And my head is apparently at peace with this fact.
Glancing furtively toward the woman at my side, I take a deep breath and try to relax, but her words keep echoing through my mind.
“Well, I guess this little run-in was meant to be, then, wasn’t it?”
Was it? I can’t help but wonder—weaving as carefully as a little old woman through the congested traffic—whether fate did have something to do with our meeting.
And I also can’t help wondering whether Brad will be able to pry Ash’s twisted bike off of the front of my car. If not, I suppose I could claim it’s an art piece, some avant-garde statement about the menace of gas-powered transportation. I laugh a little to myself at the thought.
“What’s so funny?” Ash asks me, smiling. But when I look at her and review the events of this most unlikely morning, I only laugh harder.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just…”
She watches me for a moment, mouth curving up. And then she tilts her head back against the seat and starts laughing, too.
---
My hands are shaking. All of the nerves in my body are drawn so taut that every movement I make sets my teeth on edge. I draw in a deep breath and continue rummaging through the medicine cabinet, but then I drop a bottle of pain pills, and the cap pops off; small orange pills scatter all over the floor.
“Everything all right in there?”
“Uh…yeah,” I call out to Ash unconvincingly as I bend down—knocking my forehead against the sink; I bite my tongue to stop myself from swearing—and toss the pills into the trash one by one. For a moment, I fold forward, kneeling over, my face pressed against my legs, stunned and flustered by the morning’s events.
Get a hold of yourself, Molly. It’s not that bad.
It’s not as if anyone died.
Thank God.
With Herculean effort, I rise up and return to my task. I inspect long-outdated bottles of medications—remnants from Pauline’s short stay here after her breakup with Travis—and throw them into the trash along with the orange pills.
When I unearth some antibiotic cream and gauze and shut the cabinet door, I stare at myself in the mirror, and the frown I’ve been wearing ever since I came into the bathroom deepens. My cheeks are red, and my hair is frizzy from the heat. I look sunburned, or embarrassed, or shocked, or…aroused.
Possibly all four at once.
Because right now, there’s a beautiful stranger sitting in the cottage’s small living room—a beautiful woman I nearly ran over with my car, whose bicycle I irrevocably destroyed, but who is, nonetheless, considering whether or not she’s interested in becoming my tenant.
And on top of all of that, I’m really, really late for work.
I turn on the cold water to splash some coolness onto my hot cheeks, and I lean forward over the sink for a moment, resting my soon-to-be-bruised forehead against the mirror.
Then I take another deep breath and whirl around to open the door.
“Found the gauze,” I tell Ash, smiling, waving the tightly wound roll in the air. “Don’t want that knee to get infected.”
Ash, reclining on the beige sofa with her bare feet propped up on the coffee table, moves only her eyes when I emerge from the bathroom. Then, slowly, her lips curve up into a smile. “There’s no need for any of that, you know.” She motions to her skinned knee and laughs softly. “I got worse scrapes when I was a kid, and my mom never even bothered with Band-Aids. And look at me now. I turned out fine.”
Definitely fine…
I clear my throat and narrow my brows, forcing my wandering mind to focus on reality, not fantasy. “I’d just feel a lot better if your wounds were treated. I would’ve rather taken you to the hospital, but—”
“All right, Dr. Mason.” She tilts her head and points to the certificate on the wall above the desk, noting my PhD in art history. Juliette had persuaded me to hang it up in the cottage rather than in our house, because she said the sight of academic documents made her feel inferior. She had never attended college herself, having dived headfirst into the theater world right after high school. To be honest, I’d forgotten that the certificate was here.
“I’ll play the patient.” One side of Ash’s mouth lifts in a teasing grin. “If you insist.”
I blink, staring at her, allowing my eyes, for just a moment, to linger over the tattoos on her arms.
I had had no intention of tending to Ash’s wounds myself. I had simply thought to hand her the gauze and the tube of cream, and then to perch discreetly on the arm of the chair by the door—so that I could leave once I felt certain she was all right. But of their own volition, my legs carry me over to Ash’s side, and I sit down on the couch next to her, our thighs touching. My heart tumbles inside of my chest like an acrobat; I swallow, staring at the floor.
