Fireside

by Cate Culpepper

  Synopsis

  Mac closed her eyes because that’s how one traditionally prepared for prayer, and she was in need of divine intervention. A hiccup of laughter almost bubbled out of her. What kind of merciful goddess would cast her, shirtless and prostrate before a roaring fire on a stormy night, subject to the tender ministrations of the straightest woman on the eastern seaboard?

  Mac is a new therapist at Fireside, a domestic violence shelter in rural Virginia. Mac hopes to find answers here—answers for the women and children she works with, and to her own lifelong restlessness. Perhaps she’ll even learn the identity of the small ghost who’s been following her all her life.

  Abby is the shelter’s doctor—irresistibly alluring, and straight as a stick. Mac and Abby, devoted to those they serve, discover equal passion for each other while fighting to protect all they love.

  Fireside is a story of love, friendship, healing, and laying our ghosts to rest at last.

  Fireside

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Fireside

  © 2009 Cate Culpepper. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-371-6

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: January 2009

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Cindy Cresap and Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri(GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)

  By the Author

  Tristaine: The Clinic

  Battle for Tristaine

  Tristaine Rises

  Queens of Tristaine

  Fireside

  Acknowledgments

  As always, warm appreciation to my editor, Cindy Cresap. Sheri created a wonderful cover image for this book. Radclyffe and the women of Bold Strokes Books continue to provide invaluable nurturing and support to writers of lesbian fiction, this one included.

  I can’t thank my friend and beta reader Connie Ward enough for her great feedback and sage medical advice. I’m also grateful for the support and creative input of my sister Bold Strokes bard Gill McKnight. Gill wanted me to jack up the action in this novel and rename it BONFIRE!, but she had many good ideas too.

  And long years of appreciation to the women of the Tristaine discussion list. Thank you for your willingness to follow me from the wild plains of Tristaine to the peace of Fireside. The women in this story are Amazons too, at least in spirit—as are all of you.

  Dedication

  To the women who founded Seattle’s Advocates for Abused and Battered Lesbians, 1987

  (Now the Northwest Network of Bi, Trans, Lesbian and Gay Survivors of Abuse)

  Ginny NiCarthy, Merrill Cousin, Christa Irwin, Kathleen Mangan

  And to the staff and residents of YouthCare’s ISIS House Seattle, Washington

  A daily inspiration

  Chapter One

  Mac coughed the last of the bus exhaust from her lungs and filled them with frigid air, the kind conjured by January nights in Virginia. Razor cold. She shifted the strap of her duffel out of what seemed a permanent groove in her shoulder, wincing as an ominous twinge went off in her lower back.

  To pass the time as she walked, she mentally checked off her bitching points for the evening—excuses for self-pity, should she feel so inclined. Weary and hamstrung after four days on a Greyhound. Dressed too lightly—her denim jacket was scant protection from the frosty night. Ancient back injury still asserting itself. And she was probably lost.

  Mac didn’t care. After crossing the country sleeping under the steel canopy of a bus, she was ravenous for stars, and the night sky was glorious with them. Their faint light glittered off the white swells of snow blanketing the rural road. She kicked slowly through ankle-deep drifts, grateful for the fresh powder. This hike would be much less fun if the snow was hard packed. Thick trees studded either side of the road, and the scent of pine and spruce cleared her sinuses and revived her energies. The silver globe of a full moon was just cresting a forested ridge, adding its welcome illumination to her path.

  That this was indeed a path of sorts, Mac was almost certain. She wedged two fingers into the hip pocket of her jeans, drew out a folded sheet, and snapped it open. The bus had dropped her at its last stop, just outside Fredericksburg’s city limits, and the shelter was supposed to be about a mile farther down this country road. The directions sketched in her neat script confirmed she was on the right path. As instructed, she had turned off the main road at the old billboard reading Virginia Is For Lovers—though someone had spray-painted out most of the words, in favor of a more succinct message—Virginia Sucks. In all fairness, Mac could not agree with this derogatory conclusion. Virginia suited her fine so far. She trudged on, enjoying the light crunch of her boots in the powder.

  New Mexico had suited her fine too. So had Arizona. And Wyoming. And Colorado and Washington. Mac had greeted each of her new homes with optimism and hope, in the last fifteen years of her nomadic existence. She had found beauty to savor and friends to love, everywhere she went. She didn’t doubt she would find those things here too.

  But perhaps Virginia would be different. Maybe this time, her boots wouldn’t start to hum after several months with the restless urge to move on. Maybe the loamy soil of a new state would finally prove deep and rich enough to allow her to take root.

  Mac’s step faltered and she turned her head, listening intently. She heard it again. There was no need to turn and look because there was nothing there. Mac looked back anyway. The path behind her was deserted and still, and there were no footprints save her own in the carpet of snow.

  Whoever followed Mac still chose not to show himself. Or herself. She doubted now that they ever would—several years of coaxing and visiting quack spiritualists hadn’t helped. These invisible footsteps had stalked her, off and on, as long as she could remember. It seemed her tiresome ghost had followed her even here, three thousand miles across the country.

