Take Me Home

by Nancy Herkness

  The spoon ceased spinning. “I guess the women around here aren’t that smart.”

  She was taken aback by the irritation in his voice. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so personal.”

  “No, no, it’s fine,” he said, but he looked away. “What about you? No smart men?”

  “I was married briefly,” she said, “and divorced at length.”

  “You should have hired me as your lawyer.”

  “Tell me about it! How does it look for Holly?”

  “I can’t really talk to you about it. Attorney-client confidentiality,” he said with a regretful gesture. “However, I’m going to make it as painless as possible.”

  “For Holly. Make it agonizing for Frank.”

  He laughed, and the discussion turned to former high school classmates; Paul kept track of virtually everyone. Not all the histories were happy ones.

  “Okay, I think you should run for president,” she said. “The way you keep everyone’s life stories straight is truly impressive. You’d be a natural campaigner.”

  “Actually, I’ve been approached about running for the state senate.” The spoon was in motion again.

  “Go for it. You’d be the best senator the state’s ever had.”

  “I’d take that as a compliment if I didn’t know so many senators personally.”

  Claire chuckled. “It’s so great to see you again.”

  “Same here. I should have come to the gallery sooner.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  The spoon went still. “The same reason you didn’t come to my office.”

  Claire considered why she hadn’t looked him up. “You mean because you were afraid we’d say hello and a long awkward pause would follow?”

  “Yeah,” Paul said with a half smile. “And because I was afraid New York would have changed you deep down, but you sure seem like the same Claire I knew way back when.”

  She traced a path around the checks of the tablecloth with her fingertip. There were aspects of her younger self she wanted back, and some she couldn’t seem to shed.

  “Claire?” Paul was slouching down in his chair in an effort to see her expression.

  “I was wondering if I really am the same Claire,” she said, looking up. “There’s been an awful lot of water under various bridges in my life.”

  “You are.” Paul’s pale-silver eyes were locked on her. “You’ve got a lot of big-city polish with the sleeked-back ponytail and the mile-high heels—which I like a lot, by the way. But I see my old friend behind it all.”

  “If you say so.” Claire caught sight of the time on Paul’s big wristwatch. “Oh Lord, I have to get back to the gallery. I have a couple coming in to look at the Len Boggs exhibition. They flew in to have lunch at the Aerie first.”

  “They could buy three Boggs paintings with what lunch will cost them,” Paul said, taking the check out of the air before the waitress could lay it on the table.

  “You’ve still got the quickest hands in the East,” Claire said as he waved away her offer of a twenty-dollar bill. “Do you ever play foosball anymore?”

  “Only when I’ve had too much to drink. You?”

  “Not since college.”

  “I challenge you to a match,” he said, holding the door for her, “at the Sportsman Saturday night. Loser buys.”

  She hesitated. She still felt guilty about her Friday dinner date with Tim, but a late-night foosball game on Saturday wouldn’t have the same freight, since Holly always crashed in bed by nine o’clock.

  Glancing at Paul, she found anticipation blazing in his light eyes. She remembered that look, and suddenly, she wanted to feel the rubber grip of a foosball handle against her palm and the slide of cold beer down her throat. She grinned up at him. “Make it after nine, and you’re on.”

  “Just like the old days.”

  “Except this time, I’m going to pound you into the bar floor.”

  Claire’s fly-in clients surprised her by buying an abstract sculpture instead of a Boggs landscape. The commission wasn’t as large, but she was delighted for the artist, a taciturn local farrier she sometimes saw shoeing horses at Healing Springs Stables. That reminded her of Willow, and she checked the clock. If she closed up a little early, she could make a quick visit to her whisper horse.

  Thirty minutes later, she slipped into Willow’s stall, having changed only the sky-high heels Paul had commented on. The mare whinnied and abandoned the hay net she had been picking at, gently butting her head against Claire’s chest and then rubbing it up and down.

