“Thank you,” she said, and went into her office, ignoring him when he called after her, “Wait a minute, what bas-relief?” She’d drag him down there later when she had time.
Three students were waiting in her office, two asking for extensions and one complaining of writer’s block, but when they left, they were planning on getting things done, and two of them said they liked her hair.
What’s with my hair? she thought, and went down to the faculty restroom to look in the mirror. Her hair seemed longer now, curling around her ears instead of close-cropped, and the gray was shot with white. She looked closer at the streaks. Almost blue-white. It would have been disturbing if it hadn’t looked so much better than it usually did. Maybe being a goddess meant you got good hair. With any luck, it would work on her skin, too.
She went back to the office and picked up the finished handouts and walked up the flight of stone steps to her classroom, where her students seemed dumbfounded to find her focused and summing up on time, not caught by the hour bell. She taught her second class with equal efficiency, and then she went to the coffeehouse to paint.
And during all of it, while people finished things when she told them to, helpless to resist, she wondered, What’s the price going to be for all of this? What the hell is Kammani up to?
And what is Sam doing with her?
ELEVEN
When Shar got to the coffeehouse, she stopped to consider the big blank white wall she’d painted to the left of the door. They’d talked about what they were going to do with it, but now as she stared at it, she could see figures there, three of them, and a sky, and…
“I’m going to do a mural on that wall,” she told Abby, who was filling the cookie case.
“Cool.” Abby closed the sliding glass door just as Daisy came out with her laptop.
“You know, we could make this place hugely successful,” Daisy said, sitting down at a table next to where Shar was working. “I accidentally charged some people two bucks for a cookie on Friday and they paid it. And they’ve been lining up every morning since then.”
Abby took the other seat, brushing powdered sugar off her hands. “I’m out of cookies by eight every morning. If this keeps up, I’m going to need help.”
Shar picked up the thick cylinder of charcoal she’d bought on her second trip to Mr. Casey’s. I want those three goddesses on here, she thought, seeing them float on the wall before her still. And the outside of the coffeehouse behind them. And behind that I want an amber sunrise that starts on the left and then turns into the heat of day with a cinnamon sky and then ends in a blue night sky. I want suns and flowers and stars.
And a frieze with dogs. Lots of dogs.
And I want Sam.
No, not Sam.
Daisy frowned at the figures on her laptop. “It’s a shame we can’t hire more bakers, but you know, not many goddesses are looking for work.”
“There’s Gen and Bun,” Abby said. “I don’t know that fertility and birth cookies are a good idea, but maybe they’d be … inspirational.…”
“Shar?” Daisy said.
“I’m listening,” Shar lied, and began to draw, big sweeps of the charcoal on the white primer, tracing the goddesses that floated there, clear as day, the contrast between the charcoal and white startling, the lines rough and crumbly as they curved and scraped and made her breathe faster, and her spirit lifted as she drew because it was the right thing to do, this picture, this wall, this coffeehouse, these people.…
She leaned against the wall until the spasm passed, while behind her, Daisy outlined the plan for the coffeehouse: a website, a logo, a signature drink, souvenir mugs, T-shirts, the works.
“Sounds good to me,” Abby said. “Maybe I can figure out Kammani’s tonic recipe, too.”
Shar kept drawing. “That might be good. If we could figure out what was in it that kicks up our powers without having to get it from Kammani…”
Abby nodded. “I’ve found Granny B’s notebooks, and it was clear she was trying to figure it out herself. I’m not sure how she even knew about temple tonic, but I’m guessing there must be some sort of racial memory going on. Anyway, the stuff would sell like crazy, so I’m all for making this place a real business. There’s only one problem. Who’s going to pay for the logo design, that stuff?”
Shar waved that away. “I have money. If you design the website, I know an art prof I can pay to get the logo done. But those butter cookies, as good as they are, aren’t just cookies, and neither is that tonic. We’re messing with forces we don’t understand and—”
“And there’s a line from every bad horror movie ever made,” Daisy said. “What’s to understand?”
