Abby let Mac and Cleo engage Lena while she drew Inez aside. “I think you can take her home, Inez. She’ll sleep more comfortably in her own bed. I’ll stop by to check on her after dinner, if that’s all right. Just soup tonight, something light. Let me get you some baby aspirin, and—”
“I’m a good mother.” Inez had been playing with the small crucifix she wore around her neck, but now her fingers stilled, and she looked steadily at Abby. “I am. We been here two weeks. You guys know that.”
“Inez.” Abby touched her cold hand gently. “We know this was an accident. Lena has a very good mother. She’s a lucky little girl.”
“Okay,” Inez whispered.
The setting sun cast a rosy light through the infirmary’s window as Abby ushered mother and daughter out of the infirmary.
“Damn, I left all your paperwork in the Jeep, Inez.” Cleo zipped up her jacket. “I’ll tag along and get it for you.”
Abby lowered her voice and leaned into Cleo. “Dinner by the fire?”
“Who’s cooking?”
“It’s Mac’s turn, I believe.”
Cleo grunted. “Bring the ipecac.”
“Please do.” Mac waved at them from the corner. “I’ll mix it right in with the chili.”
“C’mon, Mama, we gotta go look out there for my tooth.” Lena tugged on Inez’s hand. “Or I won’t get my dollar!”
“See you guys after the tooth hunt.” Cleo winked at Abby and followed Inez and Lena out.
Mac was stripping the white sheet of butcher paper off the examination table, smiling at Abby faintly.
“What?” Abby asked, pulling a fresh sheet from the roll secured to the head of the bed.
“I was thinking you have good hands.” Mac shrugged, folding the paper. “Hands are something I pay attention to. They say a lot about a person.”
“They do?” Abby didn’t look up from the table. “What do mine say?” She couldn’t believe she was asking this. It felt like a craven plea for some kind of compliment. But she wanted to hear Mac’s answer.
“They move skillfully, with such precision, from one task to another. But your touch can comfort a hurt kid and reassure a scared mother too. You have good hands.”
Abby swallowed and tried to think of a light reply, but stopped when she saw the red streaks on Mac’s wrists. “Well, you don’t. I trust that’s all Lena’s blood?”
“Yikes.” Mac looked down at her open palms in dismay. “Dang, all you need is me tracking bloodstains all over your nice, sterile infirmary.”
“Step over here.” Abby took Mac’s elbow and steered her toward the small sink. She hesitated, then turned on the faucet and poured a large dollop of liquid antiseptic soap in her palm. “That’s warm enough, stick them in.”
Mac’s shoulder brushed against Abby’s as she came up beside her, then held her hands beneath the stream of water.
Abby spread the soap between her palms and then smoothed it over Mac’s hands and wrists, a distant part of her wondering what the merry hell she was up to. Mac was fully capable of washing her own hands, and coming into contact with blood without protection was against universal precautions, but Abby didn’t much care.
The warm water felt good, and so did the glide of her fingers over Mac’s knuckles, rough and supple at the same time. The light veins tracing the back of Mac’s hands were visible as the dried blood sluiced away, faint blue rivers beneath her skin. Mac’s fingers, curled in Abby’s palm, felt strong. She had good hands.
“This is the only jewelry I’ve seen you wear.” Abby touched the simple turquoise ring on Mac’s right hand.
“It’s a Hopi christening ring.” Mac slipped it off easily and showed Abby the small, ornate lettering etched inside the silver band.
“Kaya.” Abby smiled. “Your middle name?”
Mac nodded. “It was a gift from my folks, on my eighteenth birthday. A nice connection to my roots.”
“It’s lovely, Mac.”
Abby turned off the water, remembering the uneasy twinge that went through her before she realized the blood on Mac’s hands had been Lena’s, and the relief that followed. The thought of Mac bleeding disturbed her. Well, anyone’s bleeding disturbed her, of course.
Mac stood quietly, accepting the paper towels Abby handed her after the last of the water swirled down the sink. Their eyes met as they each dried their hands, Mac standing close enough that the difference in their heights was obvious. Abby had to look up to meet her gaze.
“Thanks, Doc.”
