by P. G. Forte
She turned the key and the engine roared to life, along with the radio, the wipers and the heat, which had all been set to max. She turned on her lights, pushed a CD into the player, and pulled out into the wet, gray street to the cheering sound of Martina McBride singing Wild Angels.
* * * *
The day was dark gray and cold when Ryan finally pulled himself out of bed. The rain beat a steady tattoo against the windows of his apartment and the damp knifed through his leg like steel as he limped to the bathroom. He could hear his puppy whining with mournful impatience from her kennel in the other room. He must have been out of his mind when he got that dog, he thought. Which was pretty much the same thought he had every morning now.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like having a dog, or that his apartment wasn’t big enough for her. The dog was a sweetheart. And his apartment? A lingering feeling of satisfaction sifted through him. His apartment was great.
In fact, with its high ceilings, gas fireplace and sweeping view of the bay, the apartment was damn near perfect. But it was also three floors up from the street, the dog was an Irish setter, and he was a cripple.
Just temporarily, he promised himself again. But it was getting harder to believe that all the time.
He’d gotten the dog last autumn. He’d grown lonely and bored during the weeks he’d been laid up following his injury, and it seemed like a good idea to give himself a reason to take long walks at least twice a day. But that was when his leg looked like it was healing properly. Before the rain set in.
He’d been back at work less than a month when the pain had flared up again, and he’d been sidelined once more. But even though just sitting at a desk for more than a few hours at a time was agonizing, not working for very much longer was going to make him crazy.
He winced as he pulled on some sweat pants and a windbreaker and shoved his feet into a pair of running shoes. By the time he finished dressing, he was breathing hard. The pain was always at its worst first thing in the morning, he reminded himself, ignoring the fear that it was just getting worse, period. Just as he tried to ignore the sweat prickling at his hairline and the bottle of painkillers that beckoned from the medicine cabinet. He didn’t know which scared him more, the idea of getting addicted to the pills, or the thought that this debilitating pain was something he’d have with him for the rest of his life.
“Okay, girl, come on,” he said as he slipped the choke collar over the dog’s head. At least he’d been smart enough to avoid saddling himself with a really young puppy. The dog was young enough to have no idea on how to walk on a leash, which was bad enough. If he’d had to deal with paper-training her as well, they never would have made it. Now, if he could only come up with a name for her. It bothered him that he hadn’t, But so far, nothing he had thought of had seemed to fit for more than a day or two.
They headed out into the hallway, the dog pulling impatiently at her lead. He had to grit his teeth when she pulled him off balance and forced him to put too much weight on his injured leg. But once they were outside, she changed her mind, peering reluctantly at the rain from the shelter of the awning that shielded the building’s entrance.
“Come on!” he ordered again, stepping out into the storm and giving the lead a sharp jerk. The dog stepped gingerly out after him. With both her head and her tail dragging she looked just as miserable as he felt.
“Just to the corner and back,” he promised, and then felt guilty about that, as well. He had to go downtown to the station later this morning, and then he had an appointment for acupuncture therapy in the afternoon. She’d be locked up for most of the day. Maybe this evening, if the rain let up a little, he’d take her for a good long walk.
At least he could count on his leg feeling better by then – and for the next couple of days, as well. Of course, if the acupuncture hadn’t seemed like it was helping, there wasn’t anything in the world that would have kept him going back for more.
It wasn’t the needles that bothered him so much, or even the tingling currents of energy they unleashed, and which continued to flow through him for hours afterward. It was having to lie there, immobile for an hour of more; prey to all the memories, the thoughts and the feelings that the treatment seemed to stir up.
Memories of things best left forgotten, feelings he’d rather not explore, thoughts he usually did his very best to repress.
His leg was throbbing by the time he got back to the apartment. But he dried the dog’s coat off first, and then wiped the mud from her paws and made sure she was fed before he allowed himself the luxury of a long shower. The hot water eased a little of the ache from his leg, but stepping out of the warmth and into the chill morning air, he felt it all seep back again, anyway.
He dressed quickly. Heated a little of last night’s coffee in the microwave. Checked that the dog had enough water. And left his apartment. Fast. Before the pills in the medicine chest could start calling to him any louder.
* * * *
Back in the teashop, Marsha watched with slightly guilty amusement as Scout finally managed to placate an angry Lucy with the suggestion that she come shopping with her that afternoon to help her find a dress for the dinner. Lucy hated being teased but sometimes, even after a lifetime of being friends, Marsha just couldn’t resist the urge to do it. Just like Lucy apparently couldn’t resist the idea of being helpful.
“I know. Let’s stop by the police station, too, while we’re at it,” she suggested to Scout. “Maybe I can talk that cousin of mine into getting himself a tux, too.”
“Sure.” Scout nodded, “Good idea. I wish you would. You know I can’t suggest it.” Turning to Marsha, she asked. “So, what’s Sam wearing to the dinner?”
“Haven’t a clue.” Marsha couldn’t help smiling as she added, “On a hunch, I’d bet he’s thinking of going with something black.”
