When We Touch

by Tia Louise

  “Well, don’t have a heart attack,” my friend snarks.

  Stepping back, I survey the raunchy masterpiece. “I think it needs a vein.” I pinch a bit of fondant and roll it into a long, skinny column, laying it along the shaft.

  Once it’s in place, I add the last bit of vanilla cream at the tip.

  Miss Betty’s voice is thick with lust. “It’s so good!”

  My friend arches a perfect, black eyebrow. “How long has it been since you’ve seen one of these?”

  “Get a life, Tabitha Green. I see what I want on the Internet,” Betty says before turning to me. “I can’t believe you did this without a mold.”

  “The frosting helps.” I walk to the wall of cabinets and take down my vanilla extract and a small paintbrush. “I thought about putting a square cake around the bottom and molding jeans with the fly down… Painting it blue, like it’s rising out of his pants?”

  The old lady’s eyes widen. “You can do that?”

  Using the paintbrush, I lightly dab the dark-brown vanilla around the ridges, giving the cake more dimension. “It would take a few hours.”

  “Forget it, then. I need it for Donna’s shower now.” She carefully steps around me. “It’s absolutely thrilling! Hopefully it’ll loosen her up some.”

  Tabs and I exchange a glance. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “How much do I owe you?”

  Tabby starts to speak, but I cut her off. “Two hundred.” I don’t miss my best friend’s glare, but I’m not going to charge an old lady full-price, even if she is annoying as hell half the time.

  I also know the old biddies gossip about how much I charge for my cakes. They might call me a genius, but they won’t pay genius prices for something they think they can do at home.

  “Two hundred dollars?” Her lust turns to shock.

  “I’m sure you took up a collection,” Tabby snaps.

  She still hasn’t gotten over Betty Pepper ratting her out for skinny-dipping in the Holiday Inn pool last year with Mayor Rhodes’s out of town nephew. It was a pretty tame stunt for Tabs… until we found out the kid was only seventeen.

  In my friend’s defense, the boy had a tattoo, rode a Harley, and we all thought he was at least nineteen.

  BP digs in her wallet and shows us a few twenties. “This is all I’ve got.”

  “Make it a hundred and fifty, then,” I sigh.

  “You can write a check,” Tabby adds, irritation in her tone.

  The old lady is huffy, but she pulls out her checkbook and starts to write. I lift the foil-covered cardboard tray and place it in a waiting gift box on the opposite counter. Her next words stop my breath.

  “Bucky can’t wait until your date next Friday.”

  Tabby gives me a horrified, I smell sour-milk face, and I cringe. “Whaaat is this about?” she asks.

  “Emberly is such a dear.” Betty pats my forearm. “Bucky said after that brat Cheryl Ann dumped him last week, you talked to him for an hour at the Tuna Tiki.”

  “How could you stand it?” my roommate says. “And what were you doing at Tuna Tiki?”

  “I wanted sushi,” I say.

  Betty pushes on undeterred. “Then she agreed to have dinner with him.”

  “You did not!” Tabby grabs my arm.

  “It wasn’t… quite like that.” I step away, untying my apron and wiping my hands with it.

  “He said you were. Are you not going to dinner with Bucky on Friday?” Betty cries.

  “No. You are not going to dinner with Bucky on Friday,” Tabby says.

  “Why would you say something like that, Tabitha? Just because my Bucky isn’t some pot-smoking, Harley Davidson riding—”

  “I’ll have you know, Betty Pepper, I’ve only dated three guys who smoked pot—”

  “You know what?” I shout before those two start throwing punches. “It’s just dinner. I’m glad to do it if it helps Bucky get over Cheryl… or whatever.”

  “You are not glad to do it. Bucky Pepper is a—Ouch!”

  I release her flesh from my sly pinch and pull the pin out of my dark hair, letting it fall down my back. “Thank you so much, Miss Betty.”

  “It’s too bad you won’t be joining us for cake.” The old lady prances to the door, and I lean against the counter. The bell tinkles, and she’s gone.

