by James, Ella
With the passenger’s seat scooted back and Baby standing like a fluffin princess in the floorboard, I drive up to Gammy’s cottage. His Land Rover is there—of course it would be—but I don’t let that deter me. I walk to the small porch, set the basket down, and ring the doorbell once. Then I drive off.
He’ll take us from here. If he doesn’t reach out—and I doubt he will, based on history—it’s quite possible I might never speak to him again.
* * *
I start making bargains with myself. I didn’t see him yesterday after I dropped the basket off. If I don’t see him today—Thursday—and I likely won’t, as I’m working through appointments at the clinic—I’ll build on that; I won’t seek him out tomorrow. I won’t even walk near where they’re digging.
If I don’t see him either day, I’ll tell myself it’s well and truly over—for the best.
What happened in the closet was a moment of shameful weakness. For us both. He’s still poorly. I’m the only one who knows about his suffering. I’ve soothed him before. And I’m that sort, besides.
There’s a reason I became Doctor’s assistant and de facto nurse. There’s a reason I’m here cooing at a lamb clad in a diaper and a bow-bedazzled collar. I’m a nurturer. I remember pasting a Band-Aid onto Mummy’s finger once, and she said, “You’ll be like Gammy.”
“How so?” I asked.
She smiled. “A healer.”
Shortly after Mum and my father were lost, the island hired a licensed physician to live here fulltime, working on a two-year contract. As we cycled through doctors Ahuja, King, and Greer—who stayed for two “terms”—Gammy used her healing powers less and less, except to teach me tincture-making. But a healer she was. Mrs. White told me that way back when, she would take the mental cases and see to the infants. Gammy doctored wounds and sprains, crushed fingers and concussions and the like.
I feel warm, remembering my Gammy as I wait for Mrs. Glass to arrive at the clinic. She rings the bell, and I pull the door open to her radiant smile. Fluffy, fading red hair falls around her face. I look down and see that in the hand that’s not propped on her cane, she’s holding a Tupperware box.
“You didn’t!”
“Well, you know I certainly did.”
“Mrs. Glass.” I tsk, then take the box of berry muffins as she coos at Baby, whom I pick up to ensure Mrs. Glass’ safe passage through the waiting area and over to the first of the clinic beds. She’s got something neurological that flares at times—something that resembles multiple sclerosis—but she won’t leave the island for treatment. Not at her advanced age, she says, though she’s only sixty-three.
She asks all about Baby as I conduct her monthly neurological exam, checking boxes off a photo-copied list on my clip-board for each question I should ask, each small test I should do. Doctor wrote it out for me before he left.
“I’d say you’re as good as last time, at least your reflexes appear to be. Your eyes are holding strong, I believe. Tell me how you’ve been feeling?”
I listen as she discusses toileting and her numb toes.
“Mr. Glass has been massaging them as you suggested,” she reports. “I believe that does help.”
“Lovely of him.”
She smiles proudly. “I did well.”
“Mr. Glass is quite a fellow, that’s true. What’s he writing now?”
“A story for the younger boys, Asher and Josh.” It’s Jacob, but I don’t correct her. “It’s about a rogue penguin.”
“That sounds delightful.”
We work through the rest of her vitals, and she talks of winning a bag of freeze-dried strawberries at bingo and “that poor dear” Sarah, who styled her hair a bit wrong last week at the salon.
“I quite hope my cousin can instruct her a bit more before retiring.”
“How has she been—Cindy? I last talked to her a few days back.”
“You know how she is. Not a thing wrong with her,” Mrs. Glass huffs.
“That’s not true, though,” I say gently. Cindy Glass has always suffered with depression.
“Mind over matter, as I see it.”
“For Cindy it’s more difficult, I believe.”
She pats her hair, sighing. “Evidently.”
And that’s all that’s spoken about that.
“How are you feeling?” she asks. “I can scarcely believe what happened with you and that Homer Carnegie. I heard he moved the boulders one by one until he cleared a path for those wide shoulders.” She winks, and I feel a flush creep up my neck.