“Gee, your psychic powers must’ve been working overtime to come up with that one, Hon,” Heather drawled, while Ginny chuckled appreciatively. Marsha grinned back at them. Sam’s monochromatic wardrobe was pretty hard to miss, after all.
But Lucy, probably because she was still annoyed with her, wasn’t as easily distracted. “Funny,” she muttered, eyes narrowing as she studied Marsha’s face. “What are you so nervous about, all of a sudden?”
“Who says I’m nervous? Don’t be ridiculous,” Marsha answered quickly, and turning to Heather and Ginny she added, “It’s a shame you two aren’t going to be here for it. This dinner sounds like it’s could be fun.”
“Well, it does.” Ginny smiled, gently, “But this is an important convention we’re going to, after all, and—”
“You know you always start cracking jokes when something’s bothering you, Marsh,” Lucy insisted. “Don’t deny it. If you’re not nervous, then you’re upset. What is it this time?”
“It’s your imagination, that’s what it is. I’m not nervous. Or upset.”
“It’s the dinner.” Scout sounded slightly startled. “Is it the dinner?”
“No,” Marsha said, feeling a little startled herself at Scout’s sudden perception. One little chakra link and the woman was reading her mind now? Impossible! “Of course not. Why would you think something like that?”
Ginny shot her a slightly amused glance as she leaned forward to address them all. “Listen, before I forget, that quilt my group’s been working on – you know, the one for the charity raffle this summer? It’s all pieced together, finally, and we’re going to start quilting it afternoons at the store, between four thirty and six. If any of you want to stop by and help, or if you know anybody else who does, it would be appreciated.”
“No kidding. Really appreciated,” Heather added, “The damn thing is huge. It’s gonna take months.”
“I can spare a couple of afternoons a week,” Lucy said. “What’s the theme of this one?”
“The tarot,” Ginny answered, enthusiastically. “It’s a crazy quilt basically. It has all these beautiful blocks representing the seventy-
eight cards; they’re absolutely stunning, by the way. Just wait ‘til you see all the appliqué and the embroidery. And they’re interspersed with other squares of alternating piecework stars and trapunto spirals. But as Heather said, it’s really big. Large enough for a king size bed.”
“Well, you know I’ll be there.” Marsha smiled at her friend. “I love working on these quilts with you. It’s just a shame I never win any of the raffles.”
“Well, of course you don’t,” Heather pointed out. “You never buy more than a couple of tickets, after all. But this year’ll be different. You just bat your eyes at Sam and tell him how much you want to win—from what I’ve seen of the way he operates, he’ll probably buy up every ticket they’ve got.” She chuckled as she took another sip of her latte. “You really gotta admire a guy who knows how to make grand gestures, don’t you?”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Scout spoke up suddenly. “Marsha, do you think Siobhan can get us an advance copy of what they’ll be offering at the silent auction during the dinner? I’m thinking it might be a good place to look for something special for Nick. You know, for Valentine’s Day?”
“Yeah, and you’re another one for grand gestures, aren’t you?” Heather smiled at her. “Are you going to help with the quilt, too?”
“A quilt?” Scout frowned doubtfully. “I don’t know, Heather. I’m not real domestic.”
“Scout, for heaven’s sake, it’s not like cooking,” Lucy said. “Trust me, this is nothing you can’t handle. Besides,” she added with just the slightest undercurrent of tension edging her voice. “Quilting is a very relaxing activity. Perfect for reducing stress. Or for taking your mind off other things. You’ll love it.”
Marsha took a closer look at Lucy, already halfway through at her third latte of the day, and an uneasy certainty gripped her. There was more at work here than just your usual rainy-day-mid-winter-Monday-morning blues. Scout was bothered by strange dreams; Lucy was clearly stressing out over... something. And, although there was no way she was going to admit anything of the kind, she was nervous. She just wished she had a better idea what she was nervous about.
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* * * *
Chapter Two
* * * *
The rain continued to fall as Sam Sterling made his way along the path that threaded its way through the park, but he didn’t mind. He was sheltered from the worst of it, here beneath the huge old trees. Plus, he’d been studying the patterns the last few weeks. The really heavy rains seemed always to fall in brief bursts. If he’d timed it right, he figured this downpour would let up just about the time he’d reach the edge of the park.
If he was lucky, he should be able to traverse the couple of blocks between there and Main Street where Marsha’s shop was located without getting drenched. And he was very often lucky. It didn’t hurt, either, that he had a natural aptitude for recognizing patterns, and a fine sense of timing – both of which he’d honed during his years as a trader on the New York Stock Exchange.
It had been luck, and nothing else, which brought him to Oberon last September. Luck that led to his renting, out of the dozen or so properties that had been available to him, the one cabin Marsha owned. And luck that had thrown the two of them together the very next day.
Marsha would probably call it fate. But Sam didn’t believe in fate, though there were times when he rather wished he did. Because unlike fate, luck had a funny way of running out on a person. Lately, he wasn’t altogether certain that his luck, at least where Marsha was concerned, hadn’t gone off on an extended hiatus.
He thought once again about the ring he’d bought her two months ago. He’d been waiting for the right time to give it to her. He was still waiting.
