When a rich, emotionally detached guy shelters homeless Nina, he admires her strength. Their strange relationship grows until he enters his garage unexpectedly and finds something unpleasant. Who is Nina and what is she hiding?
A cliffside estate, vintage vehicle collection, and more money than I could spend in three lifetimes made me stand out. However, no one discusses how loud quiet gets when you have everything except friendship.
At sixty-one, Elliott Granger lived by prudence and contracts. My parents died in my 20s, leaving me their empire. I dated, but suspicion destroyed every relationship. Did they want me or my cash?
I gave up. Retired early. Build my own realm of isolation.
After speaking with my estate manager, I drove home. Late at night, streets were almost vacant. At a stop light, I saw a lady digging through a bakery’s garbage can in the alley.
Her hair was tied in a defeated bun. She had a tattered jacket that hung oddly. I saw her stubborn, concentrated stance.
What happened to me?
I lowered my window. “Hey,” I said.
She froze, ready to run like a deer that heard a twig break.
“I’m not a cop,” I said hastily. “Just…are you okay?”
She turned slowly. Her eyes were sharp yet apprehensive. “Define ‘okay.’”
A good point.
Do you need anything? A ride? A meal?
She knit her eyebrows like she was solving a ‘Why Would A Rich Man Ask That?’ conundrum.
“Depends,” she said. “You offering because you feel bad or care?”
That paused me. “Maybe both,” I said.
She viewed me. “People usually give out of guilt. Lacks longevity.”
“Well,” I answered, exiting the vehicle, “I’m not people.”
Her head tilted. “You’re weird.”
“I get that a lot,” I laughed softly. I’m Elliott.”
She paused. “Nina.”
“Look, Nina… I have garage. Converted to guest quarters. Heat, water, fridge. You might remain briefly. While you figure out.”
“You want me to sleep in your garage?”
“Not a jail cell. A couch bed and Wi-Fi are included.”
Nina crossed arms. “No strings?”
No strings.”
After a lengthy, dubious gaze, she nodded slowly. “Just tonight.”
I drove us back silently. Nina never looked away from the window. She reeked of rain and oil. She followed me around the house to the converted garage. It was tiny but clean—sofa sleeper, kitchenette, little bathroom.
“There’s leftover lasagna in the fridge,” I added.
She nodded curtly. “Thanks.”
For many days, I only saw Nina briefly. She sometimes joined me for coffee on the back terrace. She started with brief responses and caustic remarks.
One afternoon, we sat beneath the pergola while the wind rustled the lemon trees.
“I used to own a gallery,” she suddenly stated.
I glanced up from my book. “Yeah?”
Nina nods. A little one. Local artists, changing shows. One of them was me.”
What happened?
I divorced a guy who preferred a younger muse. He plundered our joint account, leaving me with debt collectors and nowhere to go.”
I fixated on her. “That’s… brutal.”
She shrugged. “Life is rude.”
“You still paint?”
She gazed at me, then left. “I try. Starving makes it hard to create.”
Nina eventually joined my calm routine. We sometimes ate supper, spoke about the news, or sat in quiet, content. I was challenged and entertained by her cutting wit. It was relaxing.
When she wasn’t there for coffee one morning, I realized how much she’d filled the room. I got the air pump from the garage thinking she was sleeping in. I didn’t knock—why? Never had to before.
Freeze as I opened the door.
Canvases covered the garage floor.
Dozens.
Each one reflected my distorted face. In one, I was birdcaged. Another had me screaming quietly in a $1 bill outfit. An image presented me with empty eyes, like a ghost at home.
One depicted me in a coffin. Surrounded with gold coins.
It felt like a chest punch.
I left, heart racing.
Was this her view of me?
Was this how she saw her shelterer?
That night, I made steak and mashed potatoes. She smiled tentatively at the table. I couldn’t return it.
We dined quietly.
She eventually said, “Something wrong?”
I fixated on her. The paintings, Nina. I spotted them,” I said, speaking loudly despite my efforts. “My paintings. Chains, blood, coffin. The heck is that?
Her face was colorless. “You entered without knocking?”
“Your response?”
She set down her fork. “They weren’t for you.”
“They’re me.”
Is that your view of me? As a monster?
“No, not that.” She wiped her tears and shakily said. I was just furious. I lost everything, but you have plenty. Not fair, but I couldn’t help it. I needed to vent.”
I retreated.
“So you villainized me?” I asked sharply.
“No,” she answered hastily. You treated me well. Yes, really. Elliott, the paintings aren’t about you. What you symbolize to me. The world I lost.”
I was speechless. My head was full with betrayal and confusion.
I ended by saying, “You need to leave.”
Her mouth opened. “Please—Elliott—”
I said no strings. That involves trust. I don’t trust someone who paints my coffin.”
She stopped talking. Standing, shoulders drooping.
Next morning, I transported her to a refuge for women. The journey was silent. I gave her an envelope before she left.
“There’s some cash,” I replied. Use it well.”
She gazed at me with appreciation and grief, then closed the door.
Weeks passed.
I went about my routines, but felt much darker. I concentrated on my foundation work and literature. But I missed her snark. Her wisdom. Her presence.
A parcel appeared at my front gate one afternoon.
Inside was a painting.
It wasn’t gross. It was calm.
I’m on the back terrace with coffee and sunshine. My expression was calm.
A message was inside.
“Elliott,
I wanted to offer you what I saw in you.
Thanks for shelter, compassion, and restoring my humanity.
—Nina”
A phone number followed.
I studied it at length.
I nearly stored it.
My finger hesitated above the call button.
Then I pushed it.
It rang once.
Twice.
She said, “Hello?”
Hi Nina, this is Elliott.
Silence.
My voice cracked as I replied, “I got your painting.” “It has beauty.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. I hoped you liked it. I wanted you to understand my true intent.”
Nina, you owe me nothing. You deserved more understanding than I gave.”
“No,” she replied. “Your pain was justified. I projected. My anguish fell on you.”
I inhaled. Would you want to meet for dinner?
She sounded astonished. “Really?”
“Yeah. I like that.”
A moment of silence. “I’d like that too.”
I saw you again that weekend. She had fresh clothing and shining eyes. She said she worked part-time at an art supply business and saved for an apartment.
The bay-view restaurant was quiet. As we clinked glasses, I realized:
Our tale continued after the paintings. They were only starting.
I no longer wanted to live with my doors and heart so closed.
