Retreat to Love

by Greene, Melanie

  “Because I do.”

  “You know,” Caleb said, “this would be a lot easier to discuss if you told me what it was.”

  I rotated his wrist so I could read the time. Ten to ten. My eyes were burning dry and tired, but the tips of my fingers drew fire out of his forearm and shot it up my veins. “Okay.” I stood and twisted my spine until it popped. Caleb winced. “I’m just going to be blunt. I’ve had a really long day. And I’ve been looking forward all week to sleeping in tomorrow. And I like you, but there’s some things about you and me we still need to talk about, especially so I can face Wren.”

  Caleb arched one eyebrow. “Such as?”

  “Things. Things like, what are your intentions. Things like, are you just hoping to sleep with me for the next month and a half and then move on back to whatever awaits you in California. Things like, are we going to make whatever this is clear to the rest of them, or sneak around and try to cover like Theo and Angelica did at first.”

  “They weren’t any good at it.”

  “Be that as it may be. What concerns me is, if I stay here talking to you about Gran and all, late into the night, I’m going to be too tired to go home, and you’re going to wake up early as usual and disturb me. Besides which, you may be the most gorgeous guy here but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to go and hop into the sack with you instantly.”

  He tilted his head. “You are a chaste and good woman, Ash.”

  “No, I’m not. I’d love to sleep with you. I’m practically aching to sleep with you.”

  “Not helping,” he groaned.

  “Well, it’s the truth. I said I’d be honest with you.”

  “I know.” His eyes softened as he regarded me. “I guess there’s a couple of other things I want to talk to you about, too. Ask you about, I mean.”

  “We will.”

  “Good. Can I proposition you, for tonight?”

  “Haven’t you been listening?” I felt like such a hard-ass. Or a tease. Something not appropriately demure and feminine, anyway.

  “I have, darling. That’s the point.”

  I smiled. “What is it, then?”

  “You can say no if you want.”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. Can I grab a change of clothes and accompany you to ValeSong, where we can lay like chaste spoons in the dark and I will listen to you talk until you fall asleep. And in the morning I will slip out without waking you, and go to breakfast alone,” he pouted comically, “and when you are ready for company you can come by and I’ll make you coffee and we can talk in the light of day.”

  The man had me almost in tears. He was so sincere and so sweet—and he may have been a photographer but he painted a beautiful picture. I decided it was a fair compromise between heart and mind, and we set off.

  It was a warm, breezy night and I cracked open the window—not much of a habit in Texas where the skeeters take any chance they get and the heat is positively anthropomorphic. But the wire screen was tight against the sill and the air under the trees carried the river mist past my rooms. The katydids held a little concert, with only the occasional babble of water as an accompaniment.

  I carried my flannel pajamas into the bathroom to change after Caleb washed up. I decided my face was entirely too red as I scrubbed at it, but it was ignoring my instructions to fade away. Apparently my fluttering chest is in better control of my tint than my brain; it was in the midst of being routed by my emotions. I took a deep breath and went back into my room.

  Caleb was in bed. He grinned up at me—not appearing nearly as shy as I felt—and complimented my red plaid before lifting the covers so I could slip under them. He smelled of my face soap, and he felt warm and gentle. Lying next to him was a delightful agony.

  “Okay,” he said, reaching to turn off the lamp. “Talk to me.”

  “Mmmnh.” I stroked his face. “You aren’t helping my motivation any, being this close.”

  “Come on.” He wrapped one arm around my waist and put the other hand on my shoulder and I let him pivot my body so my back was to him. He used one hand to stroke my hair smooth on the pillow, but left the other resting on my stomach, which I forced myself not to clench tight. Let him feel from the start how soft it was, damnit. I felt his lips graze the back of my neck and his head rest on the pillow. “Now, pretend I’m not here, and talk. Tell me what happened today.”

