Fire and Water

by Amanda Kayhart

  Crossing the yard, Diane needed a respite from the heat and plopped down on the wooden swing bench in the shade, overlooking the lake. Champlain was beautiful, deep blue with soft whitecaps dancing on the surface. Diane swung her legs back and forth, admiring the stretch of Adirondack peaks. A generous breeze massaged a refreshing coolness from the water, and she relished the lakeside serenity—until someone snuck up and startled her with a rough and wet lick on her hand.

  “Where on earth did you come from?” Diane asked. The cat flaunted an abundance of pewter and cream fur and a bushy tail, and she swept her hand across its soft belly, as it plopped down next to her and looked up with its green eyes, purring contently.

  “Careful!” a voice called out from behind. “He’s psycho.”

  Diane turned. Sawyer jogged across the lawn in shorts and the familiar red bandana, taming his unruly curls. His muscle tee highlighted the contrast between his rosy pale skin and his notable farmer’s tan.

  “It’s you,” she said, her voice perky with delight. “What are you doing here?”

  “Animal control.” Sawyer smirked and leaned against the cedar post of the swing, collecting his breath. “He refuses to accept his status of indoor house cat. He’s the sly one always escaping, and I’m always the sucker chasing after him.”

  Diane laughed.

  Sawyer smiled at her. “How are you?”

  “I’m well,” Diane said. Sawyer was taller than expected, and she tilted her head up to see his face from under the rim of her hat. “How are you? Besides out of breath?”

  He chuckled, scratching his beard. “I’m good. Did you buy this place?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Diane said, rubbing the cat. “My friends own it. I’m borrowing it for a brief getaway.”

  “Oh.” Sawyer nodded and looked around. “Sweet deal.”

  Diane patted the empty seat on the swing. “Would you like to join me?”

  “I’d love to,” Sawyer said, hesitantly. “But not sure Fluffy Jerkface will let me.”

  “He is rather vicious,” she smirked, eyeing the cat sleeping soundly next to her.

  “Don’t let those purrs deceive you.” Sawyer eased down on the swing, keeping a few inches between himself and the animal. “I didn’t mean to startle you, by the way. Just Asher is a little temperamental with strangers.”

  The cat rolled and stretched, letting out a soft coo and curling closer to Diane. She raised a challenging brow.

  “I’ve never seen him this mellow.” Sawyer stroked its stomach. The cat snapped his head up with a hiss, and Sawyer yanked his hand back. “Never mind. Geez, Ash, like mother like son.”

  “What?” Diane laughed.

  “My sister,” Sawyer said, thrusting his thumb across the yard, “well, my cousin, technically, she’s the glass blower. This is her cat.”

  “Michelle?” Diane’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. “Michelle is related to you?”

  “Why does everyone say it like that?” he chuckled sarcastically.

  Sawyer kicked off his Birkenstocks and nudged the swing back and forth with his bare feet. Diane watched as he closed his eyes and tilted his head towards the sun with a content smile on his face. How were these two humans related, she thought. They were night and day. Sawyer was welcoming and sweet from the start, someone she could picture herself easily becoming good friends with. But Michelle? Yikes. She couldn’t picture herself sharing anything beyond a tempestuous scowl with that woman. Diane admired Asher beside her. At least her cat had decent people skills.

  “I saw you two talking yesterday at lunch,” Sawyer said, turning towards her. “How’d that go?”

  Diane dropped her eyes on him. “I assume you already know the answer to that question.”

  “Michelle’s a little rough around the edges.”

  “A little?”

  He laughed. “I know how she is, and how she rubs people the wrong way. I’m not excusing her moodiness,” Sawyer said, pausing with a long sigh. “But, after what she’s been through, I don’t hold it against her.”

  Diane frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “She hasn’t been dealt the easiest of hands, let me put it that way,” Sawyer said. Diane focused on his warm hazel eyes as they cooled with a deep and pensive glance across the lake. “So. You’re staying a while, eh?” he asked, turning the conversation around quickly.

  “A few weeks at least,” Diane said. “If my writing continues to go well here.”

  “Writing?” Sawyer asked. “You’re an author?”

