by Liz Graham
‘Better hold off on that,’ she thought. ‘At least until l get something more solid in me.’
Devon made good on his promise, whipping up a lush meal in less than the twenty minutes he predicted. The sun was low in the sky as he set the small dinette table with matching china and beautiful silverware. Three new candles burned in the silver holder.
Conor’s eyebrows rose at the sight. She had been expecting a hastily thrown together meal of frozen burgers and fries judging by the contents of his refrigerator, but this was a spread fit for a queen.
Steam rose from a huge mound of fresh cheese tortellini bathed in a coating of green pesto sauce, with a side salad made of various coloured lettuces. The remains of the baguette, heated now, lay neatly sliced on a wooden board with a huge lump of local butter in a glass dish.
She didn’t wait for him to begin. The first bite of the pasta with its garlicky sauce brought tears to her eyes as she wolfed it down almost without chewing. The salad was delicately flavoured with a hint of orange in the dressing, she noted as she quickly swallowed.
‘More bread?’ Devon ventured, pushing the board towards her as he watch her with amazement.
‘Mmm,’ she grunted as she grabbed the closest slice and slathered it with butter. She closed her eyes as it melted in her mouth, the bread turning to a sweet mass as she chewed. It was safe enough to drink the wine now, she decided, and swirled the last of the glass‘s contents around her mouth.
Devon wordlessly refilled her glass.
‘Thanks,’ she said, looking at him gratefully. ‘I really needed this.’
Conor looked down at their plates and noticed that while hers was almost empty, his had barely been picked at. She looked up in consternation.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked. ‘You're not eating.’
He shook his head and lifted a fork to his mouth.
‘I was too busy watching you,’ he admitted, after swallowing. ‘You really were hungry!’
She blushed a little as she forced herself to continue her meal at a more sedate pace. He had never seen her appetite at full force, she remembered. He used to comment on how she was forever snacking and never gaining weight. But it was because she had always made sure she had something on hand, that he’d never been treated to this display.
Conor waited until he too was finished before taking the plates and stacking them in the sink. Then she returned to the living room and sank down into the sofa with relief.
‘Oh, that feels so good,’ she said, feeling the energy return to her body. She just wanted to sit and digest now, and let herself return to normal. It was always this way when she was super hungry. She sipped the wine, finally allowing herself to appreciate the oaky flavour.
Devon sat next to her, uncomfortably near. She tried to inch away from him without him noticing. It didn't work. She took another, larger sip of wine. Devon, stretching, lay his arms against the back of the couch. She felt his gaze as she brought her feet to rest on the coffee table, and was acutely aware of his closeness, could almost feel the heat from his body like a magnet that wanted to draw her into his circle.
To occupy herself, she drank her wine and then stared at the glass, swirling its contents around and around. Now that her belly was satisfied, her body was wanting to satisfy other, long-forgotten urges which had been woken by that afternoon’s kiss, and she could feel a tentative heat rising up through her spine.
‘No,’ she prayed to herself. ‘Please don’t tempt me.’
He sighed heavily, and she felt his gaze upon her again.
‘What, em, what did you want to talk about?’ she asked, forcing her eyes to remain on her glass. If she met his eyes she knew she’d be lost.
‘We have unfinished business,’ he said, after a pause.
‘Oh,’ she replied. ‘This afternoon.’
Conor tried to laugh flippantly, and she waved her hand as if to brush the memory of the kiss away. Unfortunately, the wine was still in her hand and flew out of the glass to land in splatters on the glass tabletop.
‘Oops,’ she exclaimed, jumping a little.
He firmly removed the glass from her hand and placed it amid the drops. His hand came back to clasp hers.
‘Tm not talking about this afternoon,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I'm talking about five years ago.’