  I sighed. I couldn’t think where to begin, so I linked my fingers with his and just started talking. I told him what Dub and Agnes had said, and about Bernadette and Gran and I, and Pappa with his children, and Gran after Pappa died. When I cried, which I did silently so I could pretend Caleb didn’t realize, I cried not just for Gran and my confusion, but also for the calming joy of Caleb’s squeezing my hand just when I needed him to, and gently bending his head to nuzzle my shoulder when I was tired and unwilling to go on.

  Our kisses had all been electric, far more startling and vibrant than first kisses I’d known in the past. I was still in a bit of shock about it all. But his attentiveness and gentleness as we lay there attested to more than the carnal between us. I was with a man who cared about me, who was listening to me, who wanted little more at that moment other than to help me. He didn’t ask me much, just let me talk. As I wrapped up my story of the day, I descended into mumblings and long pauses. My shoulders sank into the mattress and back against Caleb’s broad chest.

  I felt relaxed. It wasn’t what I’d expected.

  At some point I fell asleep. I didn’t realize it until hours later when I started to roll over in my sleep and came up against the wall of Caleb’s body. Holding my breath, I eased around until I was laying on my back, and studied his face in what moonlight there was. At least he didn’t drool in his sleep or snore, both of which had been afflictions of a previous boyfriend. Boyfriend. Was that the right word for him? How could it be, when we lived in different states and were only together now because of the rarefied atmosphere of this retreat?

  Curious, I snaked my hand down the sheet and touched his thigh. He was wearing a pair of drawstring shorts, blue if memory served. His head rolled towards me and I crept my hand back to my waist as quickly as I could. His hand found it there and squeezed it as he smiled, eyes still closed. Again my cheeks flamed a bit, but he didn’t move, and soon we’d both fallen back to sleep.

  Chapter 10

  As promised, Caleb stole out in the morning without my realizing it. At one point I woke up enough to stretch and realize he was gone and snuggle myself more comfortably into bed, but my eyes stayed glued shut. It was well after ten on that annoying bedside clock when I finally stretched and yawned. The first thing I saw was a tray on my dresser, holding a muffin and a glass of orange juice bracketed by sprigs of rhododendron.

  First I started the bath, overloading on the bath salts. Everything lavender-derived I could find went under the rush of hot water. Then as the coffee brewed I did some stretches and crunches—not enough to sweat, just enough to limber up my muscles. Putting the coffee on the windowsill, I slipped off the robe.

  By most people’s standards, it was warm out. But to my Texan toes, it was still sock weather. My feet were so icy I couldn’t at first register the heat of the water. Dipping them in gave me first relief at escaping the cold, then seconds later they scalded and I had to yank them out.

  For a moment I perched naked on the rim of the tub. Then I stretched my feet across to turn off the faucets with my toes. The silence after the rush of water was an absence, and I granted that much more credence to Theo’s white noise theories. I sank under the bubbles, held it until I felt tense, then blew out as I raised my head and chest up and settled back, sweeping my plastered hair behind my ears.

  Sunday. My morning of rest. After lunch was my studio. I could barely credit the idea of the six or seven of them traipsing in and judging the links of Chains, the pictograms of her life as a wife, a mother, a soul dedicated to others. I just lay there in the steam, feeling hollowed out by the tears and the imposs
ibility of this deliberate stripping naked of my love.

  And worse, I still had to factor in talking to the girls. About Caleb. Caleb, who I wanted to go see, but only because he felt like a sanctuary to run away towards. It wouldn’t accomplish a thing. I should get up and go talk to Lizzy, though I didn’t want to, and I definitely didn’t want to talk to Wren.

  I flexed my shoulders and wet the loofah, pouring body wash into its pores. My toes and nipples and probably cheeks were red from the heat. And from thoughts of Caleb. I let some water out and scrubbed away and turned the cold on full force to feel it gradually taking over the temperature of the bath before I rinsed out the shampoo and emerged.

  Slipping into a t-shirt, I clipped my damp hair up in the broad unattractive pink clips that were the only things I could find to keep it out of my way as I hunched over my work. The studio, at least, was warm enough for me to wear shorts and sit cross-legged in the rolling chair. I had re-hung Chains of Love, and swiveled my chair around to face it.