  Diane sighed. “Trying to be.”

  “Well, if you’re still trying to be an author at the end of the month, my girlfriend and I just got engaged, and we’re having a little celebratory barbeque at my house. You should join us,” he said.

  “Should I?”

  “Absolutely,” Sawyer said. “Super casual. Beer. Hamburgers. Hot dogs. Autumn, my fiancé, makes a wicked veggie burger, if you’re a don’t-eat-things-with-a-face type of human.”

  “Hm. That sounds like an appealing offer,” she said, flicking specks of dirt from her floral skort. “But I don’t want to intrude.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Isn’t an engagement party usually reserved for family?” Diane asked.

  “Who cares?” Sawyer nudged her with his shoulder.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “And being related doesn’t automatically make a family,” he said. “Family is anyone you share a connection with.”

  Diane smiled. “Is that what we have?”

  “I like you,” he said. “You’ve got good energy.”

  “Do I?” Diane chuckled.

  “Totally.”

  “In all honesty,” Diane sighed, “I can’t remember the last gathering I went to that didn’t involve dry martinis and even drier conversation.”

  Sawyer made a face. “Yuck.”

  Diane rolled her eyes. “You have no idea.”

  “This will be nothing like that,” he said. “Everyone is chill. You’ll fit right in. Plus, we’ll have an intense cornhole tourney in the back yard.”

  Diane raised her brow. “What’s cornhole?”

  “What?” Sawyer leaned away with his mouth open. “Okay. It’s official. You’re coming.”

  Diane laughed at his enthusiasm.

  “And don’t worry about Michelle.” He shrugged. “She’ll be there, but she’s all bark and no bite. Once she realizes you’re not just a basic flatlander, she’ll warm up.”

  Diane blinked. “A what?”

  “Flatlander. An outsider,” he said. “She’s that way with everyone new around here.”

  Diane nodded slowly. She couldn’t remember the last time she went to a backyard barbeque, or had a really good, cold beer, and the thought of one now, sitting in the hot, August sun, sounded wonderful. Facing Michelle in a social gathering wasn’t exactly appealing, but it was impossible to resist Sawyer’s down to earth charm, and his pleading, puppy dog eyes.

  “Beer you said?” Diane asked.

  “Amber ale.” A smile broke across Sawyer’s face. “Brewed myself.”

  “Sounds good.” Diane nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  “Sweet,” he said, hopping off the swing and sliding back into his sandals. “Come around the truck sometime before and I’ll hook you up the address.”

  “Will do.”

  “Awesome. Well, enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Diane,” he said. “Thanks for the swing break.”

  Diane smiled. “Anytime, Sawyer.”

  He paused and pointed at the cat. “You want me to take the furry hellion off your hands?”

  “No. I can bring him back later,” Diane said, admiring Asher’s content expression. “I think both of us could use the company.”

  CHAPER SEVEN

  After a hectic start in the islands, things simmered down, and Diane settled comfortably into a routine as the next few weeks progressed. During the days, she made significant progress on her
novel, typing feverishly on her MacBook between bouts of quiet contemplation, admiring her privileged lake view. And her evenings, though Diane was still adjusting to the overwhelming solitude of her situation, were equally enjoyable. Most nights she found herself reading, trying new pie recipes, or indulging in the twisty storylines at her favorite Seattle hospital on Netflix. There were feelings of doubt and insecurity and sadness lingering from the divorce, but Diane found herself recovering. Slowly. Day by day. Despite the initial uncertainty of her decision, she became exceedingly grateful for the brief respite in Vermont.

  Especially as the hostile interactions between Diane and her peevish neighbor extinguished. They hadn’t spoken since their conversation at the café, and Diane was relieved for the peace and quiet to concentrate on her book. Admittedly though, writing wasn’t the only thing consuming her thoughts. Every glance across the street brought an irritating curiosity along with it. Several instances on her morning walks, Diane paused in the road to “adjust” her Fitbit, hoping to catch a glimpse of Michelle in her studio. There was nothing wrong with a little fascination, she convinced herself. But on the eve of Sawyer and Autumn’s engagement party, Diane couldn’t ignore her excitement. An alarming giddiness crackled in her core, thinking of sharing an evening with the woman seducing so much of her attention.