“You’re welcome,” Abby said. “From my hands to yours.”
Mac grinned. “Want to help me with dinner?”
“I’m a true surgeon when it comes to nuking leftovers. Lead on.”
*
Abby was pleased to find Cleo and Mac still sprawled in front of the snapping fireplace when she returned from checking on Lena. “Oof.” She made it down the three flagstone steps to the living room, then leaned heavily on the back of the sofa. “I shall never eat again. I can’t imagine having room for a single crumb for the rest of my natural life.”
Cleo jerked her chin toward the kitchen. “I think there’s a few black beans left in there.”
“Ooh! Be right back.” Abby spun and trotted toward the kitchen, enjoying Mac’s chuckle. She was already forking the fragrant, spiced beans from a cup as she returned and settled into her rocking chair. “Honestly, Mac. Wonderful dinner.”
“Yeah, which I resent like hell, by the way.” Nestled into one corner of the sofa, Cleo frowned at Mac. “I’m a good cook, but you know what I get when I heat up some frozen taquitos from Safeway? I get a mess of lukewarm Safeway taquitos. You got this.” She gestured to the empty plates scattered over the coffee table.
“Jack cheese. Black olives.” Mac ticked them off on her fingers. “Green chile. Bacos. Black beans and corn on the side. Olé. Adios Safeway, hola Santa Fe.”
Cleo slurped from her can of soda and burped eloquently. “Ah, Gaia. That’s better.” She clambered out of the sofa and went to the CD player on the corner bookshelf. Abby knew what to expect. She tended toward classical tastes, but Cleo was all about the sixties, the Motowner the better. Abby wasn’t sure yet what flavors of music Mac preferred; she seemed to enjoy everything. She must have a beautiful singing voice, given her river-rich alto.
Mac was a floor-sitter, Abby had noticed. Even when her back wasn’t hurting her, she usually avoided the deep-cushioned armchairs and settled cross-legged on the throw rug close to the hearth. Abby watched the red light flicker over Mac’s handsome features and realized each member of the household naturally gravitated now to her accustomed place for these fireside chats.
Mac lifted a small afghan from a footstool and tossed it to Abby. “How’s our intrepid builder of snowwomen?”
“Lena’s just fine. I left her watching cartoons with her mother.” Abby draped the crocheted blanket across her knees. “Her only concern was not being able to find her baby tooth in that slush out there. Luckily, I had the foresight to take a fifty from Cleo’s billfold to slip under her pillow, so all will be well in the morning.”
“Where did you learn to cook like that, Macky-wai?” Cleo huffed back into the sofa, obviously not over her taquito-sulk. “Was your mom some kind of New Mexican Martha Stewart, or what?”
“She still is, matter of fact.” Mac’s smile was fond as she stretched out on her side. “My mom still whacks out the best green chile enchiladas I ever sank a tooth into. My dad’s useless in a kitchen, and I was their only kid, so she invested all her cookery lore in me.”
Mac’s smile faded as she watched the flames, the Temptations crooning softly in the background. Abby wondered if all Mac’s memories of her family were as happy as those cooking lessons. Abby understood well the mixed feelings involved in remembering mothers.
“Both your folks are still around, then?” Cleo asked. “That’s cool. My mama’s still rattling her own pans too. Turned seventy last year.”
“Wh
at about you, Doc?” Mac braced her cheek on her hand, her voice mild. “Are your parents still with us?”
“My father passed away six years ago. My mother is alive.” Abby tried to elaborate, but found nothing else to say.
To her relief, Mac seemed willing to accept her brevity. “You an only child too, Cleo?”
“Oh hell, no.” Cleo rolled her eyes. “Four sisters. I’m the eldest. That’s how I learned to cook. I grew up frying ’em all my lame-ass taquitos.”
“I would have loved that. Having sisters.” Abby smiled, seeing the softening in Cleo’s face when she talked about her family. “It was lonely sometimes, being the only bairn. I used to make up sisters to play with.”
“Psychotic even as a sprout, huh?” Cleo clicked her tongue sympathetically. “Nah, I’m kidding, I can see you with an imaginary playmate, Abby. Playing with her, dancing with her. Breaking all her little cigarettes in half.”