She couldn‘t help herself. The wine had melted her willpower, had soaked into her body which in turn refused to heed the mind's warning. Or maybe the wine was just an excuse. She felt herself soften and fall into his arms with his lips inches from her own, his warm breath soft upon her cheek. When their lips touched for the second time that day the fire rekindled deep within and flowed to every atom of her relaxed body. A wave of hunger rose through her and she craved for ever closer, deeper contact with this man in her arms.
But wait. Wait, a voice screamed far off in her mind. What about Melissa? She didn’t want to do something they would regret later, if only on an intellectual basis.
She tore her lips away from his long enough to attempt to talk.
‘Mmm...’ she got out before he covered her mouth with his again, his tongue probing deeper. She could feel her breath coming faster, yet still she tried. She pushed him away, just a little, and his mouth sought out her neck. His beautiful, sensitive ear was just a fraction of an inch away from her lips.
‘Oh yes,’ he moaned. Her breath came faster and faster on his warm and now glistening skin.
‘Melissa,’ she whispered, wrenching the hated name from her lips.
He sat back a little, his face inches from hers. His eyes were glazed with the passion she remembered so well, and had tried to forget for years. She wanted nothing but to cover his face with soft, gently fluttering kisses.
‘Shut up,’ he ordered her hoarsely. ‘She has nothing to do with us, nothing to do with this here and now.’
It didn’t answer her question but she found that she no longer cared as he renewed his ambush on her defenses, his hands finding the secret, sensitive places which he had first discovered years ago. He led her into his bedroom and there their bodies re-united in the familiar passion.
Chapter 8
C onor stretched slightly in the dim light of the unfamiliar streetlamp shining through the window’s sheer covering. The warmth of the man next to her enveloped her, and it felt good. She hadn’t felt this way since, well, since five years ago. This was Devon’s bed and Devon's body, the rough hairs of his chest scratching her back when she moved, ever so slightly.
Just a small snuggle more. It was dark out, but it was Monday morning, and she knew it was time to wake up. Her internal clock was never wrong. One lazy eye peeped from underneath the covers at the bedside clock. Yes, four o’clock. Time for the busy baker to start her day.
She yawned once more, reluctant to relinquish this toastiness and snuggled deeper, but it was no use. She was awake now and the energy was flowing. There could be no return to sleep.
She let herself out of his apartment without making a sound, barely pausing even to wash her face. The crisp morning air refreshed her more than an espresso coffee would, and she breathed deeply as she walked on the grass verge, leaving footprints in the gathered dew.
Conor was still warm from his bed and she giggled out loud as she realized this fact. It was love, it had to be, this feeling of relaxed content interwoven with the thrill of joy. She was happy. No, she was ecstatic! She was in love again and back with Devon, her perfect fit.
In fact, the only thing that was marring her joy at this moment was her empty stomach. It too was waking up and glad to be alive, and demanding she pay attention.
It had been all of eight hours since she last ate, and her metabolism had been working overtime last night. Conor whistled to herself as she headed back to the cove in the early morning quiet.
MONDAY WAS AN EASY MORNING, for there were no specialty doughs sitting overnight in the fridge waiting to be risen and baked. She made only quick white bread on Mondays, along with
the usual coffee cakes and muffins to help her customers start their work week.
Devon phoned her just before beginning his shift at the hospital and they made plans to meet again that evening. She spent the rest of the morning in a giddy whirl, spontaneously bursting into song and finding lots to laugh about.
‘You’re looking far too chipper this rooming,’ Doc Oster accused her as she made her purchase, then sneezed.
‘Well, you're not,’ Conor said, placing her hands on her hips and looking at the woman’s red nose and bleary eyes. ‘Your cold has gotten worse by the sounds of it. You should be in bed.’
‘Doh, it's nothing,’ the doctor said as she wiped her nose with a tissue. ‘It’ll pass. It’s just the change of season.’
‘It’s true that doctors make the worst patients, isn't it?’ Conor shook her head. ‘You’re sick, woman. Do you really want to spread those germs in the hospital?’
Doc Oster sighed. ‘True, that's not a good idea,’ she admitted. She sneezed again, three times in succession.