  Scowling, she defied her aching back and bent to scoop up a handful of snow. She balled it hard, then lobbed it back down the path. “Stop sneaking up on me,” she snapped.

  Then she straightened in surprise as her snowball careened off the very landmark the sheet of directions told her to watch for. A tasteful cedar sign bordered the side of the trail, marking an opening through the trees that would have been indistinguishable otherwise. Mac brushed dripping slush from the carved block lettering and FI—IDE became FIRESIDE.

  Officially, the program was known as the Spillsbury County Transitional Shelter for Women and Children, but a confidential shelter couldn’t trumpet its status on a roadside billboard, however secluded. Mac traced the grain of the wood, her fingers numb with cold. A fireside’s benevolent image seemed more fitting. Faint gold light spilled around a bend in the narrow road ahead. No buildings were visible from here, but she’d found her way in.

  Mac drew herself to her full height, in spite of loaded bag and aching back, and kicked through the drifts blocking the drive. She started up the steep incline, whistling, one hand jammed in her pocket to warm its stinging chill. It star
ted to snow again, lightly, a dusting of lace.

  *

  The woman was mad at her again. She could never figure out why the woman got so mad at her, but boy was she a big mean grouch. She threw that snowball right at her, and what if it had hit her? It could have hit her right in the eye! Not that it wouldn’t have just passed right through her, but she would never throw a snowball at the woman, because she had good manners, unlike the woman. She stuck her tongue out at her again. A snowflake fell through her tongue, and that was fun. Then she realized the woman was disappearing up that little hill toward the light. She squeaked in dismay and hurried after her.

  *

  The grounds revealed themselves to Mac slowly. First a long low building, angled off to her left, too distant and shadowed to offer much detail. Another far to Mac’s right, a few meager lights burning behind curtained windows. The two buildings were like railroad cars forming the slanted sides of a triangle, a wide gap at its apex; but it was the house at the base of the triangle that drew Mac’s eyes.

  It was beautiful. She hadn’t expected beautiful. She’d expected big, and it was that too. Beautiful and big. White columns, shingled roof, wooden shutters and two stories of welcome. Lord, this house glowed welcome like a beacon.

  Smoke curled skyward from one of four narrow chimneys. The edge of the high roof was laced with strands of shining icicles. Mellow gold light bathed the worn cedar planks of the front porch.

  Mac paused, panting slightly, and closed her eyes. She relaxed her shoulders and imagined herself another woman. A woman who’d just stepped from a taxi, perhaps, on a cold night like this, a sleeping toddler on one hip and a heavy suitcase weighting her arm. Mac looked at the house through that woman’s eyes, close enough now to hear the soft music behind the wide front doors. If I were that woman, I might hope healing could begin in such a place.

  But still she hesitated. Feathered snowflakes fell on Mac’s eyelashes and she blinked them away, her weariness quieting the pleased wonder of this first greeting. She had knocked on so many doors for the first time, to a variety of welcomes, always hoping that the next door, in another house, a new city, would open to a more lasting peace.

  Mac was thirty now, and she was getting tired. Her feet were cold and her back hurt. She had to trust that this house, and these women, would be gentle with her. She hitched her duffel higher and strode for the porch.

  Fingers that had just pitched a snowball, Mac decided, should not then be asked to rap gloveless on an oak door. Mac sucked her smarting knuckles while she waited, hoping Fireside would live up to its name; she could use an hour’s thaw in front of a roaring hearth. The music continued inside, the Spring passage of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

  Someone coughed within. Mac stilled her fist before it could knock a third time, hoping Vivian would answer. Vivian Childs, the program director of this outfit and now her supervisor, was the only staff member Mac had met in person. The warmth of Vivian’s kilowatt smile would go far to ease the aches of long travel.

  A small box two feet from Mac’s ear exploded with static, and she flinched. It was an intercom, apparently, and it had just been coughed into. Mac pressed a hand to her heart.

  “Yep,” the box said. A woman’s voice.

  “Hello there,” Mac said. “I’m Mac. You’re expecting me, I think.”

  “Yep.”

  Long pause.

  “Mac Laurie?” Mac tried again. “I left a message earlier, said I’d be in tonight. Vivian wasn’t expecting me until tomorrow…”

  Nothing. Mac stepped closer to the door and peered through the small glass oval she assumed was a peephole. She hoped the woman wouldn’t cough again. The intercom made it sound like gunfire.

  “All I see is an eyeball,” the box said. “Reverse gears, please.”

  “Whoops.” Mac backed up a step. She stared at the door full-face, then turned in a slow circle, and faced the door again. She jumped in spite of herself when the woman coughed.

  “Mac Laurie,” the box said. “You’re the new shrink.”

  “Yep,” Mac replied.

  “Are you a smoking shrink?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  A heavy clank, and the door swung open. A black woman regarded Mac through a cloud of cigarette smoke, her fist perched on one hip and one booted foot toed neatly over the other. “Are you a shrink who smokes?”

