by Meera Lester
After a deep breath, Abby put the phone down and tried to breathe away the tension she felt. Her being late was becoming a pattern when it involved Clay. Was it a message from her subconscious to face her fears about starting up again with him? She did love him, but they shared a painful history, and a lover once wounded was forever changed. He had scarred her heart. The way she saw it, his emotional interior remained impenetrable, in spite of what he’d said about being unable to live without her. Now he would be in one of his dark moods again.
As her damp palms clenched the steering wheel and adrenaline pumped through her body, a twinge of anger drove her foot against the gas pedal. She felt the Jeep respond as she navigated into the passing lane along the straight section of the road back to town. She wasn’t speeding, but she’d been driving faster than usual after turning from the mountainous spur road onto the highway. She hoped that a deputy sheriff or one of Las Flores’s finest wasn’t hiding in the thick blooming acacia along the roadway. From writing tickets back in the day, she knew all the places where the cops could radar while remaining half hidden; accordingly, she braked before passing each one. The sunset was still a couple of hours off, but what did it matter now? Clay would still be hungry. And she would still be late.
Sorting through Fiona’s personal items had proven to be a daunting task, more so than either she or Jack had anticipated. They’d lost track of time while organizing and packing up the cottage. When she had realized she’d be more than an hour late meeting Clay, Abby had sent the text. His terse reply had seemed irascibly impatient. But as she thought about the day she’d just spent with Jack Sullivan, the anger and frustration fell away. She couldn’t recall the last time she had laughed as hard as she did, in fits and spurts, at his unstoppable witticisms and funny stories. Perhaps her company and his use of humor had somehow helped him get through the otherwise somber task of sorting through his dead sister’s possessions.
The hours had passed quickly, and they’d tarried far too long as they examined the small treasures Fiona had collected: clipped articles, pictures, strange found objects, and religious paraphernalia. Abby glanced over at the box of journals now resting in the passenger seat. Jack didn’t have time to go through them, but he thought someone should, instead of relegating them to a bonfire, lest they contain information helpful to the murder investigation. And Abby had been only too happy to take them.
She slowed the Jeep to the posted twenty-five miles per hour after taking the Main Street exit. From there, she drove straight to the shelter. Someone had hung the CLOSED sign on the front door, so Abby continued around back. After spotting a large empty bin, she came to a stop, climbed out, dumped the black plastic contractor bags of Fiona’s clothing and household items, returned to the car, and headed straight to the Las Flores Lodge.
Eight minutes later, she pulled into the driveway and spotted Clay pacing the wide stone veranda. His computer bag rested near the front steps. He trudged past a potted fuchsia on leaden feet, his hands thrust deep into his jeans pockets, a scowl creasing his forehead. When his expression brightened upon seeing her, Abby felt her tension evaporate.
“Hi, handsome,” Abby called as he dashed toward the Jeep.
After hopping in, Clay tucked the computer bag behind the seat, buckled up, and heaved a long exhale. “Finally! I’ve got the appetite of a grizzly for that home-cooked meal you promised.”
“I’ll get right on that,” Abby said, thrusting the gear into reverse and turning around the Jeep. “Just as soon as I feed the dog, check on my bees, and lock the chickens in for the night.”
“I see how it is!” he exclaimed. “In order of importance, I’m dead last.”
Abby shook her head. “Seriously? You didn’t just say that.”
“Well, I’m growing weary of no wheels, those four walls where I’m staying, and the air conditioner humming twenty-four/seven. If I turn it off, all I hear is traffic and the sounds of the town. I’m a country boy at heart, Abby. I’ll be the first to tell you, I’m looking forward to shutting off the alarm and waking up beside you to the call of that rooster of yours. What’s its name?”
“Houdini.” Abby merged into the traffic on Las Flores Boulevard, heading northeast toward Farm Hill Road.
“So named because?”
“He was herding my hens through a hole in the fence, trying to make a run for the border.”
Clay chuckled. “I see. Taking his women with him. Smart guy.” He adjusted the seat to accommodate his long legs and leaned back. When Abby braked for the red light at the intersection of Main, he unlatched his seat belt, leaned over, and planted a sloppy kiss off-kilter on her lips.
