studio for you.”
    To compete with Jake’s Dr. Pagucci, Mason made up a story of his own, about a bratty girl, Melissandra, who happened to be always just one day younger than Opal. Melissandra had a night job in a lollipop factory, where she ate the lopsided lollipops so they wouldn’t get sent to stores.
    Opal adored Melissandra, and the story became a ritual at bedtime.
    â€œWhat’s your favorite flavor, Melissandra?” Opal asked him one evening.
    â€œMy flavor-favorite? What do you think?” Mason said in his Melissandra voice.
    â€œRed lollipops.”
    â€œI figured you