“Hey, I had one of those little imaginary amigas too, but she didn’t smoke.” Mac’s eyes lit up. “Ashley, her name was. She was my best buddy. We were on a road trip once. I was five or so. We stopped for gas, and Ashley didn’t get back in the car when we drove off. I was sure of it. I pitched such a hellacious fit my folks turned the car around and drove back thirty miles to get her.”
Abby was seeing it again, Mac’s quicksilver transformation into childlike delight. Her dark hair, shaggy at the base of her neck, held red highlights that shimmered in the fire’s glow. Abby remembered the thick softness of it beneath her fingers when Mac had hugged her, the day she came to Fireside.
She had enjoyed showing Mac her office and was happy that it obviously pleased her. When Mac opened her arms, Abby had stepped into them easily. She might have been surprised at the unexpected sensations of safety and peace she felt as Mac held her. She’d definitely been surprised when her nipples tightened against Mac’s chest. Abby had never made love with a woman, but she had always accepted the appeal, in intellectual terms at least. That hug had brought the whole concept home much more clearly.
Abby felt Cleo’s measuring gaze, and she forced herself to look away from Mac’s face. “You must have some nieces and nephews to spoil, Cleo, with all those sisters.”
“An even dozen.” Again, Cleo tried to look burdened, and again succeeded only in sounding proud. “I’m still trying to get their mothers to go Buddhist, so I can get out of the Christmas presents.”
“I’ve got a feeling each of those dozen kids has a second mom in you, Cleo,” Mac said. “You might be cheap with presents, but there’s a nice touch of maternity in you.”
“Nah, not me.” The animation faded from Cleo’s face. “I’m nobody’s mother. If you want a kid, you have to be around to guard their little hides every minute, twenty-four seven. Too much work for me.”
Abby, who regularly saw Cleo exhaust herself on behalf of other women’s children, couldn’t lend much credence to her claim to laziness. But their talk moved on to other things, taking the same pleasant, meandering course these unwinding sessions by the fire often followed. College adventures and favorite books. Beloved past pets and hopes for future ones. Finally Abby stretched, regretfully, and began to gather the scattered plates on the coffee table. She caught Mac watching her hands, and they shared a private smile.
Abby savored the comfortable silence as they put away the day, collecting glasses, tamping down the fire, turning off lamps. She was relaxed now, almost limp, after a couple of hours of good food and conversation.
She wished, as she followed Cleo and Mac upstairs, that she had known these two women when she was still making up imaginary sisters. Abby had been too shy as a girl to make many friends. These evenings by the fire were starting to satisfy her nostalgic craving for the adolescent slumber parties she hadn’t been invited to attend.
Mac turned before going into her bedroom. “Night, Doc.”
“Rest well, Counselor.” Abby closed her bedroom door, then rested her palm against the smooth wood. She studied her fingers, remembering Mac’s words about her hands, and knew her sleep would be deep and dreamless tonight.
Chapter Five
“Cleo, this is a den of harsh spirits.” Abby sounded a little daunted. “I’m not sure I know how to behave here. I can’t even use a spittoon properly.”
Mac had to bend closer to hear her over the thudding jukebox. Abby was surveying the dark interior of the tavern clinically, as if examining a suspect lab specimen for parasites.
“Ah, quit bitching.” Cleo held Abby’s chair for her, then kicked another back from the rickety table for Mac. “This is the only joint in town that carries both your weird green tea and decent beer.”
The nearly empty tavern was as odd a hybrid as Mac had seen in her travels, a truly tacky dive that was somewhat redeemed by a weary, new-age ambience. Spittoons were not in evidence, but the dozen shimmering lava lamps set around the room cast a murky blue glow into the late afternoon shadows. Not the callow, skimpy lava lamps that emerged in the 90s either, Mac noted, but the bulky, brass-based models born twenty years earlier. She liked the kitsch, but perhaps its appeal was limited. The only other patrons were a dotting of men sitting at the bar, presumably stovepipe regulars.