  “Hey, I’m glad to see you too, but this blouse is a Diane von Fürstenberg. Just because I got it on sale doesn’t mean you can use it as a face rag,” she said, laughing as she grabbed Willow’s halter to hold her still. She dropped a kiss on the white star on the mare’s forehead. “You’ve got more energy now, don’t you, girl? And your ribs aren’t quite as easy to count. Maybe Sharon’s right. Maybe you will be a beauty.”

  Willow stamped a hoof, sending the earthy fragrance of the thick straw bedding swirling around the stall. “Mmm,” Claire said, closing her eyes and pulling in a deep breath. “Warm, clean horse. Straw just out of the bale. Fresh-cut hay. It smells like home.”

  Her eyes flew open. No, that wasn’t right. Sanctuary was not home; it was the place she had left behind for all kinds of good reasons. For the first time since she’d returned here, she was feeling the pull of her roots. This was Paul’s doing; he had sucked her back into the past where she didn’t want to be.

  “Forward, I need to look forward,” she said, combing her fingers through Willow’s stubby mane. Which reminded her of her upcoming date with Tim. “I’m going to eat at the Aerie. It makes me feel guilty that I’m excited.”

  She lowered her voice to a murmur. “Truth is, I’m kind of excited about seeing Dr. Tim too. He’s...well, intriguing.” She thought of the strength that sent her hurtling onto Salty’s back and the way his hand wrapped around her knee as he checked the girth. Her body set up a happy little hum at the thought that he might touch her again.

  “It’s just a little harmless flirting. He wants my painting; I get to have a gourmet meal with a nice guy.”

  Willow snorted.

  “You don’t think it’s harmless?” Claire stroked the mare’s nose. “You might have a point. My track record with men is not impressive. But this relationship has an ending date already. I’ll be leaving Sanctuary, and Tim will be staying.”

  Willow shook her head, her ears flapping.

  Claire knew the horse couldn’t possibly understand her, but guilt still knotted in her chest. “You have lots of good people to take care of you besides me,” she said, wrapping her arms around Willow’s neck. “You don’t really need me.”

  The truth of that twisted a strand of regret in with the guilt, and she turned her face into the horse’s warm, solid neck, trying to erase the sense that she had failed yet another being she cared about.

  CLAIRE’S MOOD LIFTED as Holly and the two little girls pulled clothes and shoes out of Claire’s closet with abandon, oohing over some and giggling over others.

  Holly had hesitated before accepting Claire’s impulsive invitation to help her pick out an outfit, but now she seemed to have gotten into the spirit of the occasion. Her sister had always loved fashion, so Claire thought a little clothing consultation might distract her from her health and marital problems.

  Even the usually quiet and studious Brianna had her small feet half-filling a pair of black pumps accented by purple patent leather heels. Claire draped a shimmering gold chiffon scarf around the little girl’s head and shoulders, and Brianna’s face lit up as she flapped her arms to turn the sheer, floating fabric into rippling wings.

  “Okay, we have to get serious, girls,” Holly announced. “Aunt Claire brought us here for a purpose. We are on a mission to choose the perfect outfit for her date.”

  Kayleigh slid a jeweled Lucite bangle onto her wrist, then looked at her mother with a puzzled
expression. “I didn’t think grown-ups went on dates. Or is it just because you and Papa are married that you don’t?”

  Claire’s gaze flew to Holly’s face. A stricken look darkened her sister’s eyes, but she said, “No, it’s just that I haven’t felt well enough to do things at night since I got the Lyme disease. Papa and I used to go bowling on Saturday nights, but back then, you were in bed before we left home.”

  “Oh good, because I want to go on lots of dates,” the little girl said, turning the bracelet so it sparkled, “especially if I get to wear pretty stuff like this.”

  Claire let out the breath she’d been holding. Unfortunately, Kayleigh’s question had quenched all of Holly’s animation.

  “You know, it’s nice to be in West Virginia where you can wear pretty colors,” Claire said, steering everyone’s attention back to the clothing.

  Brianna looked at the garments strewn over the bed. “But your clothes are almost all black.”

  “That’s because in New York you’re required to wear black at least six days a week,” Claire said.

