A rich man who doesn’t care about other people offers Nina, a homeless woman, a place to stay. He is fascinated by her strength. Their strange friendship starts to build until one day he walks into his garage without warning and sees something that bothers him. What is Nina truly like, and what is she hiding?
I had a lot of money that made people look twice. I had a mansion on a cliff, a collection of antique cars, and more money than I could spend in three lifetimes. But no one ever talks about how loud quiet gets when you have everything but friends.
I, Elliott Granger, had built my life on caution and contracts by the time I was sixty-one. When I was in my twenties, my parents died and left me their empire. I did date, but every relationship fell apart because of trust issues. Did they want me or my money?
I gave up trying. Retired early. I made myself a kingdom of being alone.
I was driving back from a meeting with my estate manager that day. It was late, and the streets were nearly empty. I stopped at a stoplight and saw something moving in the alley: a woman going through a garbage can behind a bakery.
Her hair was in a bun that had long since given up. She had on a ripped jacket that hung from her like it didn’t fit. But the way she stood up to me—defiant and focused—caught my attention.
I don’t know what got into me.
I opened the window. “Hey,” I said.
She stopped moving, ready to run away, like a deer that had heard a twig break.
“I am not a cop,” I said hastily. “Are you okay?”
She turned around carefully. Her eyes were sharp but cautious. “Explain what ‘okay’ means.”
That’s a good point.
“Do you need anything?” A ride? A meal? “
She
“Depends,” she said. Are you giving because you feel awful or because you really care?”
That made me stop. “Maybe both,” I said.
She looked at me closely. “Most people give out of guilt.” It doesn’t last.
I said, “Well,” as I exited the car, “I’m not like most people.”
She moved her head to the side. “You’re strange.”
“I hear that a lot,” I remarked with a quiet laugh. “Hi, I’m Elliott.”
She thought for a moment. “Nina.”
“Hey, Nina, I have a garage.” The garage has been transformed into a guest room. Water, heat, and a fridge. You might stay there for a short time. “Until you find a solution.”
“You want me to sleep in your garage?”
“It’s not a prison cell.” It has a bed and a sofa.
Nina put her arms across her chest. “Not a single string?”
“Not a thing.”
She looked at me with a long, doubtful glance before slowly nodding. “Just for tonight.”
I drove us back without saying a word. The whole time, Nina looked out the window. She smelled like engine oil and rain. I took her around the side of the home to the garage that had been turned into a living space. It was small but tidy, with a sofa bed, a kitchenette, and a small toilet.
I told him, “There’s lasagna left over in the fridge.”
She nodded quickly. “Thanks.”
I mostly saw Nina in passing over the coming days. She would sometimes come out to the back terrace with me for coffee. At first, she didn’t say much. She usually gave brief answers and made snarky remarks.
Then, one day, we sat under the pergola and listened to the wind blow through the lemon trees.
She replied out of the blue, “I used to own a gallery.”
I stopped reading. “Yeah?”
Nina nodded. “Little one. Local artists show their work in changing displays. I was one of them.
“What happened?”
“Divorced a man who liked younger women.” He took all the money out of our joint account, leaving me with debt collectors and nowhere to go.
I looked at her. “That’s… horrible.”
She gave a shrug. “Life isn’t polite.”
“Do you still paint?”
She gazed at me, then turned away. “I do my best.” But it’s difficult to make things when you’re hungry.
Nina became a regular element of my tranquil life over time. We’d sometimes eat supper together, speak about the news, or just sit in silence, enjoying the peace. Her sharp wit both challenged and made me laugh. It was… calming.
I didn’t know how much she had filled the space until she didn’t show up for coffee one morning. I assumed she was still asleep, so I went to the garage to get the air pump. I didn’t knock; why would I? I had never needed to before.
When I opened the door, I froze.
There were canvases all over the garage floor.
There are a lot of them.
Each one had a warped version of my face looking back at me. One of them had me stuck in a birdcage. In another, I was wearing a suit made of dollar bills and screaming silently. One image showed me with empty eyes, resembling a ghost in my own house.
And one… one showed me a casket. There were gold coins all around.
It felt like someone had hit me in the chest.
I backed out, my heart racing.
Did she really think of me this way?
Was this how she perceived the man who had taken her in?
That night, I made steak and mashed potatoes. She approached the table with an uncertain smile. I couldn’t give it back.
We ate without talking.
“Is something wrong?” she finally asked.
I looked at her. “The paintings, Nina.” “I saw them,” I responded, my voice rising even though I was trying to be cool. “The paintings of me.” The blood, the coffin, and the chains. What the hell is that?”
Her face lost all its color. “You went in without knocking?”
“That’s your answer?”
She put down her fork. “They weren’t for you.”
“They’re mine.”
I pulled back.
“So you made me look like a bad guy?” I asked, my voice harsh.
“No,” she answered hastily. “You’ve been kind to me. That’s true. But the paintings aren’t about you, Elliott. They are about what you mean to me. The world I lost.”
I couldn’t say anything. My thoughts were a whirlwind of betrayal and confusion.
I finally said, “You have to go.”
Her mouth fell open. “Please, Elliott—”
“I said no strings.” That includes having faith. And I can’t trust someone who puts me in a coffin.
She didn’t say anything else. Just stood there, with their shoulders down.
The next day, I took her to a women’s shelter. The trip was quiet. I gave her an envelope before she left.
I said, “There’s some money.” “Make good use of it.”
She glanced at me with a mix of thankfulness and sadness before closing the door.
Weeks went by.
I continued with my usual activities, but everything felt less vibrant. I tried to concentrate on the literature I was reading and the work I was doing on my foundation. But I missed her snark. Her understanding. She was always present.
Then, one afternoon, I got a parcel at my front door.
There was a painting within.
It wasn’t ugly. It was quiet.
I was sitting on the back patio with a cup of coffee in my hand and the sun on my face. My face was calm.
There was a note inside.
“Elliott,
I wanted to offer you something that showed me the real you.
Thank you for giving me a place to stay, being compassionate, and making me feel human again.
—Nina
Then there was a phone number.
I looked at it for a long time.
I almost put it aside.
But my finger was close to the call button.
And then I pushed it.
It rang once.
Two times.
Then she said, “Hello?”
“Nina, it’s Elliott.”
Be quiet.
“I got your painting,” I said, my voice breaking. “It’s so pretty.”
She said, “Thank you,” in a low voice. “I hoped you would like it.” I wanted you to realize what I actually meant.
“You didn’t owe me anything, Nina.” But I think I should have understood you better than I did.
She said, “No.” “You had a good reason to be hurt.” I was projecting. “I took my pain out on you.”
I took a deep breath. “Would you like to have dinner sometime?”
She sounded shocked. “Really?”
“Yes,” I would enjoy that.
She was quiet for a little. “I would like that too.”
That weekend, we saw each other again. She had fresh clothes and a sparkle in her eyes. She said she was saving money for an apartment by working part-time at an art supply store.
The restaurant was quiet and had a view of the bay. I realized something as we clinked glasses:
The paintings were not the end of our story. They were just the beginning.
I didn’t want to live in a world where I kept my heart and doors so completely closed anymore.
“Do you view me that way? As a monster?”
“No, it’s not that.” She wiped her eyes, and her voice shook. “I was just mad. You have so much, and I’ve lost everything. It wasn’t right, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I had to let it out.