“Kammani,” Shar said. “She did a mind meld on Abby, remember? And there’s Sam, working with her.” And Noah. She stopped drawing and looked at them both. “I don’t think we should go to the class tonight.”
“You don’t trust Sam?” Abby said. “He seems really nice.”
“He is really nice,” Shar said, trying not to think of him holding Milton as they watched movies, or of the earnestness with which he asked questions about The Big Lebowski, or of the surprising sweetness he could exhibit in everyday things. He wasn’t a complicated man, but he was a good man. Except…” But he’s working with Kammani. That does not inspire confidence.”
“So is Noah,” Daisy pointed out. “We trust him.”
Shar put her eyes back on the wall. “I think I’m ready to paint now.”
“We trust Noah,” Daisy said firmly. “Don’t we, Shar?”
“Where’s Sam?” Abby said.
“Home with the dogs.” Or out hooking up. The bastard.
“Shar?” Daisy said.
“I mean on the wall,” Abby said, coming to stand beside Shar.
Shar blinked. “He doesn’t belong on the wall. This is our wall.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Abby said. “But it’s your mural. I have to make more cookies. It’s okay with me if we don’t go to class tonight. I’ll work on the tonic recipe.” And she went back into the kitchen while Daisy looked at Shar speculatively.
“It’s your wall, but you don’t want your guy on there.”
“He’s not my guy,” Shar said, trying to keep her voice light. She drew a line on the wall and the charcoal snapped under the pressure.
“Shar Summer, you’ve got some springs inside that are wound way too tight,” Daisy said. “When they pop, you’re gonna take somebody’s eye out.”
“I’m not as trusting as you,” Shar said miserably. She’d been so happy, dazzled by the paint and the punch and Sam. And then reality had returned. “I don’t know about Noah because I don’t know Noah, but Sam … Sam is Kammani’s right-hand man. Besides, Sam’s slept with at least a dozen women since he got here. He has a hard time remembering their names, but he has no trouble getting their phone numbers. I’d just get lost in the crowd.”
“Your god is a manwhore?” Daisy speculated for a moment. “Well. That’s some chewy delicious irony for you.”
Shar dropped the charcoal and picked up her paintbrush. “Other than that, he’s a good guy. Who’s working for a goddess who may want to eat our brains.”
“That’s Mina,” Daisy said. “Kammani probably just wants our fresh, beating hearts. Another good reason not to go to the class tonight.”
Shar thought about Sam’s heart in the wall of her bedroom and shuddered. Then she thought about Sam in her bedroom and shuddered again, imagining him reaching for her.
Deep slow breaths.
“Shar?” Daisy said, and Shar said, “It’s okay, I’m on top of it,” and began the underpainting, laying in the shadows and the contouring in browns and creams until the mural looked ominous, brooding.
“You really need to lighten up,” Daisy said over her lap-top.
An hour later, all the underpainting was in and Shar was ready to do the hard part.
Sky first, she thought, and painted in an amber sunrise streaked wit
h creamy clouds tinged with cinnamon, and a big sun, like a huge butter cookie, coming up over the horizon. She breathed deeper and then moved to the middle, where she painted the heat of day in cinnamon streaked with cool blue clouds, the colors practically bouncing off the wall and setting up that low hum inside her as she added yellow daisies, flying over the sky. And then she sank into the deep indigo of the night, her blood pounding to its beat, picking out pale blue stars faintly blushed with cinnamon that prickled on her skin, set around a crescent moon of palest amber. Then she thought, Not yet, and picked up the blue again to dash small blue birds in the yellow sunrise, that went on like little gasps. Now, she thought, and stepped back.
The sky was exactly what she wanted. Primitive but still modern, bright but comforting, cheerful but strong…
“It’s us,” Daisy said from behind her. “I forgive you for starting with brown.”