“Hey, that’ll get you arrested, mister. I’m trying to drive here,” she said.
“It’s still there, woman. I can feel it,” he declared in a jubilant voice while reattaching his seat belt.
“What’s still there? What are you talking about?”
“Love. You still love me.”
“Oh, really?” You can’t possibly know how I feel when I’m not even sure myself. Although Abby wanted to call him on his tendency to jump to conclusions, she also realized this wasn’t the time or place. She wrinkled her nose at him instead.
“I’ll wager you’ve been thinking about me all day, haven’t you?”
Abby recalled her day with Jack. If only you knew! How is it I never noticed just how maddeningly full of yourself you can be, Clay Calhoun?
He continued, “Because I’ve thought of nothing but you today. Ever since I woke up and remembered. Still can’t figure out why you didn’t stay awhile after that smooch.”
She looked over at him momentarily, arching her brow with interest. “It was a good night kiss, Clay. You knew I had to get back. And besides, you didn’t feel well.” Admittedly, he looked kind of cute and sexy today. He’d gotten his dark brown locks shorn, probably that morning, while she’d been up at the cottage, helping Jack. With the cowlick and sideburns gone, Clay’s equally dark brown eyes, lashes, and brows dominated his features.
He flashed a dimpled grin. Before she could say anything more, he added, “All I can say is that you’re a good kisser, you little seductress.”
“Yeah?” Abby tried not to show her surprise. She hadn’t seduced him. He, however, seemed to be the one on a relentless pursuit. But it was nice he’d remembered their kiss even after drinking the better part of two bottles of wine. Had he also recalled how much of a struggle it had been to climb the front steps of the Lodge? Or to get through the lobby and to his room with her five-foot-three-inch frame as his only support? That hadn’t been sexy. But in a moment of weakness at his door, she’d yielded to passion. To say she hadn’t enjoyed it would be lying. But clearly, he’d read a lot into it.
After a pause, he said sheepishly, “You need me, Abby. Haven’t I been punished enough? I want to leave the doghouse.”
Abby chortled. “I wouldn’t characterize the Las Flores Lodge that way. The facility has lovely rooms and all the amenities anyone could want.”
“But it doesn’t have you.”
“True,” Abby said. “I’ve just been busy, and I wasn’t expecting you to visit. I have all the bed linens to wash and groceries to buy. That reminds me. I ought to make a stop at the feed store to get more crumbles and scratch grains for the chickens. Not only that, but also some ground corncob for the henhouse floor, which I first have to clean, and then there’s—”
“Now you’re just being silly.” His tone grew soft and serious. “We have done this before, Abby. I can lighten that load you’re carrying all alone. I want to help. I want to be with you.”
And how long would that be exactly? Abby thought about that line used by Bernie, who worked in the evidence room at the police station. I’m here for a good time, not a long time. Her stomach tightened. She hated having doubts about Clay. But always at the back of her mind, the same old question drummed on: how to fall back in love and trust again after a betrayal.
“I see I’m
going to have to woo you again,” he said. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Well, that’s okay, Miss Abby Mac.”
A smile toyed at the corners of her lips. He’d used his pet name for her. In the early days of their love affair, he would come into the farmhouse at night from whatever project he had been working on and call out, “Miss Abby Mac, I’m home.” Then he’d act like he’d been working at some forklift plant all day and missing her. He would take her into his arms, snuggle his face against her neck, and tell her how much he had missed her. Remembering those moments felt like a balm on an old wound. It put to rest, if only momentarily, Abby’s self-torturing doubt.
She focused on driving the last stretch of Farm Hill Road, deep in thought about clearing space on her calendar to accompany Jack to a jailhouse interview with Tom. She was about to mention her busy schedule to Clay when he broke the silence with a declaration of his own.
“I’ve made arrangements to have my truck shipped from the East Coast. It arrives at the farmette next weekend.”
Abby didn’t try to hide the shock her expression surely must have registered. “You did what? Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”
“Why put off the inevitable? I’m ready. You’re ready.”
