Skin Deep

by Marissa Doyle

  Only when she slipped into her color trance could she escape those worries. What could she do for an April quilt? To her, spring had always been about the return of light, the sun strengthening, the sky changing color. Flowers and birds were the last things to happen. First it was the light, the darkness of midwinter’s night giving way—a bargello pattern, maybe, with a series of offset circles to represent the climbing sun, the colors subtly shifting from one end of the quilt to the other. She hefted boxes onto the floor to search through, grays and yellows and finally the palest of greens.

  She was vaguely aware of Alasdair quietly picking up the fabrics she chose and pressing them smooth at her ironing board, arranging them on her cutting table so that she could begin to cut pieces as soon as she was ready. It was companionable without being intrusive—a warm, supportive feeling. And Conn—he had taken to curling up as close as possible to her while she looked through her fabrics, like a little cat. But unlike most small children, he didn’t squirm or try to distract her. If anything, she could almost feel him—well, loving her, offering his snuggles up to her like a soft, supporting cushion.

  When she’d accumulated a pile of fabrics, she stopped and scooped the little boy onto her lap. Knowing his mother was gone made her less hesitant to snuggle him, to give him what she no longer could. “Little limpet,” she murmured into his dark hair. He smiled and nestled closer.

  “How did you know that was his nickname?” Alasdair set down the iron and eased himself to the floor in front of her.

  “I didn’t. It just seemed—right.”

  “Bàirneachag,” he said softly. “That’s how we say it.”

  “Bàirneachag,” she repeated. Conn twisted his head to grin up at her. “What language is that?” Maybe this was a clue, a lead to follow to find their home—

  “I don’t know what you call it. It’s just what my people—” He stopped speaking and looked away.

  “Alasdair—” Impulsively, Garland held out her hand to him. She could almost feel his sudden pain—homesickness, perhaps? No, something deeper, more visceral than that. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just thought maybe it might help you remember—”

  Slowly, he reached out and took her hand in his. He gazed down at it for a long moment, his face thoughtful, then ran his fingers lightly over it and down each finger. When he turned it over and delicately traced the lines in her palm, she shivered. Still staring down at her hand, he said quietly, “I do not think this hand—or its owner—could ever do harm.”

  She laughed a little shakily. “You have no idea what things I’ve wished on Derek.”

  “And I know very well what you’ve done for Conn—and me,” he added, more quietly. “What do your wishes matter, compared to your deeds?” He nodded toward Conn, who had closed his eyes and dozed off in her lap. “You’ve given us peace—more than he’s ever known in his life. I only wish I could give you something half as precious in return.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment over their clasped hands. Something seemed to shift inside her, like a shoot bursting from its encasing seed and reaching toward the light. Like spring had come again inside her, after a cold, bleak winter.

  * * *

  The spring quilt almost seemed to make itself even though it ended up being slightly larger than any of her previous quilts. Even more surprisingly, she had all the colors she needed for it. Considering she used over sixty shades ranging from black to gray, then almost imperceptibly to gold and finally to green, it was nearly miraculous. She kept the quilting simple—this quilt was all about color—and bundled it up to bring it down to Kathy on Saturday morning.

  Downtown Mattaquason was much livelier now than it had been just two weeks before. All the leftover Christmas decorations were gone and most of the stores had reopened, if only on weekends for the thin trickle of tourists that came down to take advantage of pre-season rates at the B&Bs.

  Traffic had begun to pick up as well, and all the on-street parking near the Captain Hayes Gallery was taken. Garland finally found a place halfway up Main Street. She pulled into it, scooped up the quilt wrapped in a dry cleaning bag, and stepped out of her car into the street. May as well cross now, while there was a lull—

  She was halfway across the street, trotting. There wasn’t another moving car in sight when she started hardly a second before, but suddenly a large black car was zooming up the street toward her, driving at a speed that would have been more appropriate for the highway than for downtown Mattaquason.

