by Nina Lane
I trail my fingers along the waistband of my pants. Strongly tempted as I am to reach into them and touch myself, I resist the urge. Over the past decade, I’ve often fantasized about me and Cole—hardcore images of him pushing my knees up to my breasts, driving his cock into me, pounding me. I’ve pictured him sitting in a chair with his erection sticking straight up as I straddle his thighs, open my pussy and slide right on to him. I’ve imagined him spanking me, going down on me, thrusting his cock into my willing mouth.
Every time I fantasized about all the dirty things we’d done—which I still wanted—I came so hard my body arched off the bed.
But I also had plenty of fantasies about gentler moments—slow, deep kisses, his long fingers trailing between my breasts, me nuzzling my face into the curve of his shoulder that smelled like sun and salt. Rough or not, those explicit images always featured Cole and me as we were before.
A deep ache of longing rises in me. In our blissful college days, we’d had a wild, wonderful sex life, full of youthful enthusiasm. I’d wanted to experience everything with him. He’d been as eager and impassioned as I was—even more so—and we’d indulged in each other whenever we had the chance.
Our lovemaking had contained everything from slow, romantic interludes to hard quickies and raw, dirty fucks in questionable places. A secluded area of the woods, the backseat of the car while parked near the lighthouse, the kitchen table. Aside from the excitement and intense pleasure, we’d had a lot of outright fun.
We’d also been in love.
But now? He’s not the fervent young man whose hands trembled when he touched my naked body. He’s not adventurous or playful or impatient.
He’s hard. In more ways than one. Intense. And aside from the fact that he clearly doesn’t want me here, I’m in no position to contend with a man like him, even in my fantasies. No matter what my body says to the contrary.
I pull my hand reluctantly from under my shirt. Unfulfilled need courses through me. Knowing sleep will be more elusive than ever, I sit up and grab my sketchbook from the nightstand, hoping to distract myself with drawings.
When dawn breaks, I listen tautly for any sound of Cole, but the house is silent. I take a quick shower, gather my things, and walk cautiously down the winding staircase. A glance out the front window tells me Cole’s Porsche is gone.
Disbelief clouds my mind again. I’m not surprised he’s so successful, but the path he took is never one I would have imagined for him.
Then again, my phobia-riddled life isn’t one I would have imagined for me.
I find my car keys on the entryway table and head outside, breathing in the welcome sea air.
Regardless of this rather shocking encounter with Cole, it’s time to focus on what I came here to do—design and paint the mural and be here for Vanessa during the last two months of her pregnancy. My reasons for returning to Castille are good, centering on renewal and hope.
After putting my luggage back in the trunk, I check the map on my phone to find a way to downtown Castille that doesn’t involve Highway 16 along the coastline or the Old Mill Bridge that crosses an ocean inlet.
A text appears from Vanessa that she’s leaving Portland early and will text me when she’s back. Come to the house for tea.
Pleased at the invitation, I drive to downtown Castille. Living in San Francisco, I haven’t had to battle my fear of driving too often, but as long as it’s daylight and I drive slowly, my heart rate stays reasonably calm.
After returning the car at a downtown rental office, I pop a cherry Lifesaver into my mouth and walk. Lantern Street is populated by shops, restaurants, and art galleries. Several of my old haunts—a dime store and a diner where we used to hang out after school—have closed, but overall the town hasn’t changed much in ten years.
I stop and make sketches at the Castille Museum and courthouse. I’ve already completed the mural design, but I need to study historical blueprints and city maps to make sure I’m getting everything right. I head to the archives department at Ford’s College.
Situated in the library basement, the archives are accessible via a set of concrete steps and a narrow corridor lit by a single fluorescent light. The door marked Rare Books and Archives is locked, and I press the buzzer on the wall.
A slender, pale young woman with dark brown hair opens the door. “Miss Mays? The security guard called down to let me know you were on the way. I’m Charlotte, the librarian.”