  “Really?” Kayleigh asked, wide-eyed.

  “No, she’s kidding,” Brianna said. “I can tell by the way the corners of her mouth sort of tilt up. They always do that when she’s joking.”

  “Wow!” Claire said. “I didn’t know. Thank you for warning me.”

  “I like it,” Brianna said. “It makes you look like an elf.”

  She felt absurdly pleased to seem otherworldly to a child. “Maybe I can grow points on my ears.”

  “Hey, back to your job!” Holly admonished them, her hands on her hips. “Now I’m going to work on Aunt Claire’s hairdo.”

  “What?” Claire protested as Holly tugged her toward the slipper chair in front of the taffeta-skirted dressing table.

  Claire had rented the former barn furnished, so the bedroom reflected the tastes of its owner—a retired poodle breeder—complete with a pale-pink canopied bed, rose-splashed wallpaper, and a dressing table with lighted mirrors fit for a Hollywood starlet. It was not appropriate for an ex-hayloft, but the little girls loved it.

  “I can do my own hair.”

  Holly picked up a brush and made a sweeping gesture with it. “Silence! I control the Brush of Doom.”

  It seemed only Claire detected the forced tone in her sister’s voice because Brianna and Kayleigh looked up from their task in surprise. “Mommy’s bossing Aunt Claire around,” Kayleigh stage-whispered.

  “Your mommy has always been very bossy,” Claire said, rolling her eyes to play into Holly’s act. “I feel sorry for you guys, having to put up with her all the time.”

  “You’re undermining my authority,” their mother said, shaking the brush at Claire. “They’ll never listen to me again.”

  The conversation deteriorated into a tickle fight, which left all four of them sprawled at various angles across the bed. Holly’s wrist lay about six inches from Claire’s nose, and she noticed a new bruise discoloring her sister’s pale skin. The fresh evidence of Holly’s Lyme disease hardened the lump of dismay in Claire’s stomach.

  “I hope Brianna and I have fun like this when we’re old,” Kayleigh said.

  “You will, honey,” Holly said, pushing off the bed. “It’s a sister thing.”

  Longing speared through Claire. If only this lighthearted play wasn’t all for the benefit of the little girls.

  Claire busied herself with rehanging the items Holly and her daughters had rejected. Eavesdropping on the debate amongst the three made her smile and blink back tears at the same time. She remembered how wrenching her divorce had been, and she had no children to worry about shielding from the ugliness.

  “Aunt Claire, your outfit’s ready,” Brianna called out. “Close your eyes and I’ll lead you.”

  Claire braced herself as she let Brianna pull her to the foot of the bed. Opening her eyes, she relaxed. Except for a few more pieces of jewelry than she would ordinarily wear, the outfit was great.

  “This is fantastic!” Claire turned to her sister. “You didn’t tell me that we had two fashion mavens in the family.”

  “We like to cut out the clothes from Vogue and Elle and rearrange them so normal people could wear them,” Holly said. “It’s one of our games.”

  Claire turned back to the bed so Holly wouldn’t see her tear-filled eyes. Laid out like a magazine display was a purple full-skirted dress fastened down the front with giant black buttons, the black-and-purple pumps Brianna had been wearing, and a narrow black belt to cinch the waist.

  Kayleigh had added several slim black-and-gold bangles and gold hoop earrings with jet drops dangling from the bottoms. There was even a white scarf with black polka dots, which Claire was dubious about until she put the dress on and Holly wrapped the scarf over her head and around her neck. It was the perfect touch of whimsy.

  After a session with the Brush of Doom, Holly declared Claire’s ensemble complete.

  “Wait!” Claire said. “You all deserve a reward for your outstanding work.”

  She scooped the gold chiffon scarf up off the bed and wrapped it around Brianna. “For your soaring imagination.”

  The glinting bangle was slipped back on Kayleigh’s wrist. “To match your sparkling eyes.”

  She reached up on the closet shelf and took down a bright-red Kate Spade handbag Holly had been strutting in front of the mirror with earlier. “To hold the memory of tonight.”