  But first, Diane wanted to share at least one cordial conversation with Michelle, beforehand. And what better way to start one, than with homemade pie.

  Blueberry-rhubarb, to be exact.

  Hip propped against the kitchen counter, Diane dug her fork directly into one of her freshly made desserts—eating straight from the pie dish was a delicious perk of being single—and scooped out a chunk of golden crust and vivid magenta filling. She closed her eyes and tasted. It wasn’t her classic lemon sponge she whipped up back home, but the combination of fresh berries and tart rhubarb she grabbed yesterday at the local farm stand, that was equally mouthwatering. Michelle was sure to enjoy it. Plucking the second pie off the cooling rack, Diane strolled across the street in a cheerful, sky blue sundress, decent and eager to make amends.

  Appraising the arrangement of colorful ornaments on display, Diane opened the shop door and stepped inside. A brass bell sang above her. The glass pieces were more beautiful in person. Vases, bowls, paperweights, fine glassware and sculptures of all shapes and swirls of colors glistened in the wash of morning sunlight, raining in from the windows. The skill and craftsmanship of each piece was arresting, and for a moment, Diane forgot about the pie and her reason for entering in the first place.

  “Can I help you?” a younger person asked from across the shop.

  “Oh, hello,” Diane laughed, feeling foolish as she stood there awkwardly. She walked towards the counter, noticing the colorful pride and pronoun pins on their floral button-down top. “I’m wondering if Michelle’s available?”

  “Did you make an appointment?” they asked in a cheerful tone.

  “I’m sorry, no.” Diane shook her head, admiring the clerk’s short indigo curls and prominent septum ring in their fair button nose. “I don’t want to take up her time, if she’s busy. I could leave this with you instead.”

  After a glance at the pie in Diane’s hands, they leaned back in their chair and peered through the doorway into the studio. Diane followed their gaze. Only then did Diane notice the undertones of rock music and murmur of voices coming from the adjacent space.

  “I think Michelle and Shawn are setting up for the day,” they said. “It’s cool if you hop back there.”

  “It’s honestly not necessary,” Diane said, flustered. “I only wanted to make sure she got the pie all right.”

  “It’s no big deal.” They shrugged. “You can give it to her yourself.”

  “Just go right in?” Diane asked, her voice elevating in surprise.

  “Yeah, totally. Hey, Shell?” they yelled. “You got a visitor.”

  With a nod in thanks, Diane cautiously slipped around the sales counter and paused before entering. The studio was incredible. The carriage house was over a century old, but modernized, it was a completely different space. The workshop was bright and clean and open, with high ceilings and a cement floor. Diane scanned the barrels full of blowpipes, tools hanging on hooks, steel workbenches and tables, and the two furnaces, glowing nearby. The studio possessed an industrial charm and welcoming décor, with trans and pride flags framing the high sash window above, allowing in a flood of refreshing light.

  Diane hovered in the doorway, drawing in a thick breath of hot metal and earthy smoke.

  “Hey,” Michelle’s rough voice cut through room.

  Diane fell into Michelle’s curious gaze, looking her up and down.

  “Can I help you?” Michelle asked, plopping her elbow on the table.

  At a table in the corner, Michelle and the younger man sat, drinking coffee. The scene threw Diane for some reason. Or one specific reason: she didn’t expect Michelle to look like she did. The distressed jean overalls and the slouchy white t-shirt weren’t the issue. But the thick, black-framed glasses, and the disheveled strands of soft hair falling around her face were. The disgruntled artist look suited her well. Remarkably so. Diane swallowed hard, noting the unrestrained scowl on Michelle’s lips.

  “Hi,” Diane said, the singular syllable barely squeaking past her lips. She had no idea why her heart was beating so hard, and she tried to calm her erratic pulse, traipsing across the room. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “You’re not,” the man said, his voice smooth and throaty. He swept his hand through his mess of cool brown hair, his pale beige cheeks blushing slightly. “Hi, I’m Shawn Haley. Shell’s business partner.”

