Definition of Beauty

Summer Home

        A brush stroke on a blank canvas is the start of three possibilities. One, it can be something great. Something so beautiful everyone wants a piece of it. It can be something ghastly. So horrid people would cringe at the very sight. Or, the likely possibility, that it would be indifferent. Some might find the beauty in it, but others are so closed minded that they can only see miss-colored objects or shapes placed randomly around the canvas. That is the thing I hate most about people, they are so closed minded. They hear something, and immediately have a certain image in their head on how it should look. If the image they see doesn't match what they visioned in their head, they hate it and discourage it. What is the excuse we use? We are only human.
        I get off the plane and roll my one luggage bag through the crowd of people. I guess the good thing about not owning a lot of things is I don't have to die of old age waiting for bags to roll around at the luggage claim. Ugh, so many people. I mutter "excuse me", "sorry ma'am", "pardon me"and "my apologies sir" as I squirm my way through the sea of humanity. Finally I see a clearing and I head for it. Ahead of me is a line of men in black, with names on signs. I almost pass them when I catch "Fawn" scribbled on one of them. I turn on my heels and stroll over to my man in black.
        "Would that be Davenport under those shades?" I exclaim with a smiling. Making my way closer I see sleeked back grey hair, and marked lines on his face.
        "That it would, Miss Fawn," Mr. Davenport replies firmly, despite his smile. I forgot how his job took over his personality. Luckily he still smiles. "May I take your luggage?" 
        "Not until you gimme a hug," I open my arms. Out of everyone, he is the one I have missed the most. He stares at me for a moment then fills my arms. "Oh, I've missed you Davenport! I hope they haven't been pushing you around too much, these days." We let go and he takes my bag.
        I see his smile as he says, "Nothing I can't handle, Miss Fawn." 
        "Davenport. I know it has been some years, but you know how I feel about the whole last name thing."
        "Terribly sorry, Miss Arianna, I'll make a note of that." Always so formal.
        Davenport leads me to the car and opens the backseat for me. Getting in he closes the door, stores my bag in the trunk, and proceeds to drive me to a place I thought I would never see again.

        HOME IS such a strong word to use. A past memory would better fit than that obtuse noun of a word: home. Be it as it may, the building I roll up to is large. Of course it is, because the bigger the better. We cruise past the gates and make our way up a large gravel driveway. We pull into the garage section to the left of a beautifully structured building. It all is coming back to me, the past I tried very hard to forget. Sighing, I step out of the car before Davenport has a chance to open the door. I hear a sigh from him as I make my way to the front door. Before I could knock the door opens and I am greeted by a maid. "Miss Fawn," she bows, "welcome. Mrs. River waits for you in the study room." She then guides me to the room.
        Mrs. River? When did she remarry? And with who? Why was I never told? I shake my head annoyed as I enter the study room.
        The maid leaves. I watch as my mother taps away on the keyboard, with glances, hair in perfect pun, red lipstick in a tight line. Whatever she was dealing with, it must not be good. usually that look would be directed towards me. I awkwardly clear my throat and she glances up at me. "Arianna!" she exclaims, "you're here, and so soon!" She stands, pushing herself away from the desk and comes hurdling at me in what seems like five inch stilettos. Crap, she's wanting to do an embracing moment.
        Wrapping her arms around me, I muffle into her shoulder, "I thought I was late." 
        "Let me get a good look at you," she says, pulling me arms length away. It is like she is just now noticing me. Her eyes go from bright and happy, to worry. "Darling, have you...." she struggles for words. I know where this is going. Quietly she whispers, "gained weight?" 
        I roll my eyes and pull away from her embrace. "Thanks, mom, I missed you too. But since we are on the whole shock factor, since when did you get married? When did you get divorced?" I ask, strolling over to the window seat.
        "Honey, you know I didn't mean it like that." She sits back down at her desk, taking her glasses off. Thank the Lord the embracing moment is gone. "Your father and I have been apart for nearly a year... It wasn't working out for us."
        "Oh. Well, that is nice to hear. Thanks for notifying your daughter about it. Really keeps me in the loop now a days."
        "Now don't go starting that "in the loop" business. You were the one that moved away."
        "And for good-" I sigh and rub my eyes. "Listen, I am really tired. I don't feel like talking about this right now. You know, jet lag and all."
        Mom nods, "Understandable, honey. You go upstairs and get some rest. Your room has been prepared for you. We can talk more at dinner." She gives me a small smile which I return with one of similar status. I turn on my heels and head for upstairs. 
        Walking into my room I find everything has changed. My bedroom is no longer painted the blue I had it, but now what black and white with splashes of red. Portraits of cities and people in black and white hand, all color-splashed with a dash of red in them. My bed sheets were of the same color scheme. My awards and medals that used to be on my bookshelves are no where to be seen. Picture frames and drawings I had on my dresser and walls, all gone. Nice to know they kept everything how it was so they could remember me. 
        I kick off my shoes and plop onto my bed. Even this is new. How sad. I close my eyes and wonder if anything from this room has survived. 

        "YOU CAN'T just sit around here all day and do absolutely nothing, Arianna Lee," mom looks at me with annoyance in her eyes, looking down at me in the mom stance of hands on hips, "I was trying to be nice, and let you settle in, but this is not going to work for me. I did not let you come here just so you can sit on your butt for another 14 weeks." 
        I look up at her and watch as she fumes about my arrogance and basically how I am a disappointment. After awhile I tune her out. She is right though, I do need to get a summer job. Something that will keep me busy. Sitting here doesn't help my size 14 figure.But what can I do?
        "Why don't you work for me?" James, my step-dad- chimes in. When did he get here? Mom and I both look at him. "There is always an opening for janitors at the hospital."
        Alright, I feel like that is just a low blow. "No. I refuse to be a janitor." I spit the job title out like it is fire. 
        "I know," my mom says, giving me a sly grin as she whips out her phone. James and I look at each other then at her, with the same amount of confusion as the other. I will give my mom some credit on finding him. For a man in his late 40's he is a fetching fellow. Salt and pepper hair with scruff to match. He looks like he could advertise some sort of cologne.  "Hey, Patterson, it's Sheila. Remember that favor you owed me? Well," my mom glances at me, "I'm cashing it in. You see, my daughter..." she walks out of the room.
        "Would you like a drink?" James asks me, walking over to the mini bar.
        "Oh dear God, yes. I am almost afraid to see what she is plotting." I walk over to him to grab the glass of white wine. I love how he doesn't have to ask what I want. Almost makes up for the low blow.
        "Careful, she might just tell you."
Just then mom walks back in, smiling at me. "You have an appointment tomorrow at 3:30 with Ryan Patterson. Owner of Patterson's Mark. Your welcome." 
        "Told you," he mumbles with a chuckle.
        "I am pretty sure the feeling you want me to convey is gratitude, but for some reason I keep getting the feeling that you are going to use this in every argument we will get in," I say sipping on a glass of white wine.
        "Which is why I never let her do anything for me," James holds us his glass of Scotch as if toasting to that, before drinking. My mom just glares at us.
        "I would not," she retorts.
        I shake my head, pursing my lips. "Of course you wouldn't," I coo, looking at her then smiling at James.
        "I swear, you two are just a like," she shakes her head before leaving the room.