As comfortably as if we are longtime friends, not brand-new, disaster-linked acquaintances, Ash removes her legs from the table and lays them over my lap, making a sheepish face and chuckling. “Sorry if my feet smell. It’s hot, and I rode for miles and miles this morning, so…”
I smile at her, unrolling the gauze in my hand and uncapping the antibiotic cream. “I’m the one who’s sorry, for cutting your ride violently short.”
“Hey, my ex bought me that bike. It had bad memories associated with it. I should’ve trashed it months ago.” Her face smoothes for a moment, and her eyes take on a faraway look. When she glances toward me again, her smile returns, though it’s a softer smile—sweet, not teasing. She reaches out to tug gently on my tie. “The way I see it… You did me a favor, Molly.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I duck my head, blushing, and push my hair behind my ears. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“So you’re convinced that I’m okay? Finally?” Ash grins.
“I’m getting there.” My eyes take in her skinned knee—it really isn’t that bad, now that she’s cleaned it thoroughly with soap and water—but I’m too far in to back out now. I dutifully smear the medicine onto her pink skin, biting my bottom lip as I breathe in Ash’s scent. There’s sweat, and a faint trace of peppermint—shampoo, maybe, or lip balm—and something else…
I’m struck by a sudden memory of my grandmother’s wildflower garden, a thick tangle of fairy slippers and Johnny Jump-ups and Black-eyed Susans, untended and overgrown. The neighbors scowled at her for her unruly lawn, but she was not the sort of person to pay any mind to other people’s opinions. I learned a lot from her.
The garden backed her little house with a riot of color, emanating a sweet green perfume that no manufactured perfume I’ve ever come across has been able to replicate. I’ve spent years searching for it, ever since her death ten years ago and the sale of her home.
But here… I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling.
Ash smells like my grandmother’s garden: sweet and wild.
In a sudden, horrifying moment, as I lift my lids and meet Ash’s amused gaze, I realize that I’ve rested my hand upon her knee. I pull it away quickly, as if her skin is on fire. My own skin is on fire, and I can only imagine how flushed my face is now. I run through oil paint pigments in my head and decide that it’s probably a close match for Quinacridone Red—practically fuchsia.
With fumbling fingers, I quickly wrap the gauze around Ash’s knee and affix it in place with the Velcro tabs. “Too tight?” I ask her breathily.
She shakes her head, smiling. “Just right.”
“Great.” I toss the nearly empty tube to the table and fall back against the couch. But then my pant-covered thigh rubs against Ash’s bare thigh, and I spring to my feet and awkwardly try to figure out where my arms should go—poised on my hips? No, too aggressive. Crossed at my waist? No, too sullen. In the end, I just let them dangle at my sides and lick my lips nervously.
“So—” we both begin at the same moment, and then laugh, glancing away.
God, I am the most inept human being on the planet. I try to figure out what Pauline would say in
the present circumstance—she always comes up with the perfect icebreaker—but my mind is as blank as a snowy field.
Then my cell phone buzzes.
“Sorry,” I tell Ash quickly as I turn away, so grateful for the reprieve that I walk-run into the small kitchen. I pull my phone out of my pocket, eying the number on the screen, and then I wince, falling into one of the hard-backed chairs.
It’s the museum. And I’m over an hour late.
With a sigh, I click send. “Hi, Georgie.”
“Hey, Molly! What’s up?” Georgie Taylor, the receptionist, asks on the end of the line, her bright voice sounding worried.
“I know I’m late. There was an accident.”
“Oh, no! What kind of accident? Are you okay?”
“Car and…bike. And, yeah, I’m okay. I just had to make sure the other person was all right—and she is. I think.” I shift my gaze toward the open doorway leading into the living room. I can’t see Ash from here, but my heart beats faster at the mere thought of seeing her. “Anyway, I’ll be in as soon as I can. Sorry I didn’t call. It’s just been…a weird morning.”