“We dug out at last. We were thrilled to see the sky.”
“Oh, I’d imagine. He’s not hard on the eyes, though, so I suppose the alternate view was near as good. A bit sinful perhaps, but quite memorable.”
“Mrs. Glass.” I tsk again as I pull the blood pressure cuff off her arm. “You’re too naughty for me.”
“How is Dr. Daniels? How’s he faring?”
I update her on Doctor, who’s away visiting his ill father.
“You must be exhausted. Ready for his return.”
“Certainly so. But I’m faring quite nicely for the moment.”
“It’s a bit of pressure, I suppose. Bearing the responsibility for so many poorlys.”
I laugh, and she smiles quite charmingly, and that’s a person for you, I think—any person. Bits of good and bits of not-so-lovely. I’ve learned to take the bad with the good. It’s all that one can ever really do. I find other people quite foreign—especially after years of silence—but there’s almost always something to love.
I send Mrs. Glass away with a freeze-dried pack of strawberries Mayor Acton’s sister gave me when she came by for assistance with an ingrown toenail.
As she starts toward her home, across the lane and two doors down, I hold Baby’s hoof up in a wave. Mrs. Glass chortles.
A few moments after I step back into the clinic, I hear a soft thump outside. With a vision of dear Mrs. Glass tripping on the ramp, I yank the door open and nearly suffer heart arrhythmia.
Declan.
He’s leaning over, his long arms bracing against the wooden rail beside the stairs. As I watch, wide-eyed, he turns his head toward me and straightens.
“Hi.” A soft smile curves the corners of his mouth. His hair is messy, dimple showing. I realize he’s wearing sport clothing and breathing like he’s just been jogging.
“Hi.” I can’t help smiling, even as I realize with some horror it’s the first time I’ve seen him since the closet.
He brings his hands together in front of him, and for a moment, I feel he looks perhaps a bit bashful. “Thank you for the basket.”
My cheeks burn. I nod. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you found it.”
Something warm pushes at my calves.
“Baby.” I scoop her up, holding her against my frantic heart. “She’s a wee rascallian.”
He grins. “She’s what?”
“A wee rascallian.” Now I’m blushing.
“What’s a rascallian?” He look so smug, I’d like to pop him.
“I don’t know. It’s like a rascal I suppose.” I pet Baby’s head, then stroke her soft nose. “Your people created duck face.” I smile up at him. “So don’t you say a word.”
His easy smile widens. “What’s duck face?”
“You know…duck face.”
“Show me.” He smirks.
I give him my best ridiculous pout, and both his dimples show. “I scarcely noticed them inside the burrow.” I nod at him.
His hand runs over his wild hair. “What?”
“The dimples. That one’s deeper.” I point to his left cheek.
He flattens his mouth and smooths his face out, giving me an exaggerated, “o”-lipped face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says without moving his mouth.
I roll my eyes. “As if there’s not a fan club for your dimples.”
“What?” He looks a bit puzzled.
“Women adore dimples. It’s a
known fact.”
“Is it?”
“Don’t be a duck, Declan.”
“I’m Declan again now?” He leans against the railing with a faint smile.
“Only because your surname is so tedious.”
“Tedious?” I love the way his face lights up when I’ve surprised him. “You think so?” He’s grinning now.
“That’s what I said, I believe.”
Baby squirms in my arms, and I set her down. She blinks up at Declan.
“Hey there.” He kneels down beside her. I watch as he holds his palm to her face. “God, they have the softest noses.” His eyes close a moment. Then he runs his hand over her head. “She glad to have you back?” He’s looking up at me now.
“Over the moon. You, she’s not so sure of.”
He remains crouching there on the stoop. My eyes sweep his shoulders and my body warms uncomfortably.
“To what do we owe this honor?”
He stands, pulling something from his pocket. It’s a small black packet. He holds it out, and I squint.