  Garland gasped and put on a burst of speed, clutching the quilt to her. But the car sped up too, following her diagonal path—good God, was it trying to hit her? She tried to get a look at the driver—was it a drunk or someone on a bad trip?—and just caught a glimpse of a elderly woman with blue-rinsed hair staring at her fixedly with bulging, terrified eyes, her mouth open in a scream even as she steered the car toward her—

  * * *

  “Jesus Christ in a Jaguar!” someone said, too loudly. “What the hell happened? Garland, can you hear me? Someone call a doctor, fast.”

  Garland opened her eyes. She was lying on the ground, surrounded by several wide-eyed people staring down at her, their hands hanging by their sides. Kathy Hayes knelt by her, looking positively ferocious.

  What had happened? Why was she lying on—she squinted up and saw a bright pink and white striped awning—on the ground outside the Mattaquason Candy Castle?

  Then she remembered—that car— “Wasn’t a Jaguar,” she muttered. She felt giddy and disoriented, as if she’d taken one too many breaths of laughing gas at the dentist’s. “And Jesus doesn’t try to mow down pedestrians, even ones not in the crosswalk.”

  Kathy’s ferocity softened somewhat. “You’re alive. Don’t try to get up. Can you move your legs? What about your arms? I don’t see any blood—”

  Garland obediently moved her arms and legs—ohh, was she going to be sore later—then disobediently hitched herself up on her elbows to look at herself. Her vision wheeled for a few seconds and she feared she would throw up right there in front of the Candy Castle. Which surely would not be appreciated even if there weren’t any tourists in sight. Thankfully, the spinning slowed to a halt. “No blood. I’m okay, I think,” she said, then remembered more. “Is the quilt all right?”

  Kathy was staring at her, white-faced. “I’m still trying to figure out if you’re all right. I just saw that damned car mow you down going forty. You flew like ten feet and hit the sidewalk. By all rights you ought to be dead or damned close to it. Did anyone get its number?” she demanded, glaring at the small knot of onlookers.

  “Didn’t have to,” said a man. “I know that car. It was Ed Shirley’s Lincoln. I almost bought it from him couple years ago until gas prices got so jeezly bad and I changed my mind.”

  Kathy frowned. “Ed Shirley? What the hell was he—”

  “A woman was driving it,” Garland said, feeling faint again. She’d thought the face she’d glimpsed through the windshield had been familiar, and she was right. It had been Shirley Shirley, the volunteer she’d met at the library. But why had the chatty, friendly old lady tried to run her down?

  Run her down. Someone had just tried to kill her. She shivered and clutched at Kathy’s hand.

  Just then a police car careened past them down the street, lights and siren blaring, followed seconds later by a fire truck and an ambulance. The crowd watched them pass in silence, their faces curiously uncurious.

  “Expect she crashed,” another man finally said. A murmur of assent rose and ebbed away.

  Good God. Was that all they could say? Garland struggled to sit up, ignoring the way the crowd suddenly seemed to be revolving around her again. “Poor Mrs. Shirley!” she cried. “Don’t you care? How can you just stand there like this? Something must be wrong—she must be ill—”

  “Garland.” Kathy put her arms around her and dragged her to her feet. “That’s enough. Come on, let’s go. She’s still stunned, everyone,”
she said in a louder voice to the crowd. “I’ll take care of her. Sorry to trouble you.”

  “Trouble them? Kathy, what are you—”

  “Here’s your quilt, underneath you. It’s fine.” She handed it to Garland and propelled her the rest of the way down the street to the gallery, muttering to herself.

  “Christ, Garland. I run out to the bank for a minute and get to see my best friend nearly…” She bit her lip, fumbling with the key to unlock the gallery’s door, and opened it.

  “Wait a minute. What about poor Mrs. Shirley?” Garland tried to cling to the doorframe but Kathy was too fast for her.

  “There isn’t anything you can do about her,” she said and shoved Garland inside. “Come on, sit down. You’re whiter than a ghost.”