She wound one arm over the back of her chair and tried to ease the stiffness in her lower back. This interesting drinking establishment seemed a worthy last stop on her first real tour of Fredericksburg. Vivian had given them all the day off, and they had spent it together. Three women forced into such close habitation might be forgiven for wanting to flee for some precious alone time whenever opportunity arose. But Mac, Abby, and Cleo had tooled off in Cleo’s Jeep as a cheerful matter of course, and the day had been pleasant and light.
Fredericksburg opened a new vista in Mac’s varied experience. She had never lived east of the Mississippi. The place had the feel of a small college town rather than a city, still steeped in Southern tradition and rich in history. Mac loved the broad red brick sidewalks and trim green awnings of the downtown district. The three of them had explored the wealth of antique shops on Caroline Street and shared sandwiches walking along the Rappahannock River, and now her back was more than ready for de-kinking.
“Let’s keep an eye on the time.” Abby peered at the ring-spotted table, as if looking for a napkin to drape across her lap. “We promised Vivian we’d be back by five.”
“We’ve got time to toast this occasion.” Cleo twined her fingers behind her short-cropped head and leaned back in her chair. If the tavern was alien territory to Abby, Cleo seemed at home here. Her dark eyes scanned the men at the bar before she turned to Mac. “The taco belle, here, has been with us one full month today. With her longevity record, I figure we should celebrate now.”
Mac whistled softly, tracing the glass curve of the lamp with her thumb. Had entire weeks passed since her first night here? She remembered a blur of days filled with watching women’s faces, and evenings before the roaring hearth in the main room, listening to their stories. Busy, hectic days, but buoyed by the kind of excitement she had always relished in her work.
And nights, Mac recalled, which seemed to involve a great deal of keeping her gaze from lingering too long on Abby Glenn.
Their eyes met now, and the faint light from the undulating lamp coaxed something mysterious and shining from Abby’s fine features. That faint blush began to touch her face again, and she smiled and averted her gaze.
Mac cleared her throat. “Hey, did we call a plumber for East Two? Scratch and I took a plunger to the sink, but Jo says it’s still—”
“Lord, Macky-wai, you’re as bad as Abby-gail.” Cleo cracked her knuckles, and Abby winced. “Viv is more than capable of calling out a Roto-Rooter. Will you chill?”
“All right, but we still need to find a housekeeper.” Abby slipped her ever-present notebook from her back pocket and flipped through it. “We’re only budgeted for a few hours a week, but that should be—”
Cleo plucked the notebook from Abby’s hand. “F
irst, I’ve already found a housekeeper. Second, she’s not gonna have a house to clean because I will burn the damn place down unless you two can let business drop for ten minutes here.”
Mac grinned as Cleo held the notebook away from Abby’s snapping fingers. “Why don’t we just ask one of the residents to clean the lower level a few times a week, in exchange for a reduction in rent?” she asked.
“Because the housekeeper I found needs the money more.” Cleo signaled a passing server, and pointed to Abby. “Green tea for her, Killian Red for me—Counselor?”
“Corona, por favor.”
Cleo pretended to shudder, then nodded at the server. She leaned her elbows on the table and lowered her voice. “This kid I have in mind is in high school in town, about to graduate. I worked with her when I did that mentoring workshop there a few weeks back. Danny needs to build her bank account to move out as soon as she can. I get the impression her daddy’s too liberal with his drink and his temper.”
“Is this a CPS call, Cleo?” Abby sounded concerned. “If this girl’s a minor—”
“I haven’t seen bruises, and she denies getting hit.” Cleo slapped at her breast pocket for her cigarettes. “Danny has that look, though.”
Mac watched the lines in Cleo’s forehead deepen again, and she regretted not abiding her wish to let Fireside’s business rest for a while. As exciting as these last weeks had been, they’d been stressful too, especially for their resident attorney.
Cleo’s legal maneuverings had succeeded in keeping Ray Lee Cooper, the man who tried to break in on Mac’s first night, locked up since his arrest. A conviction for violating Terry’s restraining order could net him a year behind bars. But his intrusion had been deemed “insufficiently violent”—a phrase that drove Cleo rabid—to deny him bail any longer. Only days before, they had seen Terry and her little girl on their way to another shelter in the next county.
Fireside Page 6
