Fire and Water

by Amanda Kayhart

  CHAPTER NINE

  “What’s the game plan?” Maureen asked, draping her arm out the passenger window of Diane’s Mustang. She checked her makeup in the visor mirror, her dusty rose lipstick complementing her mocha, polka dot romper beautifully.

  “A little lunch and shopping?” Diane said, turning out the driveway and down the peaceful road, the emerald farm fields veiled in golden sunlight. “Check out the waterfront in Burlington and grab a cocktail or two? My treat.”

  “My, my,” Maureen grinned, watching the scenery drift by, “I should come to Vermont more often if you’re going to pamper me like this.”

  “You should anyway.” Diane squeezed Maureen’s hand. “I’m happy you’re here. I’ve missed you.”

  Maureen drew Diane’s hand to her lips and kissed it. “I’ve missed you too, babe.”

  A week passed since Sawyer’s barbeque, and Diane did her best getting back to work and focusing on her book, but she had a crippling stint of writer’s block. The plot was foggy. Every potentially good sentence was bland and cloudy, like bold tea weakened with milk. But what wasn’t vague were her thoughts of Michelle. Those were clear and bright. Her laugh. Her smile. The curves of alluring lines framing her lips as she talked. Flirted. Was it flirting? Diane questioned it a million times since Saturday, over and over, it nearly consumed her.

  Swallowing an audible groan, Diane turned onto the main road and slid into the Labor Day weekend traffic. Needless to say, Diane was happy Maureen’s flight arrived yesterday. She couldn’t stand another day struggling with words that wouldn’t come, and thoughts of Michelle that refused to stop. A day off the island, out of her head, and exploring Burlington with her best friend was exactly what Diane wanted. Needed, quite frankly. Clicking on the radio, Diane turned up the classic rock song and glanced at Maureen with a smile.

  It felt like thirty years ago, when they would pack a bag, leave the college campus behind, and spend their weekends in Myrtle Beach. Those days—sunning on the shore with music blaring from their boom box—felt everlasting. They were young and happy with the world at their fingertips. A lot had changed since then—nothing, in fact, turned out like Diane believed it would in her twenties. But she was reminded now, with the late summer heat kissing her skin and her loyal friend beside her, she had a lot to be grateful for.

  “What are you looking for today, exactly?” Diane asked, yelling over the wind and music, and rumble of horsepower, thundering from the engine. “Furniture? Lighting? Art?”

  “All of the above?” Maureen wrapped her arm around Diane’s seat. “Kelly Ann told me to spare no expense with décor. Anything eye-catching that matches our concept I’ll be snatching right up.”

  “How’s everything going?” Diane asked. “The last time we talked you were about to strangle our dear friend.”

  Maureen waved her off. “She’s fine. Everything’s good. They’re nearly complete with the renovations.”

  “It was an old hotel she purchased?”

  “Yes. Right on the Gulf. Beautiful architecture,” Maureen said. “Kelly Ann absolutely gutted the interior.”

  Diane laughed. “Sounds right.”

  “Her vision for this place is phenomenal, though. I can’t wait to step in and get my hands dirty.”

  “I can’t wait to see everything when I return.”

  Maureen paused and looked at Diane. “When are you planning on coming home, out of curiosity?”

  Diane chewed her lip and focused on the road. She wrung the steering wheel anxiously. Kelly Ann was right. Vermont and the change of scenery was the perfect prescription for collecting herself and completing her novel. Up until this past week, her goal of finishing her manuscript and querying literary agents by October was absolutely possible. And it still was—as long as Diane kept her sights straight and narrow, and didn’t allow her mind to wander to certain people and their rather distracting attributes.

  “I have no exact date in mind,” Diane said. “As long as my current writer’s block subsides, I’ll be home soon.”

  Maureen turned in her seat. “I didn’t know you were having writer’s block.”

  “Not quite. I mean, yes. Some. A little. I had trouble writing this week,” Diane said exasperated. An unnerving tightness tugged at her chest. “But it’s nothing. Temporary.”