“Pop Rocks…” I take it from him. “What are Pop Rocks?”
He lifts his dark brows. “Guess you’ll have to open them and see.”
“Something edible?”
His dimple deepens. “Open them.”
I tear along the top of the packet and peer inside at a pile of tiny, pink-red rocks.
“Here.” He takes the packet, holds my gaze with his blue-gray one. “Hold your palm out, Siren.” I do, and he shakes some of the candy pebbles into it.
“Now put those in your mouth.”
I laugh. “I don’t want to.”
“Do it.” He grins brilliantly.
“Is it going to hurt?”
“You think I would hurt you, Siren?” The seriousness on his face makes my neck flush. When I stare skeptically down at the Pop Rocks, he pours some into his palm. “Here.”
He puts them in his mouth and opens it wide—and I hear popping.
I laugh. “What?”
“C’mon…”
“Witchcraft!”
He closes his mouth, making a funny, smirky face, and I hear the pop-hiss of the candy.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pop my small handful into my mouth, and gape as they sizzle and fizz. “Stone the cows!” I say around them.
He laughs. “What?”
We stand there laughing in the damp air. When I swallow, I say, “Stone the cows. It’s a perfectly valid expression.”
“Is it?” He makes a skeptical face, and I notice he looks a bit strange. A bit pale, perhaps, and there’s something about his eyes…
“What?” His lips twist in a not-quite-smile and I realize something. “You look poorly. Tired,” I add gently.
“Nah.”
But he does. He’s paler than he was mere moments ago.
“You’re a hopeless liar, Carnegie. And anyway, don’t lie to me.”
His eyebrows notch as he shakes his head, raising his hand to his hair as he does when he feels uneasy. “I’m okay.”
“Did you use my remedies?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you afraid to try my funny tinctures?”
He gives me a strained smile. “I’ll use them. Did you make them?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks for sending them.”
I want to scream at him to just act normal—how we did inside the burrow. But that wasn’t normal, was it? And I’m not acting that way myself, besides.
What you really need is for him to leave.
I hear myself say, “Come inside.”
His eyes widen a bit, and I open the clinic door. “I never got a chance to check you over. Step inside and I’ll do something speedy.”
I hold my hand out for his. He doesn’t take it, but he follows me into the entry area, where there are two small love seats angled ’round a wooden table stacked with old magazines.
“Wait here for a moment.” I point to the mauve love seat and go fetch a few things from the cabinets and counters. I return to find him sitting with his head in his hands. Baby stands at his feet like a guard dog.
I sit beside him, speaking softly: “Take your shirt off, Sailor.”
That makes his lips twitch. He removes his shirt, and I feel tingly at the sight of so much heavy muscle. I try to take a deep breath, but my face feels hot, and my heart starts to race.
I press the stethoscope to his chest. Chills cover his warm, smooth skin. I check a few spots on his chest and move to his broad back. His muscles flex as he shifts under the bell of the stethoscope.
“A bit fast,” I murmur.
He rubs his face. As if he’s avoiding my eyes?
“Let me get your blood pressure.”
He holds his arm out, staring ahead as I work the cuff up his forearm. It scarcely fits over his bicep. When I get it there, I realize I’ll need to change it. His muscle is simply too thick for the usual size. While I do that, he avoids looking at me, and I wonder why. Is he embarrassed? Irritated? Perhaps I erred in urging him inside.
I get the reading and remove the cuff from his arm.
“Do you always tend a bit high?”
He shakes his head, so slight I nearly miss it.
It’s likely a side-effect, then—of his withdrawal process. That or he intensely dislikes sitting near me.
I look at his handsome profile, gone from jovial to serious.
“May I ask…what was your last dose? Of medication,” I manage.
He blinks, his gaze still pointed straight ahead, and I realize my hunch was correct. He doesn’t want to look at me. “Tapered down to eighty,” he says.
“Eighty…”
“Milligrams.”