  Tabby turns, arms crossed to glare at me. “What. The fuck. Bucky Pepper smells like formaldehyde!”

  “He’s a taxidermist.”

  “He’s the shape of a coke bottle, and he’ll probably give you a stuffed squirrel!”

  I can’t help a laugh. “It’s better than herpes.”

  “Jesus, don’t even joke about sleeping with him.” Tabby does a full-body shiver. “His breath is like… like…”

  I think a minute then it hits me. “Deviled eggs.” Nodding, I collect my ingredients and carry them to the shelves, where I arrange them neatly in order. “I just realized it smells like deviled eggs.”

  “Good lord, Ember.” My friend lowers her gaze. “I cannot in good faith let you go out with that… that…”

  Reaching out, I squeeze her arm. “So I go out with Bucky the stinky taxidermist. He gives me stuffed road-kill. It’s one night.”

  “I heard he tried to grab Cheryl Ann’s cooch on their very first date. That’s why she ditched him. She should’ve slapped him into next week.” Tabby puts a hand on her hip and does her best Jane Russell glare. “What will you do if Bucky tries to grab you?”

  “I’ll throw ice water in his face and go home.” Stepping forward I kiss her cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

  “There’s no shame in pretending you don’t hear him knocking.”

  “Goodnight, Tabs.”

  She grumbles as she leaves, and I walk slowly to the back of the old store where stairs lead to my loft apartment above. After my aunt died, she left this old five and dime store to me. Tabby helped me sell or trash all the shelves and retail furnishings, and I’ve been scrubbing and painting ever since.

  Weathered wood painted white makes up the walls of shelves where I keep my meager baking ingredients. Two vintage chandeliers, fake branches, and driftwood arranged in vases are the start of my interior design. One day I imagine having a garland of multi-colored spring roses like Peggy Porschen’s at the entrance.

  “One day,” I say softly, dreaming of the lavish London bakery and the lady who owns it.

  The only piece of furniture I’ve been able to buy is the heavy wooden table where I do all my mixing, kneading, arranging, decorating…

  I kept my aunt’s register and checkout counter for front reception. Slowly, slowly I’m saving up to add a refrigerated case. Last month, I was finally able to buy a second oven so I can cook two cakes at once.

  “Just keep swimming.” I push open the heavy door leading to the upstairs where Coco and I will live.

  When Mr. Lockwood developed that old stretch of sand, all the tourists moved away from our little village down to the beachfront property. I hope my cakes lure them back here—at least to shop—and if they do, I’ll be a small-town hero pulling tourist dollars back into Our Town.

  I walk over to my small table and pick up the photo of me on the beach, looking up, holding my little girl. “That’s the plan, Coco Bean,” I whisper.

  I’ll have my daughter and my cake shop, and that’s all I need. One foot in front of the other, and before I know it, my dreams coming true.

  Three

  Jack

  “I need the whole thing painted. All three storefronts.” Wyatt Jones scrubs his nails in his scruffy grey beard and cocks an eyebrow at me. “You up for that?”

  The door on the orange Ford step-side I bought off a used-car salesman in Madison makes a loud popping sound when I pull it open. “It’ll take me at least a week. Maybe two. That okay?”

  “You working alone?”

  “Unless I can find a kid who needs a summer job.”

  “Summer’s over around here.”

  My lip
s curl into a frown—I didn’t think anything changed in Oceanside Village. “It’s still August.” Dog days…

  “Kids started back August first,” Wyatt says. “Keeps ‘em out of trouble.”

  He narrows one eye at me, and I choose to let his insinuation pass as I climb into the hot cab of The Beast. “I’ll start tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday, son.”

  With another loud pop, I slam the door shut. Every noise is a reaffirmation of my new reality. No more plush vacuum seals. No more buttery, conditioned leather. I’m hard edges and steel.

  Plain and simple…

  Paint and sweat…

  Lots of sweat.

  “I guess some things haven’t changed.”

  “If that’s the case, I won’t save you a seat.” He does a snarky grin.