  Artistically, I was satisfied. Even pleased, proud. The yellows and greens were mood-lifting, if I’d been in the mood to let them, and there was a fine sense of balance. I hadn’t used a middle layer on this one, except for a tight roll of batting as a frame, which helped a lot in giving it shape so the chains lay properly across the piece. I could handle their comments about it as art.

  Emotionally, I was shaky. There seemed suddenly to be an irony in the way the links between Gran and Pappa were broken, and seeing this graphic representation of how central he was to her world, I had to wonder how strong those links had been in the first place. And had she known? Had she felt it, this deception of his? Was he innocent, or a hypocrite? And now both Caleb and Lizzy knew this unexpected bit of my personal history, so how would their knowledge inform their reaction to the piece?

  I growled, a primal growl, and started to move. My sock-clad feet slid pleasantly across the wood floor as I padded into the bedroom to read the time. Noon. Wren would be starting lunch prep. And probably alone, and grumpy because Rafael was getting away with it. Or maybe Lizzy was with her; I didn’t want to be ambushed.

  I put on my Keds and went north to Lizzy’s cabin. She wasn’t there.

  The shortest path to Caleb’s was past the Main House, but there was no way I was going there. I took off through the cypress and juniper until I hit the stream, found the shallow part where I could cross a series of well-placed boulders, and skirted the other side of the doe’s clearing until I reached the little path to his door. The day had turned muggy and I was annoyed by the bands of sweat across my waistline and under my breasts. It made me imagine my face was red, which subsequently made me feel my face actually go red. Oh the joys of pale skin.

  I knew he’d been expecting me earlier. He wouldn’t think I’d spend a couple of hours alone in the morning when I could have been talking and kissing. But I had my reasons, not all of which were related to safeguarding my actual work time while at the retreat. Most were, but not all. I didn’t know whether or not I was starting a new relationship here, but if I was, it certainly wasn’t going to begin with his assuming his time with me was more important to me than my time with myself. I’d made that mistake before, too, and it never ceased to amaze me how readily men will forget there is anything more vital to me than them. I’d vowed after college I was going to be far more ‘masculine’ in my future relationships, if by ‘masculine’ I can mean ‘selfish’ and ‘presumptuous.’ Caleb, I knew, would still be there after I’d gotten my studio ready, and if it offended his ego when I put my work first, we were definitely not going to get much further than FireWind together.

  Not that I was assuming he’d even want to stay with me, or that we could work out a way for it to happen.

  But just in case.

  Turned out Caleb had gone on a photo shoot down the river after breakfast (and sneaking in my muffin tray), and had only been waiting for me and working for less than an hour. Which annoyed me to no end, of course—he had invited me for coffee, and should have found things to do around his cabin to keep him busy until I showed up. What typical male behavior. So I told him I’d gotten so absorbed I’d lost track of time, gave him a brief kiss on the cheek, and asked how he’d slept.

  “Peacefully,” he smiled, holding my hand. “But I have to tell you, at breakfast, Lizzy gave me this—well, this Look—and asked, ‘does anyone know where Ashlyn is?’ and I’m pretty damn sure I blushed. I know I looked away too fast. But Wren didn’t seem to notice. She was busy giving the dirty dishes to Rafael. All of them.”

  “Rafael showed?”

  “Under duress—Margie went out there at seven, and when he wouldn’t answer her knock, she yelled she was going to count to five and then go in, and on ‘four’ he opened the door and asked her what the hell she was doing. Wren said Margie was still furious when they came back up, and Margie told Rafael he was doing half the prep and serving and all the clean up for both meals all week.”

  “Woah.”

  “Yeah. Wren was in a pretty good mood when he went to the sink and she sat with another cup of coffee. She used a new mug, too, instead of the one she had earlier.”

  “Ohhh, vindictive.”

  “That’s our Wren.”

  “Which is exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  Caleb stroked my cheek with two fingers, then pulled me into a bear hug. “I know. I know. Tell me what we should do. You haven’t seen anyone yet, have you?”