  “I can’t take this,” Holly said, pushing the bag away. “I know what these cost.”

  “You know that credit card commercial about what everything costs until you get to the last item and it’s priceless? Well, this evening has been priceless for me. When I see you carrying this bag, it will remind me of it.”

  “I shouldn’t, but thank you,” Holly whispered, cradling the leather bag as though it were spun glass.

  Claire hadn’t given away anything that mattered to her, yet the three recipients looked at their gifts as if they were made of solid gold.

  “Girls, why don’t you go downstairs and watch the Disney Channel?” Holly said abruptly. “I’m going to help Aunt Claire straighten up here.”

  “Yay! Maybe Wizards of Waverly Place is on,” Kayleigh cheered as she and her sister dashed for the door. Holly limited their television watching, so this was a rare treat.

  “You sit right down and watch me clean up,” Claire said. “I know you’re exhausted. And I notice you have another bruise. I wish you’d take it easier.”

  Holly crossed her arms so the bruise was hidden. “It doesn’t hurt.”

  “Well, that’s good. Now sit and rest.”

  Holly dropped onto the dressing table’s chair without further argument. “I wasn’t sure whether I should tell you this, but I decided you should know.”

  Her sister’s tone was so serious that Claire put down the belt she’d been rolling up. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I looked up Anais Tremont online. There were a whole bunch of news stories, but none of them answered the most important question.”

  “Which is?”

  “Why she did it. There was a suicide note, but it was never released to the press. Dr. Tim refused to comment. Ever.”

  “Who could blame him?” Claire said. “Imagine what he was going through! His gorgeous, talented wife blew her brains out in an empty theater. Why would he want to talk about that, especially to a bunch of reporters?”

  “Yeah, but you can’t help wondering.”

  Claire would never admit it, but Holly was right. She did wonder what could have driven Anais Tremont to such despair that her only option was death.

  CLAIRE HAD FORGOTTEN the potent thrill of nerves and anticipation a first date could deliver. When the doorbell rang, she dropped the black leather clutch into which she was tucking her cell phone and lipstick.

  “Get a grip!” she said as she knelt to scrape everything back into the purse’s narrow opening. When her hasty sweep sent the lipstick rolling under the couch,
she muttered a curse and then shouted, “Come in! It’s open.”

  She was half-kneeling, half-lying on the braided rug with her arm extended under the sofa when Tim’s amused voice said, “May I help?” and the heavy piece of furniture tilted onto its back legs.

  She grabbed the errant plastic tube and sat up, shoving the lipstick into the clutch lying beside her on the floor. “Got it! You’re a handy man to have around.”

  His chuckle came from behind her as the sofa was lowered gently back into its normal position. “Was it something very valuable?”

  “It’s Rarer than Ruby,” Claire said, pulling her full skirt out from under her knees and bracing her other elbow on the cushion to push herself up.

  She felt his hands come around her to grip her waist, pressing against the belt Kayleigh had picked out. Then she was weightless, soaring upward like a ballerina in her partner’s arms. Startled, she grabbed for an anchor and found his wrists, her fingers wrapping around what felt like warm girders of muscle and bone.

  “What’s rarer than a ruby? A blue diamond?”

  She wobbled as he set her down on her purple heels, and his grip tightened slightly. Her fingers were still locked on his wrists.

  “A what?” Claire was too caught up in the experience to grasp what he was talking about.

  When she was steady on her feet, he turned her to face him by reaching around to take her opposite hand in his and gently pulling it, like a continuation of their balletic pas de deux.

  “What were you so determined to retrieve from under the couch?”

  Her spin brought her around to eye level with his chest. He was wearing deep-blue woven silk, not plaid flannel. The silk was framed by the lapels of a pale-gray blazer. She raised her gaze higher, scanning up the strong column of his throat, to find his eyes glinting with a hint of mischief, while the corners of his mouth turned slightly upward.

  “My lipstick. The color is Rarer than Ruby.”

  He tilted her chin up farther with a nudge of his finger and considered her mouth. “Mmm. I like it.”