by V. K. Powell
“I’m so sorry, Jack.” Where was this boy’s mother, and why hadn’t she been around to help him through the grief? Maybe she was like Susan—an absentee mother who could care less about her children. Her desire to help Jack doubled as she remembered her own childhood. “If your dad’s family is still in the area, I’ll find them, but you can’t tell anyone what I’m doing. Understand?”
He nodded.
“I’m serious, Jack. I could get in even more trouble if anyone knew I was working while I’m suspended. I’ll have my partner Nate Shaver help us. Be nice to him.”
“You got my word and it’s good.”
“One more thing…did you tell Ms. Sheridan why you wanted to see me?”
“No, just that I needed to and I’d wait until you returned. She wasn’t exactly cordial.”
“I can imagine. Promise you won’t tell her anything about our arrangement, if your paths cross again.”
“Keeping secrets, Detective?”
Leigh gave him her sternest cop look.
“Okay.”
They shook hands to seal their deal, and forty-five minutes later she turned him over to Collins for transport to a foster home. Collins didn’t know about her conversation with Nate or Jack, and it would have to stay that way. As far as he knew, she’d just spotted him on the street and was returning him to custody like any other cop would do. Right now she had a more pressing problem—what to tell Macy about Jack.
She circled the edges of the property on her way back to the apartment, not wanting Macy to know she’d returned from her errand. As she crept up the steps from the dock, a quote from Abraham Lincoln rattled around in her mind: You cannot escape the responsibility of tomorrow by evading it today. But she was damn sure going to try.
*
Macy paced around the cottage, sneaking an occasional peek out the kitchen window to the dock where Leigh and Jack sat chatting. She’d been seriously annoyed when he showed up unannounced at her door looking for Leigh. He hadn’t offered any explanation except that he needed to talk to her.
While they waited, Jack told stories about kids he went to school with and his desire to join the FBI when he was old enough. It took a degree of confidence and character to talk intelligently to adults at his age. His strange-colored eyes and facial expressions captivated her as he told his stories. She’d even started to warm up to him when Leigh returned. But the list of rental agreements flashed through her mind, and she grew irritated again. Damn it, she should’ve put everything in writing. Why did Leigh insist on pushing every one of her buttons?
When she glanced out the window again, Jack was dangling his feet in the water, munching on a slice of pizza, while Leigh continuously plunged her hand into a bag of Cheetos. Their laughter floated through the open window, bringing with it the memory of her last carefree time at this place. She was sixteen and Jesse was fifteen, the year before she disappeared. Jesse’s mother agreed to let her spend most of the summer with her family at the lake. They were in heaven, claiming the dock apartment as their home, going for late-night and early morning swims, and surfacing sporadically for meals to satisfy her parents.
She and Jesse talked about everything, especially sex. While Jesse was interested in the boys on the football and basketball teams, Macy was interested in her, the initial indication their desires weren’t mirror images. Jesse kissed her the first time in the apartment, anxious to perfect her technique. Macy lost her heart in that instant to a technique she assured Jesse was already perfect. They’d become closer that summer and she flirted with telling Jesse about her feelings, but every time she tried, Jesse laughed her words off. She vowed to be patient until Jesse was ready to hear her and accept her love. That day never came.
Laughter from the dock returned Macy’s attention to the scene of a young boy and a grown woman splashing water on each other with their feet. She envied Leigh’s ability to hold on to her playfulness in spite of the demands and challenges of adulthood. She’d ignored that part of herself after Jesse disappeared, seeing laughter and frivolity as blasphemous. Now she’d give anything to reconnect with the humor in life, if only occasionally.
Macy paced again, trying to persuade herself to work on the case, but she couldn’t concentrate, wondering instead about Leigh’s connection to Jack. She reasoned that her irritation was about Leigh’s violation of the rental rules, but actually she didn’t like adding one more thing to the list of unknowns about Leigh Monroe. Maybe she’d learn to enjoy having someone on the premises, just for occasional conversation, and if that someone happened to be a lively, attractive woman, all the better. She was so lost in the pleasantness of that particular thought she jumped when someone knocked at the door.