“It’s going to take me days,” Shar said, keeping a lid on the bubble in her blood, “but it’ll be great when it’s done.” She heard the confidence in her own voice and was amazed. “And we need a new name for this place, too.” She looked over at Abby, who’d come out of the kitchen to see, dusting flour off her hands. “If that’s okay with you.”
“Yeah, I don’t see us as Granny B,” Abby said, staring at the wall. “It’s gorgeous. Are those scribbles under the sky us? How about Three Goddesses and a Lust Cookie?”
Shar laughed, and then the door to the coffeehouse opened and she turned, and Sam came in with Wolfie and Milton, dressed like any other guy in the jeans and the chambray shirt she’d bought him, looking like the god he was—a veritable lust cookie—and her smile widened in spite of herself because it was so good to see him, especially with the dogs looking up at him adoringly. Bowser and Bailey came out and barked their hellos, and the place seemed filled with dogs and goddesses and one amazing god.
“Hey,” Sam said to her, with his open smile that made her bite her lip. “We watched Big China again. Milton insisted.”
“I’m feeling kinda invincible,” Wolfie barked.
“Sonofabitch,” Milton barked, and Shar met Sam’s eyes and laughed with him, feeling the lightness in her bones, the lift in her heart again.
“Three Goddesses and Their Four Dogs,” Abby said, and shook her head. “That’s not it, either. We’ll get it.”
“Three goddesses and their four dogs?” Sam said.
“A name for this place.” Shar turned back to the mural and started to paint in the flat planes of the coffeehouse in Bea’s happy lavender that popped beautifully against the sky. The color made her skin prickle, and Sam was standing so close, if she reached out she could touch him. She wasn’t going to touch him; she drew a deep breath as the pressure built inside her and began to twist, and she thought, Not here, not with Sam here, and forced the feeling down. “It doesn’t have to be Three Goddesses.”
“Three is the perfect number,” Sam said.
“Perfect for what?” Daisy asked.
“Three goddesses began the world,” Sam said. “In the beginning, before time began, there were the Three. The First saw glimmers of light and caught them in her bowl, beautiful and strong. She threw them to the Next, who gathered them on her spindle and spun them to make the sky bloom with the heat of the day. Then the Last took the light and shattered it into stars with her sword to give the world night and peace and rest.”
“Triple goddess,” Shar said, pausing with the paintbrush in her hand. “Why is three the perfect number?”
“My uncle Milki told me that.”
“Uncle Milki?” Shar said, startled, and Abby came out of the kitchen, looking interested.
“He was big on numbers. ‘Without three, there would be no dimension,’ ” Sam said. “ ‘Two lines cannot enclose a space.’There was more, but I always tuned out about then.”
“Milki-la-el?” Shar said.
“Yes.”
“Milki-la-el who invented mathematics,” Shar said. “He was really your uncle?”
“Of course not,” Sam said. “He was mortal. He was a priest to my aunt Nisaba.”
“Who was a goddess.” Shar went back to her mural. Every time she got to thinking he was a guy, he said something that reminded her he was a god.
Abby spoke from behind the counter. “Milki is real? Because Christopher has somebody talking in his head and he says it’s someone named Milki.”
“Talking in his head?” Sam said, and looked at Shar.
“No, that is not usual for this world,” Shar said, and went back to painting.
“But if Milki really existed—,” Abby went on. “He existed,” Sam said.
“—then Christopher isn’t crazy at all.”
“No crazier than the rest of us,” Daisy said, watching Shar. “We bring down the curve.”
“Go talk to Christopher about Milki, Sam,” Shar said, painting thick strokes of lavender for the frame around the coffeehouse windows, not adding, It would be so nice if you had some male friends.
“Are you angry with me, Shar?” Sam said, sounding puzzled.
“No,” Shar said, and the silence stretched out.
“It would help if you’d quit having sex with every woman in town,” Abby offered, and when Shar turned and glared at her, she said virtuously, “If nobody tells him, he’ll never know.”
Sam looked at her. “This bothers you, Shar?”
“I think you sleep with too many women.” Shar lined the side of the building in the mural with a purple shadow, concentrating to steady her hand so she wouldn’t turn around and run him through with the end of her brush, screaming, Yes, it bothers me!