A flicker of motion caught his eye. He turned in time to see a flock of parrots go winging their way across the small meadow, from one stand of trees to the next. The rain had slowed to a drizzle he noticed, grimly pleased to see that his luck and his timing hadn’t completely deserted him. But... parrots? He stopped to stare at the trees where the birds had disappeared. Could he really have seen that? Or was that just something else he was imagining.
Sam spotted Marsha as soon as he walked in the door of her shop. She was seated at her usual table with Lucy and Scout. Her head came up swiftly. As she turned to watch him approach he could see the awareness shimmering in her eyes and the heightened color in her cheeks. He smiled to himself. It was just one of the many things he loved about her, the way she could always sense his presence the moment he arrived. The fact that he could still make her blush from halfway across a room.
There really was a bond between them, he told himself fiercely. Something strong and lasting. Something more than just imaginary.
“Morning, angel,” he murmured leaning down to brush his lips against hers. “Ladies.” He nodded to the others as he seated himself next to Marsha and gazed at her expectantly.
“What?” she asked, smiling cautiously.
“Well, I was just walking through the park and I swear I saw a flock of parrots fly past me. What’s up with that? You can’t tell me they’re native to this area.”
“Parrots?” Scout sounded surprised. “Don’t tell me they’re still around?”
Lucy frowned at her. “Well, of course they’re around. They live for decades. They taught us that in grade school, remember?”
“Actually, I’m surprised you’ve never heard of them Sam,” Marsha said. “They’ve gotten a lot of attention over the years. Scientists come out from time to time and study them. As far as anyone can tell, they were originally pets that got loose and, somehow they all ended up here. The unusual part is that even though they’re several different species, they’ve banded together to form some sort of loosely connected flock. So far nobody’s been able to determine if they’re cross-breeding.” She smiled slyly. “Don’t worry, Sam. You’re not hallucinating.”
“I’ve wondered about that,” he admitted, reaching for the teapot and an empty cup.
“What were you doing in the park, anyway?” Lucy asked. “You didn’t ride that motorcycle of yours all the way in from the canyon, did you? In this rain?”
He shook his head. “I’m not that crazy. I finally broke down and bought myself a car. The dealer dropped it off this morning, so I decided to take the day off and go for a drive.”
Sam watched in amusement as Lucy assimilated the idea that he could do that. He was basically semi retired, having recently sold off his company so he could re-locate here.
He turned back to Marsha, practically sensing the question that was hovering on her lips. “I left it at your house, by the way, so the boys would be sure to see it when they got home. I figured they’d get a kick out of it.”
“What kind of car?” Scout asked.
Lucy frowned querulously. “What do you mean they dropped it off? Since when do car dealers do things like that?”
“Jaguar. A Vanden Plas,” he responded. “And Lucy, one thing I’ve noticed over the years is that if you pay them enough money, people will generally do whatever you want them to.”
Scout grinned. “Black, I suppose?”
“But of course,” he answered, returning her smile.
“I thought you’d decided on the Porsche,” Marsha said, a little too quietly.
Sam felt his smile fade away. “No. It was nice But like I told you, there’s no backseat.”
Lucy’s muffled snort of amusement brought the color flooding back into Marsha’s cheeks.
“For the boys, Lucy,” Sam hurried to add. “I couldn’t very well take one of them for a ride and leave the other twin home, now could I? Besides, if we all wanted to go somewhere, it would—”
“If we all want to go someplace we can take my van,” Marsha insisted stubbornly. “I told you, Sam, there was no reason for you to worry about that.”
“I know you did. And we can still take your van.” Sam sipped his tea. It was clearly useless trying to explain that he wanted to be able to drive th
em places. That he wanted a car they could all fit into.
It probably wouldn’t do any good, either, to point out that while the boys were twelve, the van was pushing forty and it was a sure bet that any new car would be a vast improvement in their eyes. “But if we take the Jag, the boys can listen to their CDs,” he said, instead.
Marsha’s eyes glinted with sudden laughter. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Sam, But have you listened to any of their music? That’s not exactly a big selling point for me.”
“Well, I realize that, angel. But on the other hand, I think this whole car deal is pretty much a guy thing, anyway,” he teased, relieved as her whole expression softened, finally, into a reluctant smile. “So, you’re just gonna have to give in and humor us. At least once in awhile.”
“Hmm. We’ll see about that.” Marsha reached for the teapot and poured herself another cup, giving more attention to the process than it actually warranted.
There was way too much distance between them these days, Sam thought sadly, watching her. And while he didn’t want to add to the problem by pushing at her to admit it, neither could he just pretend, as she seemed to want to do, that there was nothing wrong.
Though he’d only met Marsha a few months earlier, he’d fallen hard and fast. He’d quickly come to think of her and her sons as his family, and he thought they felt the same way about him. He had no real problem with the fact that she’d only allow him to spend the night with her during weekends, when the boys were with their dad. He could understand her reluctance to flaunt their affair in front of her adolescent sons. Besides, he figured it was only a matter of time before he moved in for good.
For a few precious weeks he’d basked in the illusion that things between them were moving, swiftly and inevitably, toward this happy conclusion. Then her daughter had come home from college and blown all his carefully constructed fantasies clear out of the water.