“Macy, it’s Leigh. May I come in?” She denied the acceleration of her pulse had anything to do with Leigh or her voice that oozed kindness through every crack in the door.
“Macy?”
The place was clean and orderly as usual, but she looked a fright. Her hair was falling from the French braid she’d carefully arranged this morning, and her clothes were vintage house wear. What’s all the fuss about, she asked herself as she reluctantly opened the door. She and Leigh needed to talk about what was and was not allowed on her property—stick to business. “Yes.”
Leigh stepped inside. “Before you get—” She stopped in the middle of the floor and turned in a complete circle as she took in the room. The green of her eyes changed shade as she saw things she liked and others that didn’t appeal. Macy could almost feel the emotions pouring off her as she studied her paintings on the walls.
“Oh, my God. Are these yours?” She waved her hands as if they stood in the Metropolitan Museum of Art surrounded by great works.
“Yes.” Her face flushed and heat spread downward, filling her with gratitude for the genuine appreciation. How long had it been since anyone looked at her paintings with such obvious enjoyment? This was what she craved, the pursuit of her passion and the pleasure of sharing it with others, but it also made her feel vulnerable, exposed. She joined her hands in front of her and inched farther away from Leigh.
“These are fantastic. You should really do this full-time, not that I’m an art critic. But I know what I like, and these are amazing. I love that they’re abstract and let the viewer see whatever they want in the piece. They seem a little dark for you, maybe more light.”
Leigh walked to the window and pulled the heavy curtains back, allowing the afternoon sun to stream in, then dropped her leather jacket on the floor at the end of the sofa.
“Make yourself comfortable.” Macy noted the sarcasm in her own voice as she picked Leigh’s jacket up and hung it by the door.
“Sorry. This is such a wonderful surprise. I’ve never been inside your cottage.”
Was that true? Leigh’s presence in the room was like the return of a treasured artifact, the centerpiece of a rare collection. Her over-familiarity was annoying, but she added such vitality that the walls seemed to breathe with her. Macy squeezed her clasped hands tighter, desperately wanting to touch Leigh, to connect with the excitement that radiated from her in waves. She’d never met anyone as openly expressive as Leigh, and diving into her energy would be like sinking her fingers in paint and creating a masterpiece. The image evoked a sharp breath, and she caught only the end of it as the rest escaped in a strangled cough.
“Are you okay?”
She dipped her head, afraid that a full nod would break the spell Leigh had cast over her. “It’s just been a very long time since anyone appreciated my work. Thank you.”
Leigh stuffed her hands into her jeans pockets and rocked back and forth, her curls of red hair falling across her forehead. “Does it violate some rule to touch an artist’s work? That one just seems to invite it.” She nodded toward the last canvas Macy had done almost two years ago, an acrylic abstract of sunset from the apartment balcony.
“Go ahead.” Macy watched her approach the painting almost reverently, removing her hands from her
pockets only after she’d stared at the piece for several seconds.
“I won’t knock anything off, will I?” Leigh asked over her shoulder.
“No.” She stepped closer but stopped just out of reach. Her clenched hands trembled. She wanted to help Leigh experience the literal feeling of her work, but the warning signal in her head blasted like a foghorn. The pull was too strong. She couldn’t resist—a gorgeous woman and art—the combination was too compelling.
Moving within inches of Leigh’s body, she felt heat radiating between them and almost leaned in before catching herself. The last time she’d been this near a woman was Julia, and she’d felt only the certainty of good-bye. She reached for Leigh’s hand, then withdrew. What if she touched her and Leigh pulled away? What if she touched Leigh and didn’t like it? What if she did? Why did she feel the need for physical contact, now, with this woman?
Leigh placed a hand gently in the small of Macy’s back and pulled her closer. “Show me.” When Leigh captured her hand and extended it toward the painting, her touch was like sticking her arm in an open flame. Brilliant white light, pure and crisp, flashed behind her eyelids. Her body felt liquid and languid and raw. Dust particles floating on late-evening sunrays felt like pinpricks against her skin, delicately stimulating but tortuous. I want. I want.