That would be hard to explain.
“How can there be too many?” Sam said.
“And that confirms my manwhore diagnosis,” Daisy said.
“Manwhore?” Sam said.
Shar kept her eyes on her mural. “Okay, I’ll try to explain this to you.” Stay calm. He’s a god. He doesn’t think like you do. “Men who constantly sleep with many different women for short periods of time are not attractive. They are immature and callous and incapable of establishing human bonds, and while they often feel that they are in some way superior by doing this, they are in fact compensating from deep inferiority or a lack of basic human decency. They are pathetic loser sleazeballs, and by behaving like this, you are joining their ranks.” So much for calm.
“Loser sleazeballs,” Sam said.
“That’s the technical term,” Daisy said. “The popular term is ‘manwhore.’ ” She pushed the plate closer to him. “Have a cookie.”
“Never mind,” Shar said. “Four thousand years ago as a god, you were probably perfectly in sync with prevailing values. It’s just that it’s the twenty-first century, you’ve been here four days, and you’ve probably slept with a dozen women—”
Sam opened his mouth, and Wolfie wagged his tail and whined, “Don’t say it; don’t say it; don’t say it.”
“More than a dozen,” Shar said, clamping down on her temper.
“Has anyone complained?” Sam said, looking honestly concerned. “Has anyone called me a sleazeball?”
“Just me,” Shar said. “No one is complaining; they’re probably all singing your praises. They’re probably forming clubs.”
“Temples,” Sam said.
“I was kidding,” Shar said, turning around to glare.
“So was I,” Sam said.
Shar looked at him, amazed. “Where did you learn to kid people?”
“I’ve been here five days,” Sam said. “You are not a complex people.”
“Oh, yeah?” Shar thought about it. “No, I guess we’re not. Never mind.” She went back to her mural.
Sam got up and came to stand behind her, surveying the mural over her head, and he was so close—even with her eyes closed, she’d have known it was him—that it took everything she had to keep from turning around.
“Dogs and Goddesses,” Sam said.
“What?”
“Dogs and Goddesses,” he said. “That’s what this place is about. That’s a good name.”
“I like it,” Abby said.
Shar turned and looked up at him and found him gazing down at her, those hot, dark eyes locked on hers.
“Dogs and Goddesses,” he said. “Best things in the world. My world.”
Mine, too, she thought, and didn’t kiss him because Abby and Daisy were watching, and because it was a really bad idea, but she wanted to, the memory of that first kiss came back at the worst moments, and then he nodded and turned away and went out, and she knew he was going to Kammani because the dog class was in three hours.
It doesn’t matter, she thought, although it did, tremendously, but there was nothing she could do, so she went back to painting the coffeehouse on the wall, and when it was finished, with a new striped awning in yellow and coral, she carefully lettered Dogs and Goddesses on the windows and it looked exactly right.
Abby came out and said, “I like it.”
“Good,” Shar said, staring at it. The wall was so much better than her life.
“Uh, I’m going out,” Abby said. “Okay.”
“I have to see a man about a voice.”
“Okay.”
Shar stared at the mural as Abby left and Daisy came out to look at it, too. “I see your problem,” she said quietly.
“Did I misspell something?” Shar said, squinting at the painted windows. There were an awful lot of s’s in “goddesses.”
“No,” Daisy said. “About Sam. He’s a manwhore, yes, but you can trust him, like I trust Noah. You have to believe in something sometime, Shar. You can’t footnote your way through life, double-checking everything.”
“Yeah,” Shar said, looking at the three figures she’d sketched on the wall. “I think I’ll believe in goddesses. I’ll believe in the three of us.”
Then she went back to painting and thought treacherously, And Sam.
At the last minute Abby decided to walk. She only had the vaguest idea of where Christopher’s haunted house was, and it would be easier finding it on foot than driving around in circles like a stalker. Plus there was always the possibility he was at the math building.
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