Framed

by Amber Lynn Natusch

  That feeling was worth its weight in gold.

  I strolled past Better With Age, stopping just beyond it, ice cream in hand. Looking up at the sign over my shoulder, I smiled, remembering the first time I ever saw it—the first time I met Ronnie.

  A couple of weeks after I had moved to Portsmouth, I was still getting a crash course in the seeing world. I hadn't gotten my driver's license yet (and for good reason), so I walked everywhere, including the various doctors’ appointments, occupational therapy sessions, and meetings with various counselors. They had the most unenviable task of teaching me a lifetime of visual information in a very short period of time. I needed to be able to function on my own, and quickly.

  On my way home from an ophthalmology appointment one day, I passed by a storefront full of clothing with wonderful textures and colors. Though nervous, I decided to go and check it out. I'd never gone clothes shopping on my own before.

  The tinkle of the bells startled me when I opened the door, and I jumped to the side nearly knocking over a shoe display.

  "If you break it, you buy it," a female voice called from behind the front counter. A middle aged woman with flaming red hair popped up from behind the register and looked at me curiously. "But luckily, it's hard to break anything around here. I wouldn't suggest going next door to the glassblowers, though. I think you could rack up a bill in no time with elbows like those."

  She smiled wide, coming out from behind the counter towards me.

  "Is there something I can help you with?" she asked.

  "I'm...I'm not sure," I stammered, "I just really liked your window display."

  "Do you want to look around for a bit?

  "Yeah. Sure." I quickly pulled my attention over to the far wall containing shelves upon shelves of shoes.

  "What size are you?" she asked as she shuffled her merchandise from one rack to another.

  I said nothing for a moment—I didn't have the answer to her question.

  "I don't know," I whispered, feeling instantly ridiculous. "I've never bought shoes before.

  I didn't have to see her face to know that she was befuddled. Her energy went from calm and flowing to confused and dissonant in a snap.

  "Well," she said, hesitating slightly. "I guess we'd better figure it out then."

  Three hours after I'd walked into her shop and well past closing time, the woman who had introduced herself as Ronnie and I sat on a small sofa in her store, thumbing through a vast array of fashion magazines. American, French, and Italian VOGUE were her favorites, though she had myriad others. Some were current, others dated back decades. She said those were the ones that always had the "fashion gems" in them. I listened as she explained the importance of having your own unique point of view with your wardrobe, while still maintaining a finger on the pulse of what was new and trendy.

  By the time I left, I felt like a door had been opened for me—a way to express something that for so long had lived inside of me, but never had an outlet: creativity. With this new found burning passion, I walked out of Better With Age a new person, with a new direction to follow.

  And so my relationship with both Ronnie and fashion began.

  My smile faded.

  Ronnie's shop had long been a place of refuge, learning, and enjoyment for me. Though I knew why everything had turned on its ass, it still didn't fully compute. I hated knowing that things would never be right again between us, and even more so that she couldn't have cared less. For that reason alone, I hadn't planned to stop and see her that day—but I changed my mind.

  Her head poked out from the back as soon as the door banged shut—she really did need to get that thing fixed. Her expression was indifferent, but she silently came out to meet me by the counter.

  I handed her a sealed envelope with Peyta's name on it.

  “I need you to put this somewhere safe. Somewhere Peyta won't find it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I only want her reading what's in that envelope once I'm gone,” I said seriously. “Can you manage that?”

  “What does it say?”

  “That's none of your business, but I wouldn't doubt that you'll read it at the first opportunity you get. I don't care. Just make sure she gets it.”

  I turned to leave without another word, but Ronnie snatched my arm and wheeled me around.

  “You can't just dump all this mysterious shit on me then leave.”

  “I can't?”

  “No. You can't. Not if you expect me to ever deliver this,” she said, wagging the envelope in front of my face. “Explain.”

  “It's a letter to Peyta that will explain everything. I don't have the heart to tell her myself.”

  “So where are you running off to?”

  I clenched my teeth until I thought they'd shatter. Ronnie was ruining my euphoric day, and it was pissing me off. I glared at her with icy eyes, hoping to impress upon her that I wasn't interested in sharing the details. The smug look on her face slowly melted away into one of temporary concern and disbelief.

  “Ruby,” she said, sounding very parental. “This is about you leaving town, isn't it?”

  “In a sense, yes.”

  “Don't fuck with me, Ruby,” she said, slamming the envelope down on the counter. “If I'm about to have an emotionally wasted teenager on my hands, I think I deserve a warning, don't you?”

  “Consider yourself warned.”

  “I don't understand this,” she said, getting in my face. “I thought you were some big badass. Why does it seem like you're gracefully bowing out?”

  “Let's just say that I've been backed into a corner. Any direction I turn the Grim Reaper awaits me. I thought I'd go out on my own terms. You, more than anyone, should appreciate that.”

  She frowned slightly, eying me up.

  “I know a lot about being cornered, Ruby. I've yet to find a situation that I couldn't get away from.”

  “No offense, Ronnie, but your circumstances probably didn't involve the same types of situations to get away from.”

  “Does this have something to do with the murders in town?” she asked, her eyes piercing mine.