  Garland let her push her down on a bench. “Of course I am! A little old lady tries to run me over—I saw her, Kathy, she was aiming for me—and then crashes somewhere, and those people just stand there like it was a mildly interesting show on TV—”

  “What did you want them to do? Somebody had obviously already called the police.”

  “But—”

  “Garland, shut up.”

  “Um...sure, Kathy.” Her friend’s voice had been so full of compressed anger and fright that there was nothing else she could say.

  Kathy stared down at her for the space of several seconds, her face working, then closed her eyes. “I should call Rob Mowbray to have a look at you,” she finally said. “Make sure you’re all right…”

  What if he’s down trying to help poor Mrs. Shirley? she nearly said, but didn’t. “You don’t have to bother. There’s nothing broken or anything. I just feel a bit bruised and dizzy, that’s all.”

  Kathy looked relieved. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll be seeing him tonight anyway. If something doesn’t feel right I’ll get him to check me over.” Gingerly, she felt her head again. An icepack would be helpful but she didn’t need Rob for that. “If anyone needs to see a doctor, it’s that crowd out there. And anyway, don’t you think it’s the police we ought to be calling?”

  Kathy didn’t look at her. “And report what?” she asked quietly.

  “What do you think? That a car just tried to…” she trailed into silence. That a car driven by a woman who was probably critically injured or maybe even dead by now had tried to run her over? Was she positive that Mrs. Shirley had tried to hit her? What if she’d been having a heart attack and couldn’t control the car?

  “You’re shivering. Reaction’s setting in.” Kathy snatched up a hand-woven Irish mohair throw from a pile and wrapped it around Garland’s shoulders. “Stay there and I’ll make you some tea.”

  Garland nodded and drew the blanket closer as Kathy disappeared in the back of the store. Her left hand had a nasty scrape across the back, her head pounded like a kettledrum, and she felt like she’d been tossed into a dryer with a couple of bowling balls, but other than that she’d survived being hit by a car unscathed. It seemed astounding. Completely beyond reason.

  “Hey, no tears. You’re all right now.” Kathy came bustling back, holding out a steaming mug. “Drink some of this. It’s sweeter than you like but you need the sugar. I wish I had some booze to put in it too but that can wait till you’re home.”

  “I could have been k-killed.” Garland folded her cold fingers around the mug.

  “But you weren’t, were you?” Kathy’s voice was cheerful, but Garland thought she saw a wariness in her eyes. “So what were you doing down here, anyway? A quilt? No, wait a minute. Drink some of that and then you can show me.”

  “It’s the la-latest Garland Durrell Quilt of the Month.” She took a gulp of tea and set it down next to her then unwrapped the package she realized she was still clutching and draped the quilt over her lap. “It’s for April. I’m calling it ‘Spring’.”

  Kathy didn’t say anything.

  “Kathy?”

  Kathy used a word even more colorful than her usual repertoire. “Damn you for making this one, Garland Durrell, because I’m damned well going to have to blow all the damned commission I’ve earned from you and then some because I have to own this damned quilt. No one else is going to get their damned hands on it.”

  Garland laughed shakily. “Gee, I’m sorry you don’t like it.”

  “It’s one of the best damned quilts you’ve ever done!”

  She folded it and held it up to Kathy. “If you like it that much, it’s yours. I’m not going to sell it to you, of all people.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.” But Kathy’s eyes were gleaming as she reached for it.

  “Yes you could. Take it.” She chuckled weakly. “Though I don’t know. Considering what just happened, maybe I should call it ‘Equinox’ rather than ‘Spring’.”

  Kathy had been refolding the quilt. Now she nearly dropped it and stared in horror at Garland. “No. For Christ’s sake, no. How did you—” She closed her mouth and set it in a thin line. “Spring. It’ll be called Spring. Now come on. You need to get home and put your feet up.”

  * * *

  Rob had already heard that someone had had a fatal accident downtown that day—a heart attack while driving—but he hadn’t heard Garland’s connection with it. He insisted on giving her an impromptu physical when she arrived at his house for drinks before their pizza-and-movie date and scolded her for not calling him immediately that afternoon.