“Macy?” Leigh’s breath against the side of her face was a slow caress down her body. “What’s wrong? You looked flushed.”
“F…fine.” She willed herself to remain lucid and slowly guided Leigh’s hand to the art piece in front of them. Her long, slender finger fit like a paintbrush in Macy’s, and as she traced the lines of the painting, she lost herself in the binary beauties before her. Curved lines of acrylic, sweeping curvature of Leigh’s back, the dip of a brushstroke, the sway of Leigh’s backside against her, vibrant color on canvas, sex on legs. Their fingers fused in a singular motion across the face of the image, their arms moving in unison. She watched her hand, wrapped around Leigh’s with almost a sensation of disembodiment.
“I love the texture, it’s so sensuous.” Leigh’s elbow brushed lightly against her breast as she turned to face her. “Don’t you think?”
She searched Leigh’s face for intent, but her gaze stopped at her mouth. Her lips, the color of ripe pomegranates, called to her like a bold splash of paint on naked canvas. Something foreign and fierce ignited inside her. Oh no.
“Are you going to get that?”
“What?” The telephone rang behind her, and Leigh nodded toward it. “Sorry.” Was she apologizing to Leigh for not hearing the phone or to herself for breaking contact? God, she’d been so totally absorbed in the touch and feel of Leigh. She shook her head to gather a coherent thought and picked up the handset. “Hello? What? Yes, of course. Hold, please.” She motioned to Leigh. “It’s for you.”
Leigh looked as surprised as Macy felt, but for completely different reasons. She was trying to figure out how she’d let herself get so out of control. She’d actually allowed Leigh, a woman she barely knew, to touch her, and she’d liked it. Needing distance and wanting to give Leigh privacy, she escaped to the back deck. Leigh’s voice still carried through the open windows, and she felt like an eavesdropper.
“Why are you calling me? I’m not ready to talk to you. I said I’d think about it, not that I’d do it. I need more time. Don’t call me again, especially not here. This is not my number.” The phone clanked back into the cradle, and a few seconds later, Leigh joined her on the deck. “I’m sorry about that. Hedy, my sister, gave her your number. I asked her not to call back.”
“Ex-girlfriend?” She couldn’t believe she’d asked exactly what she’d been wondering.
“Mother, in name only.” Leigh’s usually expressive eyes were a dull shade of green and devoid of animation as if a deep, black pain had settled there. “Sorry, that was unkind.”
“I take it you don’t get along.”
“Understatement. I should be going. I’m sure you don’t want to hear this.”
She reached for Leigh’s hand but stopped before making contact. “Actually, I do. Please, sit.” She was surprised that she felt the same sincerity she heard in her voice.
Leigh pulled a chair closer, kicked off her shoes, and tucked her feet under her, her gaze focused on the lake. “It’s a common story really. My father died when I was seven, but my mother never missed a beat. She found a long line of men to fill his shoes, four husbands at last count. Hedy, my younger sister, and I were pretty much on our own. Now she’s having a baby and wants Susan to play grandmother. I don’t mean to sound bitter, but what does a woman who nearly abandoned her own children have to offer a grandchild?” Leigh worried the side of her finger with her thumbnail, her attention no longer on the lake but on some distant memory shadowing her face with pain.
“I’m sorry, Leigh. It must’ve been hard for both of you. Surely you had relatives, a grandmother?” Her parents weren’t perfect, but she always knew they loved her and wanted only the best for her.
Leigh shook her head. “Hedy was only three. I did the best I could, but I still worry it wasn’t enough.”
The air was so thick with the weight of Leigh’s commitment she could almost breathe it in. She couldn’t imagine fending for herself as a child, and with a dependent sibling. Her pulse quickened as admiration swelled for this woman she’d initially likened to a rusty nail and dismissed as too frivolous. An important piece of Leigh Monroe’s puzzle snapped into place.