‘Bless you,’ Conor said. ‘Now go on home.’
The older woman picked up her bag of muffins.
‘You know, I think l will,’ she sighed and turned to leave, her shoulders bowed.
Conor watched her leave the store. ‘That's the first time I ever heard Doc Oster admit to being too ill to work,’ she said to Susan. ‘She must really be sick. I'll pop by with some soup later on before I go out.’
The clock said five minutes to four and Conor was almost ready to close the bakery for the day. Washing dishes in the small sink behind the counter, she heard a car pull up into the driveway. Outside, a car door slammed and quick footsteps crunched along the gravel walkway and up the wooden steps. The wind chime over the bakery door tinkled.
Conor looked up and around to this latecomer.
‘Devon!’ she said, pleasure lighting her face. ‘You’re early.’
He leaned over the counter and held her face as he kissed her, then placed his arms around her shoulders. They felt good, and strong.
‘I’m not ready yet,’ she said when he released her. She indicated the white apron with its chocolate smears and hastily pulled off the hair-net. ‘I’m hardly dressed to go out.’
But she was tickled that he was so anxious.
‘Sorry,’ he almost whispered. ‘There's been a change of plan.’ He shook his head as he looked into her brown eyes.
‘I’m on a quick break.’ he said. ‘Doc Oster has phoned in sick, so I have to cover her on-call duties tonight.’
Conor looked at him with dismay. But of course! The only other doctor who shared their duties was on vacation.
And to think she was the one who had insisted Doc Oster go to bed! Conor gave herself a mental kick.
‘She’s not the only one with the flu,’ he said with regret. ‘The hospital is blocked.’
‘Those are long hours,’ Conor said, concerned now for him.
‘I’ll sleep at the hospital,’ he said, then shrugged. ‘This is what I signed up for. I knew what I was getting into when I came up here.’
He kissed her again quickly on her mouth, then was gone. The evening yawned ahead of her now tainted with disappointment.
‘Oh, well,’ she thought, locking the door and turning the sign around. ‘I guess I could use the time to pack up Dad’s art. The show starts next week, after all.’
Conor took a break from packing to bring hot chicken soup to Doc Oster. The older woman was no better after a day in bed, in fact she couldn't even get up to open the door. Fortunately she, like most others in this small community, rarely locked her back door.
She sipped the broth listlessly only because Conor insisted.
‘You've got to keep up your strength,’ she scolded. ‘You of all people know that.’
This was very bad. Oh, Conor had no doubt that the good doctor would he up on her feet again in no time, for she had a hearty disposition. But the flu had to run its course, and it had struck her badly.
‘With Doc Oster sick, I won't be seeing Devon anytime soon,’ she thought with a mental pout and chided herself for such selfish thoughts.
A week went by and Conor continued to check on Doc Oster when she could, but she was also quite busy getting the bakery ready for her own absence. Seamus’s show required his presence the day before to ensure the proper placement of the art, and the two were driving down the three hundred miles to the town together. They would stay until after the grand opening. Seamus had sent off his invitations with personal notes to the more prestigious guests, and it promised to be the event of the year.
Susan, her bakery assistant, was now fully trained in the work and could be trusted with the basics but Conor preferred to have the doughs for the country breads, which required long risings, premade and waiting in the freezer. The business customers would have to pick up their own breads and sweets while she was gone, there was no way around it. She was loading the van with Dad’s paintings and taking it to Corner Brook.
It was turning out to be the hardest week of her life, really. With all this going on, preparing for the exhibit and trying get together the necessary applications and looking after Doc Oster when she could, she also received some unsettling news about the artists’ retreat.
The phone had been ringing off the hook with orders for three hours since she’d opened the bakery at seven o'clock. Wearily, she answered its insistent call yet again, wondering when she was going to have a chance to put the latest batch of cookies in to bake.
‘Celtic Knot Bakery, Conor speaking,’ she said.