  “Dee, if you need to work for a while this weekend, just tell me and—”

  “No.” Diane set her hand on Maureen’s leg. “Not a chance.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve been waiting all week for this. I need time with my girlfriend,” Diane said eagerly, giving her thigh a pat. “Besides, Sawyer, the good friend I told you about, he gave me a list of art galleries and open studios I want to visit with you.”

  Maureen smiled. “As long as you’re sure.”

  Happy she avoided any further prodding into her writing problems, Diane breathed a sigh of relief. It was embarrassing enough admitting her distractions to herself, admitting how frighteningly arousing it was having a woman invade her thoughts again. But this weekend wasn’t about Michelle. This weekend was about Diane and her best friend, sharing a few fun days together. Diane turned the radio louder, drowning her incessant thoughts out with a little Tom Petty and the—

  “Look,” Maureen shouted.

  Diane snapped her head. “What?”

  Maureen turned the music off and pointed. “That sign said there’s a farmers’ market up ahead.”

  “So?”

  “I want to check it out.”

  “You want to check out a farmers’ market?” Diane eyed her over the top of her sunglasses.

  “I do.” Maureen grabbed her purse and sorted through its contents, finding her cell phone as it sounded.

  “Since when are you interested in farmers’ markets?”

  “I want to look. Why are you being so judgy?” Maureen said, texting hurriedly on her device.

  “I’m not being judgmental,” Diane said. “It was simply a question.”

  “You love them, don’t you?” Maureen asked. “You go to the one in Plant City all the time. It’s a very Vermont thing to do, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose…” Diane spoke questioningly, “but it’s not a Maureen thing. Is it?”

  “No. It’s definitely not. But as of late, it’s become a client thing, including Kelly Ann.” Maureen shrugged, scrolling through her phone. “Country décor is in right now. I might find some good pieces and meet some local artists I could use for my upcoming designs. Besides, I want the full north country experience.”

  “The full experience?” Diane eyed her. “What on earth does that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Maureen chuckled. “Farmers’ markets. Cows. Maple syrup. That sort of thing. Maybe pick up a little weed.”

  “Excuse me?!”

  “Oh, don’t act so offended,” Maureen laughed. “It’s not like you’ve never smoked before.”

  “On spring break, sure,” Diane said, indignantly, blush building in her cheeks. “Where it was perfectly acceptable.”

  “It’s perfectly acceptable here, too,” Maureen said. “It’s legal now.”

  “That may be the case, but Grand Isle is hardly Daytona Beach.”

  “It could be.” Maureen smirked.

  Diane laughed. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s gotten into me.”

  “Let’s stick to the farmers’ market, okay?” Diane shifted into a lower gear as a row of tents appeared up ahead. She scrutinized Maureen out of the corner of her eye. “Where cucumbers and zucchini are the only green purchases we’ll be making today.”

  “All right, all right. If you want to be a stick in the mud.” Maureen tossed her phone in her bag. “I thought we could get into a little old school fun this weekend, that’s all. I have to keep it exciting between us somehow if I want to keep you around.”

  “What?” Diane frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re officially div
orced.” Maureen shrugged.

  “Yes. That’s true…and?”

  “You’re a free woman. There’s no one holding you back now. I mean look at you. The ink was barely set on those final papers, and you took off on a whim.”

  “Vermont wasn’t a whim,” Diane said sternly, throwing her eyes to the passenger seat. “A fast decision, yes. But not a whim. I don’t do whims.”

  “Seemed awfully whimmy to me.”

  “It wasn’t. It isn’t.” Diane sat up straighter and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “This trip has a clear purpose: I’m taking a break to focus on myself, settle into my new singlehood, and finish my novel. There’s nothing ‘whimmy’ or impractical about it.”

  “I didn’t say impractical.”

  “You implied it.”

  “I’m sorry.” Maureen placed her hand on Diane’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to imply it. Just, in all the years I’ve known you, you haven’t made a single decision without meticulous planning and list-making.”

  “What’s wrong with making lists?” Diane asked sharply.

  “Nothing.”

  “Lists are practical. Handy. Sexy, even.”