“Josie. Thanks for your time.” I follow her into a large carpeted space lined with wooden tables and locked cabinets. A neatly ordered desk sits at the front of the room and three doors lead to what I assume are the stacks.
“I heard about your mural project.” Charlotte runs her hands over her gray skirt. “You’d like to look at some of our architectural blueprints?”
“Yes, for the historic buildings in town. Just so I can make sure I’m getting the details right.”
“If you want to sit down, I’ll see what I can find.” She disappears toward a door marked Archives.
I take out my sketchpad and pencils and sit down at a table. Another door labeled Medieval Manuscripts opens. A tall, strikingly handsome man dressed in a beautiful tailored navy suit and striped tie emerges, carrying two very old-looking books.
As he walks to a table, I can’t help gazing at him like a fangirl staring in awe at a gorgeous movie star. He catches my eye. His smile of greeting brings a flush to my face.
Wow. Who knew the basement archives of a library could attract a man like him?
“See if these will do, for a start.” Charlotte sets several ledgers and a large roll of papers in front of me. “These are the blueprints for the Castille Lighthouse and the Hancock House, and architectural drawings for the National Bank.”
I turn my attention away from the handsome scholar and toward the papers. Charlotte reaches in front of me to turn on the desk light. Her fingernails are bitten to the quick, the skin almost raw around the edges. A habit I’m familiar with.
“I’ll get you a pair of gloves.” She walks to her desk, pausing to speak briefly with the scholar. I catch her calling him “Professor West.” Lucky students.
After putting on the gloves, I get to work copying details of the architecture. Charlotte proves to be efficient and helpful, bringing me everything from surveys to photographs, measured drawings, and renovation records.
“Have you started the mural yet?” she asks.
“No, but I’ve completed the design.” I show her a few rough sketches. “If I can get the wall prepped within the next couple of days, I hope to start painting next week.”
“And you have all the permits and such?”
“Yes, I believe so. I’m verifying it all with Allegra King and the festival committee on Friday.”
Charlotte nods. For whatever reason, she appears worried, though maybe that’s just her nature. She reminds me of a little gray mouse, quiet and slightly skittish. Rather appropriate for a librarian in the isolated basement archives.
I fill several pages of my sketchbook with drawings before my stomach reminds me I haven’t eaten breakfast yet. Stacking the archival records on the table, I approach the desk where Charlotte and Professor West are conversing.
“Thanks again, Charlotte,” he says. “I’ll be back soon to look at the psalters.” He steps aside as if he’s making room for me, giving us both a polite nod of farewell. “Enjoy the rest of your day, ladies.”
Picking up a leather briefcase, he walks out of the library. A brief silence follows in his wake before I realize both Charlotte and I are watching him go.
“He’s just visiting.” She smiles ruefully at me. “He makes occasional trips out here to study our medieval manuscript collection.”
“Oh. He’s…impressive.”
“Yes. He’s also extremely married.”
I blink and stammer, “I didn’t mean…I wasn’t…”
“Don’t worry about it.” She waves a hand and turns to the computer.
“His wife is lovely too. He’s just one of those men who has…something.”
Like Cole. Who once had something that was far more appealing and approachable to me. Something I’d loved.
“Let me get you a card.” Charlotte types on the keyboard. “We can keep a record of your materials.”
She scans a library card for me and inputs my information into the computer.
“Is that Persian?” I nod toward an intricate silver amulet dangling from her desk lamp.
“Turkish.” She takes the amulet and hands it to me. “It’s called a nazar, a charm against the evil eye.”
“It’s beautiful.” I rub my finger over the smooth blue-and-white stone in the center. “My mother once incorporated evil-eye protection into several paintings of sacred geometry mandalas.”
“I’ve seen some of her work at the museum. She was so talented.”
Bittersweet sorrow fills me. I’ve often wondered what other creative avenues my mother would have taken, had she lived.