  “Diane Hollenbeck,” she said, shifting the pie into one hand and shaking his with her other. His stylish strap beard angled his jawline, giving his face an endearing handsomeness. And unlike Michelle’s coarse exterior, Shawn’s soft expression drew her in, his welcoming aura relaxing her.

  “Ah, Diane.” Shawn’s smile grew. His blue eyes sparkled with mischief, glancing at Michelle. “You’re the feisty neighbor I’ve heard so much about.”

  Diane furrowed her brow. “I’m sorry?”

  Shawn laughed.

  “So,” Michelle growled, giving Shawn a warning look, “what brings you around?”

  “I’m hoping it’s that pie in her hands.” Shawn winked at Diane and took a sip of coffee. “What kind is it? It looks amazing.”

  Diane glanced down at her creation. “Oh, um—”

  “Hey, Shawn,” Michelle said, a threatening frown on her lips, “you know those pieces we pulled from the annealer? They aren’t going to ship themselves.”

  “Fine. I’ll let you two mingle,” Shawn said, getting up with his coffee. He slipped a pair of work gloves into the back pockets of his dusty jeans. “It’s not like I don’t do all the work around here anyway.”

  Michelle huffed. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m playing. I love your demanding ass and you know it.” Shawn kissed Michelle on her head, provoking a hefty eyeroll from her. “It was nice meeting you, Diane,” he said.

  “You as well, Shawn.” Diane offered him a friendly wave.

  Michelle crossed her arms and turned her eyes to Diane. “What can I do for you?”

  Those intense brown eyes locked steady on her, and Diane smiled anxiously in response. Why was she nervous? And sweating? Even with menopause and all its hormonal havoc swiftly approaching, Diane never experienced hot flashes. But boy was she having one now. Perhaps it was the furnaces full of hot glass. Yes. That had to be it.

  Schooling her panicked expression, Diane forced herself closer and set the dessert on the table. “I wanted to bring over a peace offering,” she said. “I baked it myself.”

  Michelle regarded the pie.

  “Blueberry rhubarb,” Diane added quickly.

  “Did you poison it?”

  “What?” Diane flinched.

  “Arsenic? Anti-freeze?”
/>   “Of course not, I—”

  “I’m joking,” Michelle said, arching her right brow above her glasses.

  A devilish grin appeared on Michelle’s face, and Diane’s stomach fluttered, noticing a set of dimples, sharpening her features for the first time.

  Diane laughed nervously. “Right.”

  “You didn’t have to do this,” Michelle said, her voice softening.

  “I wanted to.” Diane held their eye contact. “After our less than civil conversations a few weeks ago, and considering it’s my specialty…”

  “What is? Irritating your neighbors?”

  “What? No.” Diane eyed the smirk on Michelle lips. “Pies.”

  “Oh.” Michelle leaned back and nodded, biting her bottom lip with her teeth. “Could’ve fooled me.”

  Diane’s pulse picked up, witnessing that ever-growing smirk stretch across Michelle’s face. Yesterday, dusted in a snowfall of flour, Diane rolled out the sweet dough and thought of her neighbor. Although their interactions were brief, Diane struggled to rid the bitterness Michelle left in her mouth, and the unwelcoming first taste she had of Vermont. She wanted a start from scratch. And pulling the pie from the oven—crust browned and blueberries bubbling—Diane had a delicious shot. But she wasn’t naïve. It would take more than a hot, blue ribbon dessert to win this scathing woman over.

  Except…

  Here Michelle was, five minutes in, being surprisingly affable, dumping Diane’s assumptions straight down the drain. The transition wasn’t unwelcoming. Not in the least. Simply confusing and downright flustering—with Michelle’s attentive and playful gaze wandering down the length of Diane, melting her into a wad of nerves.

  “Teasing aside,” Diane dropped her head for a moment and cleared her throat, “I thought a pie would be an appropriate and neighborly gesture, before seeing each other tomorrow night,

  and—”

  Michelle laughed. “What?”

  “Tomorrow?” Diane blinked. “The engagement party?”

  Michelle leaned forward on the table, her friendly expression lost on her face. “You’re going?”

  “Yes.” Diane shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Sawyer invited me. Is that a problem?”