  “Not directly, no. He's a different albatross around my neck.”

  “Listen,” she started, taking a somewhat less abrasive tone. “I may not adore you right now, but my kid loves you like a sister. You can't just bail on her cause you're in a squeeze. You need to figure it out.”

  “Don't you think I've tried?” I cried, my high officially ruined. “I don't want my head on the chopping block, but somehow it just keeps landing there. I'm fucked, Ronnie. There's no other way to look at it.”

  She paused for a moment, looking strangely thoughtful as though she was mulling over in her head where exactly she wanted to take our conversation.

  “Do you know why I know about your kind?” she asked, her anger barely contained below her hardened surface. “Has that question ever cross your mind?"

  "Of course it has. I just never bothered to ask because you haven't been in a terribly sharing mood as of late."

  Her eyes narrowed briefly, and I realized how very similar she was to Sean.

  "If you can manage to contain your sarcasm for five minutes, I'll tell you why." After a brief moment of silence, she continued. "My husband got a call one night to go back into the office. He worked for the CIA at the time; Peyta was just a baby. He left the house around midnight and wasn't planning to be gone for more than an hour or two. Peyta was really sick that week and was so full of mucous that she couldn't sleep well lying down. Once I realized she wasn't going to be able to sleep in her crib, I decided to put her in the car and drive her around so she could get a reprieve from her coughing and choking on phlegm.

  "I drove past his office and saw his car still parked outside, so I decided I would pop in to see how things were going. I pulled around the back of the building, which bordered on a park. The parking lot was covered by overgrown trees making it darker than it should have been. As I was pulling into a
spot, he came out of the building. I honked my horn at him and he waved—I distracted him. Something came out of the bushes so fast I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. It attacked so violently and quickly; the whole thing was over in a matter of seconds. Without thinking, I got out of the car to go and help him. The thing saw me...looked right at me. My husband mustered up enough voice to tell me to run, but I barely heard him. I saw the terror in his eyes, and I hauled ass out of there. I abandoned him to save Peyta.”

  My face turned pale, my body weak. I stood in front of Ronnie as she told that story, stone-faced and cold, like she was reading a grocery list. She was who she was because of that defining moment in her life—the choice she had made. It more than explained her new feelings towards Cooper and me.

  “So, you've been running ever since,” I said, connecting the dots.

  “Basically. I went home and cleaned out everything I could pack in the car. I stayed with friends for a week or two, telling them that we were having some marital problems. I told them he'd left me, and I couldn't stomach staying in that house alone,” she continued, still completely unaffected by what she was saying. “Since the body was never found, it made my story believable.

  "I spent the next couple years traveling around the country, trying to run from something I couldn't comprehend. Eventually, I stumbled on the Underground. They're the only reason I'm still sane. They've helped to keep us safe ever since.”

  “I'm so sorry, Ronnie.”

  “Don't feel sorry for me,” she said, picking up the envelope. “Feel sorry for Peyta. She'll be destroyed by your death. It'll be like her father's was to me.”

  “It's out of my hands, Ronnie,” I sighed.

  “It's never out of your hands,” she replied, a salty expression tainting her face. “Not until they're cold and dead. Remember that.”

  We shared a quiet moment, before I once again turned to leave. Ronnie didn't try to stop me. When I reached for the knob, I was struck by something that seemed off.

  “Ronnie?” I called.

  “Yeah?”

  “Has the Underground mentioned anything about the murders in the area?”

  “No,” she replied, slowly putting down the shirt she was folding. She looked very interested in what I was implying. “Why?”

  “It's not a human,” I told her, putting my cards on the table. It was her turn to go ghostly pale. “If something happens to me, I want you to keep Cooper close. He'll keep you and Peyta safe.”

  I said nothing about Sean because I still wasn't sure what the Underground knew about the PC. I didn't want to give her any more info than she needed. Cooper would be enough to keep them alive, so I left it at that.

  “I'll give her the letter,” Ronnie said as I walked out the door. It was small, but it was a concession nonetheless.

  “Thanks,” I replied, a wan smile playing across my face. “I wish you didn't have to.”

  “I hope I don't. Goodbye, Ruby,” she said with a weight that implied that it meant more than just a polite dismissal.

  “Later, Ronnie.”

  I closed the door of Better With Age behind me for what I presumed would likely be the last time. It was bittersweet. I felt like Ronnie and I had healed a bit, but it was far too little, too late.

  She'd know soon enough how I felt about her; inside Peyta's envelope was a letter for her too. That, and a check with a lot of zeros on it to help fund the Underground. With weres like the Rev out there, they needed all the help they could get.

  14

  I blew off dance class that night. Something about Ronnie and my talk was sobering, and I just couldn't bring myself to be around a lot of people, especially not Matty. He'd see my distress written all over my face and start the unrelenting interrogation. He could be as bad as Sean with that.

  I received several texts from him throughout the evening, wondering where I was and if I was okay. When I got one that threatened to drive up to Portsmouth to make sure everything was alright, I finally sent one explaining that I just wasn't up for being sociable and that I'd see him soon. It seemed to placate him for the time being.