“Tell me about it! Okay, take your time. Do whatever you have to do. But…I have some bad news. And some…sort of good news.”
I lean on my elbow, templing a hand at my brow. “Bad news first.”
“Well… You know that grant that was approved last week to help restore the west wing?”
My stomach sinks. “Yeah.” I’d spent months working on the paperwork for that construction grant and had literally collapsed onto my office floor with relief when word came through that it had been accepted. “Tell me quickly, Georgie. I can’t take the suspense.”
“Revoked,” she says simply, her tone regretful. “There was some problem with—I don’t know. You’ll have to talk to Terry about the details. But the official statement is that the money’s gone, off the table, and now everyone here is in full-on panic mode. Terry especially.”
“I can imagine.” Terry Baskin is the museum’s archivist and, with me, the only other member of our two-person fundraising team. The museum is so small that most of us have to work double duty—and sometimes triple duty—in order to keep the place from plummeting into financial ruin. The loss of this grant is a serious blow.
The west wing sustained flood damage last fall and had to be closed, reducing our collection space by one-third. Despite that, we applied for and were chosen to house a traveling Impressionist exhibit next year, feeling certain that the wing would be restored long before the exhibit arrived. But now…
“He’s locked himself in his office and won’t take any calls,” Georgie tells me, sighing heavily into the receiver. “He’s pretty depressed, Molly. But he might listen to you.”
“Right. I’ll be there soon.” My voice sounds less than enthusiastic. Despite my utter lack of social skills in her presence, I feel a sudden reluctance to leave Ash. What if she decides not to rent the cottage? What if I never see her again?
Then you’ll go on with your life, Molly, and she’ll go on with hers. Be rational.
I mean, honestly… I don’t even know if she’s a lesbian. And even if she is…
I shake my head—in an attempt to shake loose my senses—and sit up straighter in the chair. “But—hey. You said you had good news?”
“Oh! Yeah! You got a delivery this morning.”
I think hard, trying to remember whether I was expecting any shipments. I haven’t acquired any new art pieces in months, due to the perpetual lack of funds. I frown, forehead wrinkling. “A delivery from who?”
“Mm, I don’t know. A secret admirer?” Georgie laughs softly. “Whoever it is, they must like you a lot. I’ve never seen so many lilies in my life.”
Lilies.
No…
“Uh,” I begin, my throat suddenly so dry that speaking presents a challenge. “Listen, Georgie, could you just… Just throw it away, okay?”
“Throw what away? The flowers?”
“Yeah. I don’t…” The phone slips from my hand and clatters onto the table surface. I scrabble to pick it up again and press it to my ear, sighing. “I really don’t want them. Get rid of them, please.”
Georgie is silent for a long moment; I wait while she puts the pieces together. Then she whispers, “Ohhhhh,” and starts making soft, apologetic sounds. “I’m so sorry, Molly. I didn’t make the connection. I should’ve remembered that she always sent you lilies.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. That was really thoughtless. I was just excited, because I thought maybe you were moving on—”
“Forget it, Georgie. It’s not a big deal.” Liar. “Seriously, it doesn’t bother me at all.” Pants on fire. “Just get them off my desk and—I don’t know—slip a note under Terry’s door to let him know I’m on my way.”
“I will. Drive carefully, Molly.”
I can’t help but laugh. “It will be the most careful drive of my life, believe me.” I roll my eyes heavenward as I breathe out, ending the call. For a minute or two, I remain seated at the table, shuffling through my phone messages. There are several from an unidentified number—Ash’s number, I presume, heart racing—and one from a number that I know all too well. My jaw clenches as I select Juliette’s message and press delete.
Why is she calling me? Why did she send me flowers at work?
A shadow falls over the table, and I look up to see Ash standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I swear. But are you all right? Need an ear?” Her mouth curves up into that teasing grin. “I’ve got two of them—ready and willing.”
“Oh, no, I…” I shove the phone back into my pocket as I stand up and push my hair out of my eyes. “That was the museum. I’m late, so…”
“You work at the museum?”