  “Ah.” Mac smiled. “No. But I cohabitate comfortably with those who do.”

  “A rare species.” The woman’s blunt nails ticked on the door’s edge as she eyed Mac up and down. She was husky, probably in her early forties, with ebony skin and keen eyes, her hair razored short. Her cigarette was clenched between strong white teeth, and laugh lines radiated around her full lips.

  “Had to turn off the alarm thing.” The woman moved quickly for her size, and her wave was a brisk snap toward a stairway. “Bedrooms are upstairs. She’ll show you, hang on. Abby.” Cough, cough.

  Then she was gone, rapid footfalls fading down the hall, a door closing with a slam of finality.

  A resident? Mac didn’t think so. According to Vivian, clients’ units were in the two buildings out back. The main house contained offices and living space for staff. Therefore, Mac concluded, this smoking, snarling sentry was one of her new colleagues, her sister in social service. Mac remembered the laugh lines bracketing the woman’s mouth, and relaxed a little.

  She followed her nose down the hall and through the arched entry her greeter had indicated. It opened to a cavernous, high-ceilinged living room. Mac stared. Her last three apartments hadn’t been this big.

  She shrugged the duffel from her shoulder, wincing, and let it drop, the metal clasps clattering on the wood floor. She unzipped her jacket and rolled her shoulders, glad to be free of the dragging weight, then slid her hands in her back pockets.

  Stepping down the two stairs leading into the room, Mac began a cautious walking tour. Big, she confirmed to herself. Hello-ello-ello, bet it echoes in here.

  It might have been a gracious room once, and the cream walls and tall cherrywood bookcases still lent the space an air of hoop-skirted elegance. The slapdash furnishings were designed more for comfort than style. That suited Mac. A long wraparound sofa gave the room a cozy air, as did the two sprung armchairs, a rocking chair, and frayed broadloom throw rugs, all probably culled from a variety of donors.

  Mac’s boot heels clicked slowly on the hardwood as she circled the room. Then she discovered two treasures and stopped short in delight. A grandfather clock’s whispered ticking held reign in the shadows of one corner. And at the far end of the room was the largest fieldstone fireplace she’d ever seen. Mac thought she could stand erect in there, and she topped out just shy of six feet. The grate was piled high with fragrant logs awaiting a match.

  “Marshmallows,” Mac whispered, holding her hands to the dark hearth. “Weenie dogs. Toasting my slippers here to warm my toes…”

  The fireplace explained the pleasant, lingering scent of wood smoke. Mac clasped her hands behind her and turned, smiling. She rocked on her heels, listening to the ticking clock and the Vivaldi drifting softly from another room. It wasn’t too late, Granddad said it was just cresting ten. They could still light a fire. Mac might suggest it if Cough ever came back.

  One of the side doors opened, and Mac stopped rocking abruptly. A woman backed through the swinging door, which apparently led to the kitchen. She was drying her hands on a white towel. She turned and regarded Mac with a polite smile.

  The woman’s face was too severe to be pretty, but light blue eyes softened her. So did hair the shade of honey curling to the nape of her neck. Her frame was fine-boned and slender, but the hands working the towel looked strong.

  “I understand you’re Mac.” The woman’s voice held the faintest British inflection, an alluring sound.

  “Mac Laurie.” She nodded. “I know Vivian lives in town, not on-site. She said if she couldn’t be here, I should present myself to Abby.”


  “Abby Glenn, resident medic.” The woman flipped the towel over her shoulder, a graceful movement. “Have you met Cleo, our legal muscle?”

  “I believe so. The woman who shrieked for you, that was Cleo?”

  “The shrieker, yes.” Abby laughed softly and extended her hand. “We’re pleased to have you, Mac. We were lucky to find someone with your experience on short notice.”

  Mac returned the formal handclasp, and Abby frowned down at her fingers.

  “Was Cleo’s welcome that chilly? I meant to reach the door first, honestly.”

  Mac grinned. “I walked here from the bus station. It’s a little brisk out.”

  “Brisk? I wish you’d called for a ride. We could have spared you a cold hike.”

  “I enjoyed the walk.” Mac shrugged. “It’s beautiful out here.”

  “Well, that it is.” Abby smiled again, and Mac caught a light scent of apples as she moved past her. “We’ll have you warm soon. Cleo laid a fire this morning, and I’ve been looking forward to it all day. We’ve been brewing cider. It’ll be ready by the time you defrost.”

  Mac savored the lilt in Abby’s voice as she followed her to the large screened grate before the hearth. Mac went to the other side to help lift, but Abby shook her head.

  “Better not. These sidings are fairly heavy, and your back’s troubling you as it is. I can manage.”

  Mac stared at Abby as she slid the hinged screen to one side. “You shook my hand and knew my back hurts?”

  “I watched you move and knew your back hurts,” Abby corrected. Her smile turned shy. “I’m sorry, I’m showing off. I’ve been a doctor long enough to—”