“I doubt if Hedy sees it that way. You both made it to adulthood, which is more than a lot of kids in your situation do. You appear to be fairly functional, except for an annoying habit of spouting self-help slogans. I’d say you did an amazing job.”
“Thank you, that’s nice to hear, but it doesn’t solve the mother problem. I can’t ask Hedy to choose between us.”
“I’m the last person to ask for parent advice. My folks and I aren’t estranged, but we’re not in regular contact. They’re busy being self-indulgent in exotic places and I’m…”
“You’re what?” Leigh asked.
“Here, doing God knows what.”
“What do you want to do?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Macy said, “Paint a collection of pieces for my own show.” She hadn’t said those words aloud since she was sixteen and shared her dreams with her parents. They’d encouraged her to get a degree in something more substantial and continue painting as a hobby.
“Your parents can’t see how talented you are?”
“I think they’re just worried I can’t make a living on talent alone, without the supplement of my forensics work.”
“Well, as I’ve said before, I’m no art critic, but I wouldn’t bet against you on that score. I believe if you have a passion for something, you can earn a living at it. Sorry, that sounded like one of those annoying sayings you hate.”
“In this case, I appreciate it.” Macy dangled her hand off the chair arm, dangerously close to Leigh’s. She was reaching for a lifeline, afraid of being swept away but just as afraid of the mooring. When had she become so hungry for human touch, or was it just this human’s touch?
They sat in silence, listening to the rising rapture of cicadas and the occasional hum of a powerboat in the distance. Leigh slouched in the chair beside her, feet tucked. She raked her hand through wavy copper locks that promptly fell back across her forehead. Macy had never been around anyone who seemed so comfortable in her own skin. When Leigh finally stirred beside her, the moon and stars competed for brilliance in the blue-black sky.
“Guess I better go. It’s getting late.”
Leigh retrieved her jacket from inside and started toward the steps leading to the dock, but Macy wasn’t ready for her to leave. She fished for a delay tactic that didn’t involve touching Leigh again and said the first thing that came up. “What about that kid today?” Her tone wasn’t as casual as she’d intended, and the relaxed expression on Leigh’s face vanished.
“Oh, ye
ah, sorry. That’s really why I came over. He won’t be back.”
“Who is he? He’s a nice boy, very intelligent too. Wants to join the FBI someday.”
“Really? There’s nothing to worry about. He just needed to talk. He won’t be a problem. See you later, and thanks for sharing your art.”
Leigh hadn’t really answered her question, which seemed counter to her usual candor. Was she trying to hide something? Maybe she’d made a mistake opening up to Leigh about her parents. In the span of an evening, she’d gone from being fireball angry with Leigh to vertical spooning and handholding, ending with confusion and suspicion.
*
Leigh vaulted off the deck and sprinted to the dock, shucking clothes as she ran. The temperature had been a respectable seventy degrees today, but the lake would still be cool, exactly what she needed. Her blood felt like it was boiling, and her loins couldn’t have been hotter if they were splayed across a grill. Underneath her shapeless clothes and tightly spun control, Macy Sheridan oozed sexuality like a sieve leaked water. She’d felt it the second she stepped into the small cottage. Macy’s sensual energy saturated the space, and with no outlet it hung in the air. She’d braided her hair into a French twist, and Leigh had wanted to run her tongue along the square angle of her jaw to her unadorned earlobe. After their intimate hand fondling over the art pieces, sitting on the deck hadn’t relieved the tension between them. She could barely breathe for wanting to press their bodies together and relieve the ache between her legs that throbbed like a fresh wound.
Diving off the end of the floater, she gasped a mouthful of lake as the frigid blanket covered her. She surfaced sputtering water from her mouth and nose. The hurt was so hellishly good her teeth chattered and she didn’t think about Macy for at least five seconds. Then she made the mistake of looking toward the house. Macy stood silhouetted by the kitchen light, staring toward the lake as if she could see her. She imagined an arc of electricity between them plunging into the water and deep into her center. She forgot to tread and her head went under. When she did, the water coursing between her legs was an unpleasant reminder of what was missing.