I lean back against the stove and smile weakly, nodding. “Ever been there? I mean, inside. Obviously you’ve been there. You got run over there…”
Ash’s smile widens as she shakes her head. “Haven’t been in yet, no. I just arrived in town a couple of days ago. Kind of a…spur of the moment thing. I’d been crashing with a friend over in Harvey, but she lost her place, and so I caught a ride with a guy who was headed here. The name of the town made me laugh—Normal—so I figured I’d stick around for a while, see what there is to see.”
“Yeah, well, if you’ve been here for a few days, you’ve probably seen all there is to see,” I say, sighing, though I can’t help but smile when Ash is smiling at me. “The museum is nice, though. I’d give it a look, if I were you.”
“I’ll do that.” Her smile deepens, warming me from head to toe. “Once I have wheels again, that is.”
“Right. Um…” I glance at the wall clock, feeling ill at the thought of confronting the somber faces awaiting my arrival at work. “I meant what I said, about buying you a new bike. How about…tonight? I mean, if you don’t have plans.”
She laughs softly. “No plans. To be honest, you’re the only person I know in town.”
“Oh. You mentioned a guy, so I thought—”
“Found him on Craigslist. He just gave me a ride and split. I’ve been staying at the Normal Motel the last two nights.” Her eyes rove the kitchen thoughtfully. “My neighbors are a little, um, loud, though. Passionate. I mean, passionate is great, but…” She shrugs her shoulders and catches my eye, her mouth curving up. “Then I saw your ad for the cottage online, and it seemed like it might be a nice little place to paint in.”
I watch her for a moment, then nod my head. “It’s quiet back here. The whole street is pretty quiet. I had hoped to use this place as an art studio myself, actually, but—”
“You paint?”
I blush, uncomfortable. “Used to. Not anymore. I…don’t have a lot of free time.”
Ash stares at me, her gaze so intense that my cheeks burn and my heart stands still. Then she moves further into the kitchen to smooth her hand over the granite countertop befo
re sliding right next to me, hip to hip. “Well, I’ll take it.”
“What?” Her nearness and her scent make me feel dizzy. I tightly grip the handle on the oven door.
“Do you need to interview me first? Check references? My credit rating?”
“No, but… I just thought you’d need time to make up your mind.”
Again, that throaty laugh. Ash’s grey eyes sparkle, slanted up with amusement. “I guess you could say I’m the spontaneous type. You know,” she grins, “one of those hotheaded artists.”
“Oh.” Something within me shrivels; my shoulders sag. Juliette always prided herself on her artistic spontaneity—and it was a spontaneous impulse that urged her to leave me for another woman and hop on a plane to Paris.
“Is anything wrong?”
“No…” Biting my lip, I shake my head and sigh, frustrated with myself. What does it matter if Ash has an artist’s temperament? She’s renting my cottage, not my heart. “I haven’t got all of the paperwork ready yet. You’re welcome to stay—immediately, tonight. But I’ll need some time to—”
“No rush. We’ll figure out the details later.”
“Okay. Well…” It’s probably the first don’t on every list of landlord dos and don’ts, but I dig the cottage key out of my pocket and press it into Ash’s hand. She folds her fingers over my palm, gazing into my eyes, smiling softly.
“Thank you for trusting me.” Her laugh this time is different: sad. “A lot of people take one look at my tattoos and think I’m going to—I don’t know—graffiti their car or steal their lawn ornaments or something.”
“Well, graffiti would probably improve my old bug’s resale value,” I laugh. “And…” I swallow, heart somersaulting. “I think your tattoos are really beautiful.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, thanks.” Ash ducks her head, and her sweet, bashful smile makes my toes curl. “They mean a lot to me. They’re sort of like—I don’t know—a roadmap of my life experiences.” Chuckling, she shakes her head. “That sounds so pretentious.”
“No, no, not at all.” I can’t help but look more closely at the tattoos on the shoulder nearest to me. There’s a deep blue wave swirling up into the night sky, higher and higher, until its droplets gradually take the shape of stars.
Drawn to You Page 3