  “If you think so,” Maureen said with a snorted laugh. “Diane, what I’m saying is, this trip was unexpected. But that doesn’t take away from the fact I am happy you made it. You deserved a reprieve. And from what I’m seeing so far, Vermont is the perfect place for you.”

  Aside from the few hiccups that past week with her writing, the lake house was the best location to spend her sabbatical. Having a writing retreat with pristine mountain views, tranquil mornings on the deck with her coffee and computer, serenaded by songbirds and the lake lapping the shoreline was exactly what Diane needed. Arriving in Grand Isle a month ago, the solitude was initially suffocating. But as the weeks went along, Diane found herself relying on those quiet moments like a consoling crutch, to heal from the divorce and mend her scars of self-doubt and insecurities she acquired in her tumultuous relationship with Nora. And as long as Diane kept her priorities centered on herself and her book, she had no doubt she’d return home to Florida with a new outlook, a reclaimed confidence, and hopefully, if all goes to plan, with new-author swagger to boot.

  “I think coming here was a good idea,” Diane said. “I really do.”

  “I’m glad,” Maureen said with a smile. “Because I want my best friend to be happy.”

  “Thank you,” Diane said. “I love you. You know that, right?”

  “Right back at you, babe.”

  “Also, for the record,” Diane said, pulling off the road and finding a parking spot in the grass. She eyed the small white church with a cheerful blue roof, abutting the market. “I don’t plan on going anywhere, anytime soon.”

  “Okay, good,” Maureen said. “Because you can’t abandon Kelly Ann and me, and leave us to defend ourselves against the brood of neighborhood bitches back home.”

  Diane laughed and cut the engine. “Oh, I see. You only keep me around as a social buffer.”

  “Exactly,” Maureen teased. She leaned over and kissed Diane on her head. “You have more polite tact than either of us.”

  “This is true,” Diane said. “I do hope you keep me around for more reasons than that, however.”

  “Of course, I do,” she said. “It’s also because you’re a lesbian.”

  “Oh, really?” Diane chuckled.

  “Yes. Because that means you know how to pamper a woman properly.” Maureen winked. “So, remember that when you said today is your treat.”

  Diane laughed harder. “I am going to regret those words, aren’t I?”

  “I’m not sure.” Maureen flashed her a smile as she left the car and shut the door. She leaned in the open passenger window. “But I can see a tent with exquisite macramé over there and I’m making a beeline for it. Bring your purse.”

  ***

  The Champlain Islands farmers’ market was a popular spot among locals and tourists, and Diane noticed the pop-up tents and crowds of people buzzing around on Saturday mornings, whenever she would drive past. There was always one excuse or another, or nagging errands to run, preventing Diane from stopping. Appetizing aromas wafting from the tents—warm cider donuts, fried sausages, mouthwatering moussaka and other Mediterranean treats—and Diane knew her mistake, instantly. She should have made the market a priority weeks ago. It wasn’t long before a bag of maple kettle corn found its way into Diane’s hands, as she strolled through the grass, indulging in the scenery and the snack’s crunchy sweetness.

  “See,” Maureen said, pausing and admiring some rocking chairs. She studied the craftmanship, tracing her fingers over the ornate spindles. “I told you this would be a good place. I’m getting some fantastic ideas.”

  “You were right,” Diane said, scanning the assortment of vivid wood grains. “I’m glad you’re finding it useful for business.”

  Diane smirked. It was entertaining seeing Maureen this way. Diane never imagined her ritzy glitzy best friend would ever be interested in a place like this. But here Maureen was, enamored by bushels of apples, decorative corn stalks, and tables of bold, hearty mums. By the time they were halfway down the row of tents, Maureen had an assortment of business cards tucked in her purse, creative ideas spouting from her lips, and a canvas bag filled with organic breads and jellies, she wouldn’t stop gushing about.