I lick my lips. “Of…”
“Valium.” His eyes find mine.
Eighty? Eighty milligrams a day of Valium was his low dose? My brain stumbles. I realize my mouth is open. I should say something. Something affirming. I just can’t process.
“Into the bath,” I manage.
Something harsh crosses his features. “Right.” He exhales and starts to stand.
“Wait.”
“I’m fine, Finley. I can’t be in here.” He tugs his shirt over his head and strides toward the door.
“What do you mean?” I call after him.
“What do you think?” His tone is hard, but as I reach his side, he pauses with his arm stretched toward the door.
“Because of all the medication?”
“Never let a junkie in the drug store, Finley. Didn’t someone tell you that?”
I see his hand shake as it wraps around the door handle. I don’t know why—perhaps because I can’t stand to see him trembling as he does—but I wrap my arms around his waist from behind.
I can feel the pumping of his torso with his too-fast breaths. I press my cheek against his back and hear his heartbeat thunder. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” His muscles clench as a shudder jerks through him. He turns around, escaping my grip with the movement, and I find his eyes are hard. His face is pale.
“For asking you inside. And—” I swallow against my aching throat before I whisper, “I’m sorry I can’t help. I asked for the location of the key to the controlled substances safe. I couldn’t get it from him. From Doctor.”
His eyes shut. “I don’t want it,” he whispers.
I’m not sure if I should touch him when he’s clearly upset, but I find I can’t help myself. I grab his hand, linking our fingers as his eyes open to find mine.
For the longest moment, we stand there staring at each other—and I feel his pain. I feel how lost and tired he is, how difficult it must be for him to endure. Then he tugs me closer, strokes his hand back through my hair, and lowers his mouth to mine.
His lips are firm and soft and warm. I feel like I’m falling through space and time as his tongue nudges into my mouth in a velvet surge that makes my limbs quiver. My fingers—still laced with his—curl.
&nbs
p; Then it’s in and out; it’s sinuous and slow…tender and firm…and I can feel my body throb and clench as I try to return his kisses. His mouth is hard and forceful. Mine feels soft and stupid. I can’t breathe as he devours me.
Then his arm laces around my waist, bringing my hips flush with his erection.
He steps back.
I’m panting as he says, “Goodbye, Finley.”
And he’s gone.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Finley
Every time he throws the ball, a cold sweat prickles my skin.
“Did you see that?” Anna laughs. I curve my hand around my forehead.
“I’m not looking! Someone’s going to lose an eye.”
Anna chuckles, and I peek around my fingertips to make a face at wee Kayti. She gives me a gummy smile, and I peek at the field. Declan’s pulling his arm back to throw. My belly flips so hard, I fear I might be sick, so I look at my feet again.
A moment later, Anna says, “You can look back up, you ninny! Mayor Acton struck out.”
I lower my hand, forcing my gaze to sweep the mayor first. The tactic is a bit of a fail, though, as he’s exchanging words with Declan. I school my face before I dare examine his, finding he looks sheepish underneath the bill of his Sox cap. Sheepish and utterly delectable.
The afternoon is gray and misty. He’s wearing a baseball shirt—white at the torso, dark blue on the arms—that stretches over his chest and shoulders. Paired with it, cargo-style khaki shorts and sneakers. Every time he throws, his strong calves bulge and his forearm muscles tauten.
I can’t watch without a flipping feeling deep down in my belly. It’s like an illness. I can’t shake my automatic response. It’s not just my body, either. My mind is like a train that’s confined to a circular track, running as fast as its engine will allow but never getting anywhere new. I feel dazed. Hyper-focused on him. I’m lost in the shape of him, the way he moves. The way his mouth curves at the corners a bit shyly. The way he laughs.
Near the game’s end, Declan hits the ball off Daniel Smith’s comparably snail-paced pitch, and it sails high into the milky white sky. For a moment, he hesitates before he runs the bases. Then he’s moving like a golden god, and I have no good excuse not to watch.