“I haven’t said that.”
“You didn’t have to. Your kiss last night said it all.”
After they’d arrived at the farmette, Abby declined Clay’s offer of help with the chickens. Still peeved, she pointed him to one of two lidded garbage cans on the patio, where he’d find Sugar’s dry food. Her water and food bowls would need filling. Then he could help himself to some tea from the pitcher in the fridge and amuse himself while she dealt with the hens. Following that, she’d make dinner. And he’d just have to wait until she was good and ready!
As she walked toward the henhouse and the chicken run, a racket overhead impelled Abby to look up. Large black crows flew in an erratic back-and-forth, straight-line pattern, as if trying to drive away some threat hidden in the towering pine tree. She strained to see what had gotten the crows so riled. Then she spotted it—a hawk with a wingspan of maybe four feet and a seven- or eight-inch reddish tail lifted off a tree limb. It swooped straight across the farmhouse, rose up high above the chicken run, and alighted in the aged, gnarled oak that rose majestically on the vacant wooded property behind Abby’s.
“Whew. That was close, ladies,” Abby said, approaching the gate of the chicken run. “And thank you, Houdini, for rounding up the girls and bunching together like little frozen statues. I don’t believe that a hawk can penetrate the hole in the poultry-wire ceiling of the run, but all the same, I’ll put Clay to work on it tomorrow.”
Suddenly, she didn’t feel so miffed at Clay. If she played nice, he might prove useful in banging out some of the projects, like the chicken run and the bee house, which she longed to complete but never seemed to have enough time to do. She poured a helping of scratch grains from the twenty-five-pound bag into a large pottery saucer on the ground and checked the hanging canister of food. Still half full. After dumping the stale liquid from the water dispenser, she listened momentarily for its refilling with fresh water.
Clay met her as she crossed the lawn to the patio, where the strains of sultry jazz floated across the evening air. “We always had music playing, regardless of what we were doing. You remember, Abby?” He reached out to her and pulled her close, kissed her hair. “We are good together.”
Abby’s guard went up, although she wasn’t entirely sure why. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?
Sugar left her bowl of nuggets and bounded across the yard, then jumped on Abby with a happy yip, yip, yip. Abby pulled back from the embrace and knelt to hug the dog. When she stood up, Clay had walked to the fence and was staring into the deserted wooded acre behind Abby’s farmette. Although food preparation was the last thing on her mind, she walked to the kitchen and grabbed a pot from under the counter and started water boiling for pasta. After setting out the olive oil, pine nuts, and parmesan cheese, she inserted the blade in the food processor. She dashed outside to the patio herb pot to pluck a handful of fresh basil to add to the other ingredients. With the pesto made and the pasta still bubbling away, she washed some organic tomatoes and then sliced the tomatoes and fresh provolone for a Caprese salad. From the cupboard above the counter, she pulled half a loaf of sourdough bread, which would pair well with cultured butter flavored with fresh basil and garlic and made less than a week ago. It was simple fare, but just the kind of home-cooked meal Clay would enjoy.
Clay plugged in the twinkle lights that Abby had strung around the partially framed patio. Her dream was to one day turn it into a screened-in room that allowed light and air in, while keeping out flies, bees, and mosquitoes. But until then, it afforded a place away from the hot kitchen in the cool night air without having to flip on the outdoor lights mounted on the wall.
“I have a confession, Abby,” Clay said in a serious tone. He twirled the pasta on his plate around his fork.
“Another one?” Abby asked, leaning back against the patio chair cushion. “So, go on.... I’m all ears.”
“I’ve ordered lumber. The local DIY guys will drive it out in the morning.”
“Here?”
He snorted, “Where else?”
“Lumber? For what?”
“The master bath.”
“How could you know what to order when you haven’t taken measurements?”
“Who says I haven’t? That first day, when I brought the tools out here and waited for you in the house, I borrowed your new measuring tape.”
“Oh . . . Will these surprises of yours never end?”
“It’s part of my master plan,” Clay said with a broad grin. “Get ready for this place to transform.”