  “No thanks.” I have no interest in attending service at the First Church of Marjorie Warren. The only thing that ever lured me to that shout-fest presided over by the town matriarch was Emberly.

  Emberly…

  A flicker of some old sentiment moves through my chest, but it’s only a ghost. She’s long gone, and those days are ancient history.

  Wyatt rocks back on his heels, his thick brows rising with the corners of his mouth. The cock-eyed grin makes me uneasy.

  “Welcome home, Jackson Cane.”

  “Lockwood.”

  “You’re using Lockwood now?”

  “It’s my name.”

  “Oh, I know it.” He chuckles. “I remember you as a little guy. Your daddy used to bust your chops, but you were tough enough. You’re more like him now.”

  My shoulders tighten. I haven’t talked to my father since I left my firm. I haven’t talked to anyone besides Wyatt and a used-car salesman. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  “You staying at the cottage?”

  Nodding, I prop my arm on the open window of the door.

  “All right, then.” Wyatt clears his throat and starts off at a brisk pace toward his hardware store. “Monday morning. Bright and early.

  Nodding, I turn the key. “Every day,” I repeat under my breath.

  It’s all I want—hard work and no trouble.

  * * *

  Pushing through the door of the cottage, I flick the light switch and survey the weathered wood and white interior. Dad sold his house in Oceanside and relocated to the city after I started law school. He never wanted to have anything to do with this town again. He made his millions and got out.

  I cross the yellow pine floors to the grayish-brown farm table. At first I’m confused. When I left the cottage was nothing more than an abandoned shack. I’d expected to find it closed up and empty. Instead, it’s polished and clean and completely renovated.

  I switch a quiet window unit on high and continue down the hall, past a smaller, office room, to the master bedroom. A king-sized bed is covered in a white Matelassé spread and matching pillows. It’s all very Cape Cod and very new. Am I in the right house?

  The sudden ring of a phone startles me, and I look around the place. A white cordless phone is on the bedside table.

  Reaching slowly, I lift the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Who is this?” I recognize the forceful male voice on the other end of the line at once.

  “Dad?”

  “Jackson? What the hell are you doing at the cottage?”

  For a moment, I hesitate. I hadn’t intended to have this conversation with him so soon—at least not until I’d sorted it out in my own mind.

  “Well, my original plan was to clean it out, fix it up, and live here for a little while.”

  “I’ve already done all of that.”

  “I see you have.” Walking through the two thousand square-foot residence, I take in the elegant décor—white paint, navy and white striped fabrics, driftwood accent pieces. “It’s nice.”

  “I’ve been using it as a rental property. The manager just called to ask if I’d rented it without telling her. I didn’t even know you still had a key.”

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I try to think. “I can stay somewhere else.”

  “What the hell are you doing in Oceanside? You’re supposed to be at work.”

  Here we go. “I took a job here.”

  “A job? Doing what? Wills and estates?”

  “Painting. Wyatt Jones has these three old storefronts he needs repainted. I expect it’ll take me at least a week to finish. Maybe longer.”

  “You’re doing what?” His voice is a rasp. “What is the meaning of this? You’re the newest partner at Wagner and Bancroft—the youngest partner they’ve ever taken on. I just read the fucking article last spring! It’s unprecedented.”

  “I resigned.”

  “You can’t resign!”

  “Actually, I can, and I did. I’m sorry, I assumed my mother’s cottage would be empty. I’ll clear out and find somewhere else to stay in town while I work.”

  The line is silent for several long seconds. I’m about to say goodbye and disconnect when my father speaks again, his voice grave. “Are you in trouble, son?”

  My muscles clench, and I take a deep breath. I’m not ready to talk about this with him. I’m still working out what I’m going to do. It’s why I came here—to do manual labor and sort out my thoughts, decide what needs to happen next.

  Still, to answer his question, “I’m not in trouble.”

  He’s quiet a beat longer, and I can tell he’s trying to decide whether to believe me.