  I shook my head. “No, Lizzy’s not home now. And I think we should tell Wren first, anyway.” I pulled him down onto the sofa next to me. “If only I knew exactly what to tell her.”

  “Mmm.” He tasted pepperminty. “That’s easy. Say I swept you off your feet, you resisted every step of the way, but I was just too charming for you.”

  “I don’t know if this situation calls for such strict adherence to the truth.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware it was the truth.”

  “Well, it depends on your perspective.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that.”

  I sat up and hugged my upper arms. “Yeah, but it’s not a question of what you’ll buy. I’m not going to lie to her or anything, but I don’t know how to present this ultimate truth without pissing her off and screwing our friendship.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if I told her?”

  “No. I don’t think so, I think it would make her feel almost laughed at, to have you say we’re together or whatever without her putting her cards on the table to you first. But I wouldn’t mind if you talk to Lizzy? You could deal with her while I talk to Wren.”

  “Okay, fair enough.” He checked his watch. “Time to go eat. Are we going to just not—well, not kiss again until after these summits?”

  I nodded. “Guess so, sadly enough. As soon as Wren and I are done, though, we can make up for it?”

  “Can’t we start to make up for it now?”

  I licked my lower lip as he moved in.

  I ate quickly and left while the others were still munching their fruit, berating myself all way to my studio—snap out of it, Ash, they say what they say, they like what they like. Life goes on. The usual combination of pep talk and self-loathing.

  I picked a few loose threads off of Chains and myself, and directed a light at the ceiling above it to lend a little more brightness.

  They came. They looked. I talked.

  It was fine. No big deal. Wren told me she could tell how strong my love for my subject was, and seeing the quilt, she loved Gran, too. Theo praised my use of color and texture; we talked a little about incorporating texture like that into a canvas and things he’d experimented with in his work. Lizzy asked if she could touch it, and ran her fingers over the bead work, while Angelica told me about an article she’d read in American Artist on gallery shows for the blind, where the artists created tactically as well as visually aesthetic work for those who could only experience art they could touch. Caleb smiled when he asked if I wanted his hon
est opinion. I nodded.

  “It’s gorgeous, it really is. And you can tell how skilled you are at sewing and all; you don’t even see the stitching except where it makes an impact, like this,” he pointed to the breaking chain of Berneen and Albert drowning.

  “But?”

  “No ‘but’, just what we’ve already said about universal appeal and all. You make lovely art, Ashlyn, but I don’t know if a piece like this will ever make you a gallery headliner.”

  “She already said this piece is meant to be a personal one, a gift to her grandmother,” pointed out Wren, defensively.

  “I know, but it’s the only one of hers I can base my assessment on. If she makes something else less personal, I’ll revise my opinion. I’m just saying, based on this one thing, I see this one little drawback.”

  Wren opened her mouth but closed it when I spoke.

  “No, it’s fine. It’s a valid enough point, in its way. But of course every museum in the world has its share of very personal art. What are portraits, generally, other than a form of homage?”

  “So this is a portrait of your grandmother?” Caleb asked.

  “Yes. A portrait and a story about her, and a tribute.”

  “I’d buy it,” Lizzy said. “I see a lot more to it than you do, Caleb. And I like how it’s personal, I like being let in on this life in this way.”

  “It’s not that I don’t like it,” he protested.

  “Okay, relax, I’m not offended, I know what you both, all, are saying. And thanks, all of you.” I grinned at the ring of my fellow artists. “I’m glad we did this.”

  Truth or being polite? Some of each, I thought, as they walked away in ones and twos. I needed to have someone else look at it, and to see them seeing it for the first time, but I could have skipped a lot of the conversation. Nevertheless, I jotted down their comments to look at in the morning.

  In a week Zach was picking me up and taking me to Houston for Bernadette’s birthday dinner, and I was taking Chains with me. Margie didn’t approve of my leaving FireWind overnight, but she couldn’t stop me, and it’s not like your mother turns sixty every day. Zach and I fully intended to be there to see her graceful—or otherwise—descent into elderhood.