Transform, huh? Your master plan? What about mine? Abby mustered a polite grin and pushed back her plate. Leaning back against the chair cushion, she listened intently to the chorus of peepers and crickets. Perhaps their sound could drown out the voice inside her head that complained about him moving too fast. She searched the deepening violet sky for the early evening star as Clay began to spin a spell, talking through his ideas for the bath but never once asking for feedback or her opinion. She knew any plan he conceived would be an improvement on that nasty, cheap shower enclosure around the chipped tub, but why hadn’t he asked her what she wanted?
Empowerment could take many paths, and maybe this was hers. Although it had been a long time coming, she was beginning to understand that passion could carry them only so far. Before their romantic love could become an enduring bond that could last a lifetime, there had been an abrupt rupture. And the great irony was that during Clay’s absence, she had found stability from learning to trust the surest voice around her . . . and it had emerged from deep within her being. Now that selfsame voice sounded a niggling doubt that she could ever be a dutiful wife waiting for her man to come home after another of his far-flung trips.
When he got up and pulled her to a standing position to kiss her, Abby mustered a generosity of spirit, rationalizing that if she could allow herself to relax into his embrace, her misgivings might evaporate. The sweet moment ended almost as it began when Clay began swatting at the mosquitoes puncturing his bare forearms.
“Our cue to go inside, I guess,” said Abby.
“You want help rinsing the dishes?” Clay picked up her plate and put it on top of his and then loaded the silverware and glasses.
“Nah. I’ll do the dishes. You relax.”
“Couch or bed?”
“Suit yourself.”
By the time Abby had finished the dishes, made a cup of green tea with roasted brown rice, and locked the sliding glass door to the patio, Clay had fallen asleep on top of the coverlet. Clothed only in his underwear, he had stretched his tan body across the middle of the bed and was tangled in the sheet. Abby retrieved the laptop at his side and briefly noted the screen display of bathtubs. After turning off the laptop and plac
ing it on the floor, she paused to look at how Clay’s body curved against her bed pillows and sheets. Just like in the old days. All she could think about over the past year was his coming back to her. Here he was. But her desire to crawl in next to him was weaker than her desire to read Fiona’s journals. She padded barefoot away from the bedroom, with Sugar trotting right behind her.
Abby sank onto the oversize leather couch with her cup of tea. She reached for the journals, an eclectic mishmash of styles, colors, and shapes. From the dates inside the journals, Abby soon figured out the chronological sequencing and put them in order. Some of the journals were plain composition books with lined pages, like those used by high school students. Other journal covers sported elaborate designs, perhaps appealing to Fiona’s imagination. Scanning the first of them, Abby realized that the disparate artwork on the journal covers found resonance in Fiona’s cursive ramblings. She had written some passages in a careful cursive, while scribbling others. In the earliest journals, Fiona had kept a record of her meditation practice. She wrote about how the teachings of different gurus jibed or conflicted with her Catholic upbringing. Through her inner spiritual experiences and analysis, Fiona had unwittingly charted the intellectual and spiritual contours of her mind.
I feel the surge of energy in my spine, at my heart. Then my throat. My body spins. Awareness expands. I’m on the ceiling, then turning, facing down to look upon my body. How strange that I am there, as a body, but also here, as the mind. Who is it that sees me?
Abby swallowed the last of her tea and set aside the cup. She grappled with Fiona’s ideas of duality, not sure why it mattered so much. A gentle breeze stirred the long copper tubes of her harmonically tuned wind chime. The notes sounded peaceful, like a spiritual hymn. The breeze grew stronger, entered the open screened door to caress Abby’s arms and legs. By lamplight, she read on.
Abby realized that Fiona’s yearning to be fully present in her life as a spiritual being—equally at home in the invisible and the visible world—lay nakedly exposed across her handwritten pages. For a moment, she felt conflicted about continuing to read. Fiona would not have wanted her life dissected, as cops were obliged to do when working to solve a murder. And although exuberantly free-spirited, Fiona probably would have balked at having her sacrosanct journals combed for clues by others. Thinking about putting aside the journals, Abby reminded herself that the search had to be done by someone. That being the case, Fiona likely would have wanted the reader to be a friend.