A fleeting consternation rises to Charlotte’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s all right. I love knowing that her work is still appreciated.” I extend the amulet.
“Keep it,” she says.
“Oh, I can’t…”
“No, really.” She pushes the amulet back toward me. “I’d like you to have it. For good luck and protection.”
Heaven knows I could use both.
“Thank you.” Warmed by the kind gesture, I slip the amulet into my pocket. “That’s really nice of you.”
“I hope it works.” She hands me the library card and turns back to her computer.
After thanking her again, I head upstairs and back out into the sunshine.
As I walk toward Lantern Street, I spot the towers of the Seagull Inn, a huge converted Victorian house with towers jutting up at the corners.
My blood ices over and my breath shortens. I turn in the opposite direction. One day I’ll have to face it, maybe even go inside, but that won’t be anytime soon.
No. Stopping in my tracks, I force myself to return to the restaurant. I will not allow fear to rule me any longer.
Touching the evil-eye amulet in my pocket, I make it to the front porch before my legs weaken. I can almost hear the music, the laughter, the lively conversation of my parents’ anniversary party. I walk up the stairs and enter.
“Table for one?” the hostess asks me.
“No, I…I’m not here to eat, thanks.”
Though she furrows her brow, she nods and returns to the dining room. I let my gaze roam over the spot where I’d stood with my parents, the vast room where we’d celebrated.
I see the flash go off on Teddy’s new camera. I see my parents—my father’s hand on my mother’s cheek, their love and devotion so tangible. I see Cole, his smile warm as he leans down to press his lips against mine…
The image splinters. A screeching noise, high-pitched and jarring, hits my ears. I stumble backward. My heart crashes against my ribs. I manage to turn and hurry back outside, dragging in a breath.
“Dude, be careful!” a male voice yells.
Across the street, a pedestrian flips off a driver who has skidded to a halt at the crosswalk. Several people stop to watch the altercation. The two men exchange a few insults. The driver revs the engine and peels away.
I press a hand to my pounding heart.
“He wasn’t going to stop for a pedestrian in the crosswalk.” A woman standing in front of the restaurant catches my eye and shakes her head with disapproval.
Since she appears to expect a response, I say, “That’s terrible.”
“You have to be so careful these days.” She tugs the leash of a tiny dog and starts walking. “People drive like maniacs. Good thing he didn’t kill someone.”
Sharp pain knots in my chest. I descend the porch steps and hurry away.
* * *
As I continue walking, the morning sun and salty air ease my dismay. I stop at the library, the bakery where I had my first job, the art gallery that sold my very first painting when I was nineteen years old. To my pleasure, the people whom I’d known before the accident greet me with delight.
“Josie, how wonderful to see you again. We were so happy to hear you were coming back.”
“I knew you’d be a successful artist! I love that you’ll be painting a mural for the town.”
“Welcome home, Josie. You didn’t think I’d forget your favorite, did you? Chocolate croissant on the house.”
After last night’s breakdown and the shock of seeing Cole again, it’s a decided relief to rediscover the warmth of my hometown.
I walk to Lantern Square, the central part of town and site of summer concerts and the farmer’s market. The nineteenth-century courthouse and bell tower preside over a large, tree-dotted lawn, with colorful shops, restaurants, and coffee-houses arranged around a brick-paved pedestrian plaza. It’s the oldest part of town, the architecture characterized by gingerbread trim, gables, and rounded archways.
The only aesthetic flaw is the cracked masonry wall concealing part of the Botanical Gardens. That’s where Allegra King told me I could paint the mural.
I get a takeout coffee and sit at a table in the plaza, opening my sketchbook. I draw the shops across the street, enjoying the feel of my pencil skimming over the page even if the architecture doesn’t create a full-fledged burst of inspiration.
I stopped doing my whimsical animal paintings after the crash. It had taken me months to pick up a paintbrush again, and ever since my art has gone from dark, angular abstracts to black holes to the nightmarish, dystopian landscapes and disembodied heads that collectors and gallery owners admire so much.