‘It‘s Sharon,’ the voice said. ‘I need to speak with you - it's really important. Ten thirty at the coffee shop?’
Conor sighed as she glanced at the long to-do list hanging on the corkboard. She would just as soon let her pet project drop for a couple of weeks until the exhibition was opened, but Sharon‘s voice had a note of urgency. The unbaked cookies could sit in the refrigerator, if she could find room for the trays.
‘Dad!’ she called out, hoping he could give Susan a hand in the shop, but he was not in the house. He must be holed up in the studio, and if so, she wouldn’t bother him. It would be an empty show if the large piece wasn’t finished and hung on the gallery walls.
‘Well, as you can guess,’ Sharon began as they sat across the table from each other, coffees in hand. ‘Because of all the publicity from the Lambs demonstration on Sunday this issue has been forced.’
Conor groaned. The provincial newspapers hadn't let up on the story at all and it didn’t help that letters of support for Enoch’s group were being published decrying the loss of morality in today’s population, equating the rise in crime and drug use to the lack of religious upbringing. It was a hot topic, and the papers had seized on Enoch’s colorful description of the planned artists’ retreat as a hippie hangout. The media loved election time.
‘With the election coming up next month, everyone has jumped on this bandwagon.’ Sharon continued. ‘All the conservative elements are using it as a platform.’
‘Don’t we have the artists and the cultural people? Aren't they on our side?’ Conor asked, a worried frown growing on her forehead.
‘Yes, but they’re so busy looking for their own promises from the party leaders that they can’t be bothered about standing up for your group,’ Sharon told her flatly.
‘Mr. Glover can’t make a decision - it’s too politically loaded because this is happening in his riding,’ she continued. ‘Not with the election in the air. He can’t risk turning anybody against him.
‘So the Premier has taken over the whole issue,’ she warned. ‘And by the sounds of it, he’s pretty pissed off with the whole thing and wants it settled.’
Conor sighed yet again, one of many that morning. If the decision over awarding the land was in the hands of the Premier, what more could she or her group do? He would either see the real worth in her project, both economically and culturally, or he would bow to the loud pressures and
award the land with its buildings to Enoch.
‘Does he want me to write a letter?’ she asked numbly, wondering when on earth she could fit that in. Normally, she could have handed this off to Doc Oster but the older woman was far too ill to be worried with this.
Sharon shook her head.
‘No, a letter won’t cut it,’ she said. ‘There’s already enough paperwork with the application.’
‘He doesn’t want us to appear in person to defend the application, does he?’ she asked in horror, unable to picture herself dropping everything on her plate and flying to St. John’s.
‘No,’ Sharon replied, then hesitated. ‘What he wants is clear proof from both sides as to their abilities to finance the plans.’
‘What do you mean?’ Conor asked, not understanding what was required. ‘The financial plans were included.’
‘I mean he wants to see the bank balances,’ Sharon said in an expressionless voice as she looked across the table. Conor stared as the implication of the woman’s words sunk in.
‘But, but we haven’t got a bank balance,’ she said slowly. ‘We haven't got anything. Yet.’
Sharon nodded.
‘I didn’t think you’d gotten that far,’ she said. ‘And I guess l should tell you. Enoch’s got fifty thousand behind him, cash in hand. It's more than enough to do the renovations he needs to do.’
‘Where did he get that much money?’ Conor burst out loud, then lowered her voice at Sharon's shushing. ‘He couldn't have raised that money from his flock, or from their fundraising parades around town.’
The other woman shook her permed blonde head.
‘There's something fishy behind it all,’ she agreed slowly. ‘There’s something Enoch‘s not telling us, but of course he doesn‘t have to.’
Conor thought for a moment.
‘What you're saying, then,’ she said. ‘Is that the Premier’s not on our side.’
‘Oh, no, no,’ Sharon said, opening her eyes wide in surprise and shaking her head ‘No, no, no. I’m not saying that at all.