  Popping another handful of kettle corn in her mouth, Diane paused in the shade of a sugar maple and leaned against the trunk. The tips of emerald leaves were dyed prematurely pink, an early glimpse of the approaching shift in seasons. She watched Maureen. Her friend was engaged in a very animated, very intense chat with the carpenter, persuading him to ship his rocking chairs down south— ‘at any cost necessary.’ Diane chuckled. New England was on the cusp of autumn, but it hardly felt that way; even in her sleeveless, blue tunic and airy capris, the temperature was intense. Diane didn’t mind the heat. She’d camp here all day, caked in sweat, if she could behold her best friend haggling so passionately over artisan folk rockers, of all things.

  “This is fantastic,” Maureen said, slipping another business card into her purse. She stole a few bits of kettle corn as they strolled along. “Three chairs will be on their way to Clearwater by the end of the week. The shipping costs were astronomical, but the client I have in mind for them will be absolutely ecstatic. Even if I am well over budget.”

  Diane laughed.

  “What?” Maureen asked, stealing more of Diane’s snack. “What is so amusing?”

  “You’re smitten with this place.”

  “I told you,” Maureen waved her off, munching on the popcorn, “it’s good for business.”

  “I don’t know,” Diane sing-songed, “I think my city chic best friend might have a little country glam in her after all.”

  “Perhaps your podunk palate is rubbing off on me.”

  Diane chuckled, elbowing Maureen playfully. “Rude.”

  Maureen laughed. “I’m kidding. But seriously, is that a bad thing I’m enjoying our time here together?”

  “No, absolutely not,” Diane said, ambling shoulder to shoulder through the crowd. “It’s just surprising. And rather refreshing, honestly.”

  “Good,” Maureen said. “Because I could unload my entire bank account here…or yours rather.”

  “I know you could,” Diane said. “I’ve seen how you shop. On that note, should we head off to Burlington now? It’s near lunchtime.”

  “Almost,” Maureen said. She hooked her arm with Diane’s and pulled her to the side. “There is one more tent catching my eye.”

  “Okay, but not too much longer, please, I—”

  Diane stopped.

  She stared at Maureen as she slipped into the tent filled with tables of lavish glass.

  “Don’t just stand there, Dee. Come here. Look at these.” She waved Diane over. Maureen took off her sunglasses, studying the glass orbs strung along the top of the tent, and gracefully traced her finger a
long their smooth curves. “Aren’t they incredible?”

  “Yes.” Diane inched closer with a hard swallow. “Quite.”

  The glass pieces on display were beautiful, rich in color and diverse in form. A few bulbs, clear with flecks of bright copper and gold, glimmered like no other; the metallic accents popped like bits of fire whenever the sunlight touched them. The glass was remarkable. Diane hadn’t allowed herself to be this close before, never seen their designs so crisp and clear, and she found herself enamored with the craftmanship. Holding her breath, Diane danced carefully around the tables. She studied their shapes. Their details. The obvious and intimate care put in each and every piece was artistically breathtaking.

  By the time Diane made her way around the entire tent, her spreading desire could no longer be restrained. She had to know what they felt like. Carefully, and ever so slowly, Diane skimmed her finger along a delicate suncatcher. She appraised the color, a luscious cranberry red, as she immersed herself in the touch of it, its silhouette, its shape. Its soft and smooth edge slid under her fingertips like a ribbon of fine silk.

  “Northern Isle Hot Glass.”

  Diane snapped her hand away. “What?”

  “The company,” Maureen said, tapping a white business card on her hand and looking around, “is Northern Isle Hot Glass. I wonder who the artist is. Or where they are for that matter. Odd they left everything unattended.”

  Diane’s throat tightened. She peered around.

  “I’d like to meet them,” Maureen said, continuing along, admiring the glass. “Let’s give them a minute, and if they don’t show, we can head out.”

  Diane forced a smile, her eyes hopping around the crowd anxiously. There was a chance Michelle wasn’t working that morning; Diane would have given anything to lay her eyes on Shawn and his refreshing and uncomplicated smile. But of course, luck did not favor Diane that morning. After several scans around the market, there she was. Her eyes locked on those arms of colorful ink—far too easily, Diane acknowledged—and stared. Silently. Attentively. For several long seconds, Diane leered at Michelle through the cracks in the crowd, paralyzed by the shocking thrill of watching her from such a voyeuristic viewpoint.