  “I didn’t want to worry you,” she protested. Good thing she hadn’t told him what it seemed like—that poor Mrs. Shirley had been trying to hit her.

  “Well, what do you think you’ve done right now? You’re important to me, in case you hadn’t noticed. If you ever get so much as a stubbed toe and don’t call me, I’ll…”

  She grinned at him. “You’ll what?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “Tie you up and beat you with an ostrich plume, most likely.”

  “Ooh, I’m terrified.”

  “Good. Drink up—doctor’s orders,” he said, handing her a glass of wine.

  Garland accepted it and wandered over to the sliding doors that led out to his deck. Below it spread one of the many small but deep glacial ponds that studded the Cape. A mist of green, like a gauze veil, hung over the trees and undergrowth around the edges of the pond, and she thought of her Spring quilt and smiled.

  “This is a great location. You must love it here,” she called over her shoulder.

  “It is a pretty view.” Rob stood behind her.

  “Very pretty. Do you swim in the pond in summer?”

  “I wasn’t talking about the pond.” He patted her bottom.

  “Hey, watch it, Doc!” Garland tried to keep her discomfiture out of her voice. “That must be one of the oldest lines in the book.”

  “What can I say? Go with the tried and true. Besides, I have a strong appreciation for feminine loveliness. Especially yours.” He slid one arm around her waist and pulled her against him.

  Rob’s embrace didn’t feel all that strange...at least, it could have felt worse. Maybe the last few weeks of taking it slowly between them had begun to pay off. She took a breath and made herself relax against him. “Anyway, you’ve got a fabulous view. It’s always been dark when I’ve been here before. I guess spring is finally getting here.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He nuzzled her ear. “Do you realize it’s been almost six weeks since I brought dinner to your house that night?”

  “Is it six weeks? I hadn’t really thought about it.” Six weeks, then, that Alasdair had been with her. She tried to remember life before him and could only dredge up vague memories of the Chestnut Hill house and the interminable meetings with her lawyer. Alasdair and her new life here were inextricably bound together. “Poor Alasdair,” she said aloud.

  Rob stiffened. “I was thinking more about us having spent a lot of time together in these weeks,” he said.

  “Oh, yes, that too. It’s been wonderful. I was so afraid that I’d be lonely these first months but I haven’t been. Thank you,” she
added.

  But Rob’s mood seemed to have changed. They didn’t say much in the car on the way to Gianni’s pizzeria, which made her feel bad. Why had she immediately thought of Alasdair when it was Rob she should have been thinking of?

  So when they arrived at Gianni’s and Rob ordered them Chianti and a large “Kardashian” pizza—too much of everything—she laughed and tried to be light-hearted and cheerful. At the movie theater—an old one-screener with red velvet curtains and baroque ornamentation that showed classics and foreign films in the off-season—she snuggled close when he draped his arm around her shoulders. When they went back to his house after the movie and he invited her in for a nightcap, she smiled and said yes. And when their discussion of whether Cary Grant had been better at comedy or action drama had slowed and he took her glass of wine, set it on the coffee table, and kissed her, she closed her eyes and cooperated. Or so she thought.

  But after a few minutes of soft, exploratory kisses, Rob pulled away from her and sat with slumped shoulders. “It’s no use, is it?” he asked, not looking at her.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “That. Kissing you. You don’t pull away, but you’re not really there, either. I’ve started feeling like I’m just kissing your body, and that you’re somewhere else. And it’s always me who starts it, too. I thought that maybe by now…”

  “Six weeks,” she said quietly.

  He looked at her and his furrowed brow smoothed. “Yeah, six weeks. That’s almost forever, isn’t it?” He chuckled. “I’m sorry, Garland, I’m acting like a horny fourteen-year-old. Six weeks of closer proximity doesn’t mean that you’re as in love with me as I am with you.”