While I’m grateful my work has caught people’s attention, and that they pay me for it, I’m increasingly uncomfortable selling art borne of tragedy and pain. Isn’t there enough of that in the world?
“Josie?”
I glance up at a police cruiser parked at the curb. A handsome blond officer closes the driver’s side door and crosses the sidewalk. Pleasure rises in me. Nathan Peterson and his family had lived in Castille for as long as ours had, and he’d been one grade ahead of me throughout school.
I smile. “Hi, Nathan.”
“I thought that was you.” He steps forward, one arm tentatively outstretched. “I’ve heard all about your return and your mural project. It’s great to see you again.”
I rise and return his embrace. After graduation, he’d gone to the Maine Criminal Justice Academy and had been a rookie police officer the night of the accident.
“When did you get in?” he asks.
“Just last night.” I step back and gesture to the lieutenant insignia on his uniform. “Look at you. You’ve moved up in the world.”
“In Castille, at least.” His eyes darken a touch. “How have you been?”
“Good. I’m happy to be back.” I squeeze his hands in reassurance. If there’s anything I’m not going to do, it’s rehash just how bad things had gotten before I’d managed to pull myself from the despondency of loss. My wounds will never heal, but I’ve accepted that they’ll always be part of me. It’s the dark, ugly things that grew out of the pain I still need to eradicate.
“Sit down.” I indicate a chair at the table. “Are you still living in town?”
“Yeah, I got a little house over at the cove.” Pride rises to his eyes. “Has a boat dock and everything. I spend my weekdays working and my weekends fishing and boating, so I can’t complain. I stopped by to see Vanessa when she moved back but haven’t heard from her since then. She’s all right?”
“She’s coming in from Portland this afternoon, so I actually haven’t seen her yet. But she’s doing well. And your parents and brother?”
“Dad passed away a few years ago, but Mom’s still living over on Hartford Street.” He twists his mouth. “Richard moved out to Benton after losing his company.”
My stomach tightens with remembered unple
asantness at the mention of Richard Peterson. I’d always liked Nathan, but his older brother had been a different story—a good-looking popular boy who’d used his entitled status to bully other kids.
When I was nine, Richard had tried to steal my Halloween candy, and then when I was nineteen, he’d made unwanted advances. Both times Cole had stepped in to help me.
“You’re like my hero.”
A humorless laugh broke from Cole’s chest. “I’m no hero.”
“You are to me.”
I shake away the memory and focus on Nathan again. “What kind of company did your brother own?”
“He and a friend started a little bottled water company over near Fernsdown.” Nathan shakes his head. “Blue River Water. They produced a natural alkaline water that was a great source of minerals. The company employed about eighty people, but they took a hit when the economy started going downhill. The owner of Invicta Spirits was the only one who offered them a loan.”
My heart jumps. “Cole Danforth?”
“Yeah.” Bitterness infuses his voice. “Rich should have known better.”
“Why?”
“At first the loan helped Blue River get back on its feet, but Rich couldn’t pay it back on the terms Danforth set. High interest, tight deadlines. Danforth refused to negotiate. Blue River went under, and my brother had to file for bankruptcy. Danforth took over the aquifer that was the source of their water. Eighty people out of work. He didn’t do a fucking thing except sit on his goddamned throne and laugh.”
Dismayed shock ricochets through me. Richard had been an ass, but surely Cole wasn’t so vindictive as to destroy his business out of revenge?
“Why would Cole do that?”
“Because he’s nothing like his father,” Nathan replies. “When Danforth brought Invicta up here from New York, he outbid Castille for control of the Spring Hills water well. The town’s main water supply. Then after he closed his father’s brewery, he targeted a bunch of small distilleries and factories. Shut them down one by one. Apparently he runs his company with an iron fist too. Everyone’s afraid of him.”