  If Matty had been placated, Scarlet had not. She stirred in my mind like an insomniac with a red bull and cigarette addiction.

  Tonight is the full moon...

  “Yes. I can see that,” I replied, completely annoyed. “You said I had a few days. Calm down.”

  Including tonight, you have three, to be exact. I suggest you start thinking of some way to uphold your end of the deal. I really don't want to make this unpleasant for you, but I will if I have to.

  “Aw, aren't you sweet. You don't want to subject me to a one night stand, and undo weeks of therapy. I never knew you cared so much.”

  I don't want to have to listen to you bemoan the fact afterward. It's far more for my benefit than yours, believe me.

  “You're a grouch when you're hard up.”

  It'll only get worse before it gets better.

  My cell phone rang before I had a chance to regale Scarlet with a witty comeback. The caller ID said “private number," which meant one thing only; it was Sean.

  “Yes, Sean?”

  “You sound so disappointed. How did you know it was me?”

  “You're the only private number that ever calls me. What do you want?” I asked curtly. We hadn't parted on the best of terms the last time I saw him, and I was trying to keep up the illusion. He was silent a moment before answering, which made my heart race with anticipation. Sean pausing wasn't good.

  “We have a situation,” he stated calmly. “It seems as though Sophie was right about at least one thing. The Elders are coming.”

  “Old news, Sean. What else?”

  “I don't think you're taking that as seriously as you should.”

  “Funny, that's what Sophie said too, but hey...why should I worry? You're the one that said they can't do anything to you if you haven't done anything wrong, and, since I'm still tethered to your ass, I guess I'm A-OK too then, right?”

  “I don't appreciate your tone.”

  “Surprising.”

  “Ruby, I'm not worried about them coming for me. I'm worried about them coming for you.”

  “Again...I'm tethered to your ass—I'm golden.”

  “The Elders can be a bit...tricky, Ruby. Nothing with them is black and white.”

  “Shades of gray,” I countered sarcastically. “That's my life.”

  “Listen to me. I wouldn't put it past them to circumvent our agreement if the mood suits them.”

  “So, why did they say they were coming? Did they say they were coming to double cross you?”

  “No, they conveniently left that part out,” he replied dryly. “I believe the chosen words were 'to establish a party responsible for the murders of the brothers'.”

  “So they want to know who's doing this too then?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe they just want find a reason to kill you. They said 'responsible party', not 'guilty party'. With the Elders, it's all semantics.”

  “They sound like a fun bunch.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “How long have you been dealing with these ass clowns?”

  “My whole life.”

  “And how long is that, exactly?”

  “Long enough to know that they're up to something. I'm just not exactly sure what that is yet,” he said, a rumble escaping his chest. “I don't have much time to figure it out either.”

  “When are they coming?”

  “Who knows. They said a couple of days,” he said, sighing heavily. “That could mean two or twenty. Days mean little to those whose lives have spanned centuries. I'll keep you posted.”

  “So, if they blame the killings on me, does that mean you'll be killed too? Oh, wait. I'm sorry, you can't be killed,” I mocked. “Will you be punished then?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Guess it's just another reason to renege on your word.”

  “Perhaps it is,” he said without he
sitation. “Goodnight, Ruby.”

  15

  There wasn't much “good” about my night, so I decided to take the next day to try and rectify that situation. There was an enormous flea market about an hour north of Portsmouth, so I packed up the car early and drove there alone. Even if the escape was temporary, it was a long coming and necessary. I realized that it was silly to be shopping when my days were likely numbered, but it made me feel better, and I was hoping to maybe pick up some materials for Peyta to work with when I was gone. I could at least help her with that; that was something I could control.

  The weather was glorious, so I put the top down and strapped a vintage Dior scarf over my hair to keep the tresses in check. I had to take the back roads to get to where I was going; the New England saying “you can't get there from here” was undoubtedly true. I didn't care though, I had my iPod blaring and sunshine on my face. In that moment, everything was right in my world.

  I pulled up to the spot just as it opened. It was somewhat of a “locals only” event, but I had my ways of finding those things out and worming my way into them. For such a small town, the market was enormous, covering a couple of acres with rows upon rows of tables piled with trinkets and what not, all waiting to be haggled over and purchased for the right price. My blood rushed ever so slightly at the sight of it. A good bargain could get most women's hearts racing.

  My standard approach was to start at the far end and work my way back to the front, so I wound my way through the patrons and the vendors until I reached my destination, the crowd thinning out along the way. The plan proved to be a good one. As I neared the end of the line, I saw a booth chock-full of goodies: vintage furniture, mirrors, tchotchkes, china, silverware, and frames—gaudy, garish, and amazing frames.

  I spotted one hidden behind an old oil painting propped up against an art deco chest of drawers. After fishing it out, I held it out into the sun from beneath the tent. It was hand-pressed copper that had patinaed beautifully over time, the minty-sage green encrusting all the nuances in the flowing scroll pattern, giving them depth and movement. I traced them gingerly with my finger as I wondered about the person who sculpted such an original and captivating piece. I wondered what picture was worthy of such an amazing home.