  “It’s the end of the season. I can have Claire take the cottage off the market for a while. As long as you need.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I insist. Technically it’s your place anyway. It was left to you in her will. Why do you think I never sold it?”

  Because you loved her? The thought enters unbidden in my mind, as if my father has a sentimental bone in his body. I don’t even know if it was ever true. I don’t even believe in love like that anymore.

  “Because it’s a good investment property,” I answer.

  “Damn right it is.” He exhales loudly. “However, if you’d rather use it as a residence, that can be arranged. I’ve been keeping whatever profits it makes in a separate account. It’s all yours.”

  Stepping over to a small closet in the corner of the bedroom, I try the knob. It’s locked. “I’ll stay, but only for a little while. Don’t change your plans because of me.”

  Again we’re quiet, and I’m ready to end the call. My father and I are both take-charge individuals. Giving orders and expecting them to be followed is our most comfortable way of relating to the world—not this quiet concern.

  “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I will.”

  I’m just about to disconnect when he adds, “You’ll find the things you left behind in a small locked closet in the bedroom. I put the key in the hall safe. The combination is the same.”

  “Thanks.” I put the receiver back on the plastic cradle and stand for a moment listening to the sound of bugs screeching outside the window.

  When this place was just an abandoned shack in the woods, it was my fortress of solitude—at least that’s how I imagined it as a little kid. Later it became something else, a place I could take girls… one girl.

  One girl, so many memories.

  Tapping in the code, I find more than a key in the hall safe. Several small boxes are also inside, but I’ll save those for later. I’m more curious to see what of my things my father chose to preserve. I hope it’s what I’m looking for.

  Back in the bedroom, I unlock the small closet. It’s short and deep, a glorified crawl space with a door. I bend down and pull the string hanging from a bare bulb. At once the space floods with light, and I see them. It looks like they’re all here, leaning against the wall.

  Quickly I pull the long canvases out of the stuffy space. It takes a moment or two to arrange them around the room. They’re my paintings—acrylic on canvass.

  Some are brilliantly c
olorful: orange skies at twilight, a bridge over black water, a towering oak with small leaves and a labyrinthine root system.

  None of them are what I’m looking for. My chest tightens, and I fear it’s gone. Moving away the last box, I see it. I don’t know why it’s separated from the rest, but I’m glad. It isn’t damaged or distressed, and I turn it once to the side so the tall end points up.

  Here she is in all her petite, magical glory. Sitting with her legs strategically crossed, her hands in her lap. Her face is turned to the side, showing her profile, her full lips. Her torso faces front, her creamy shoulders straight and her perfectly rounded breasts bare. One lock of glossy brown hair is arranged so that it swoops down, the ends curling around the tip of her dark nipple.

  Tightness moves low in my belly… An old familiar tightness of desire registers in my cock. I get a semi just looking at her. I thought I knew what it would mean to be her first. I had no idea. The way she looked at me when I kissed her, her eyes full of so much trust. When she looked at me, I believed I could do anything.

  We were so damn young—she was even younger. I’d known her since we were little kids, but that summer everything changed. It was my last summer here…

  It was our first summer together.

  I can still see her on the beach, long wavy hair whipping in the breeze, dark eyes sparkling with magic and mischief and fun. She’d never been kissed, and she insisted I teach her. It wasn’t long before I’d teach her everything. Then it became impossible to keep our hands off each other, which led to this day.

  I remember it so well…

  It was raining steadily. We were here in this cottage—only in those days, we didn’t have a fancy bed or elegant furnishings. She’d sat on my T-shirt on the floor.

  I remember telling her how to sit. How to hold her hands in her lap, turn her head to the side, lower her chin, raise her shoulder…

  She was so fucking beautiful.

  I was hypnotized by her breasts, distracted by her narrow waist, mouth watering at the sparse dusting of soft hair on her pussy…

  Ember Rose.

  My chest burns at the sight. I can still taste her clean, ocean-water flavor. Her body is still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Sketching her, painting her had been electric. It had been like taking her body all over again, but even more intimately, if that’s possible.