Picture Imperfect

by Lea Santos

  “Hang on.” Deanne cupped the receiver. “Paloma?”

  “O’Doyle got shot?”

  “Yeah. And Standish, who died on scene. And a couple of bystanders.”

  Paloma squeezed her eyes shut, gulping back nausea. “You have to go.”

  “No, P. Not if it means—”

  “It doesn’t.” She closed the distance between them, pressing her palm against Deanne’s cheek. “I…I have no right. You have to go, baby. I know that. I was scared and selfish.”

  Deanne’s chest rose and fell a couple times, then she lifted the receiver. “Let me call you back in two minutes.” A pause. “Yeah.” She cut the connection.

  “I’m so sorry,” Paloma whispered.

  “I won’t go if it means losing you. I’m serious.”

  “Deanne, Officer Standish is dead.” She choked on the word. “O’Doyle’s wife is pregnant, and he’s in danger, too. I’ve been unfair.” She chewed her lip. “You have a life, other than us—”

  “No.” Deanne’s head shook vehemently. “You are my life.”

  “I know. Honey, I know what you’re saying, and I appreciate it.” Her heart nearly breaking, she smiled and cupped Deanne’s face in her hands. “I meant that you have other responsibilities. And I get it. I finally get it.”

  Tears sprung to Deanne’s eyes and she started to tremble, clenching her fists to stave it off. “Goddamnit, Standish. I can’t believe it.”

  “Go take care of them. His family. The other officers. O’Doyle.” On tiptoe, she rained kisses on Deanne’s lips. “I want you to.”

  Deanne pulled her closer and deepened the kiss, driving strong fingers up into the back of her hair. She took her like a desperate woman, breaths ragged and fast. Finally, she pulled away, both of them gasping for air. “We’ll miss homecoming.”

  “No, we won’t.” Paloma rubbed her thumb over the nearly invisible scar on Deanne’s chin from the fender bender. “You go be a cop, and we’ll have homecoming right here when you’re done.”

  Deanne stilled, eyes searching Paloma’s. “You’re sure?”

  “I’ve never been more sure, Deanne Vargas. I love you, and nothing’s gonna change that. I’ll be right here waiting.”

  *

  The house loomed dark and still when Deanne headed wearily up the walk. She couldn’t hold back the pang of disappointment, but it was late. Her heart ached over Standish and his family, but thank God, it looked like O’Doyle would recover in time to welcome his baby twins into the world. He’d been lucky, considering the bullet had entered his chest through the unprotected armhole of his Kevlar vest.

  The case was huge, as one of the bystanders had also died from his injuries. Deanne couldn’t help but feel grateful she was alive and coming home to her family.

  She worked the key carefully into the deadbolt in case Paloma had drifted off. No sense waking her. Deanne felt certain they had all the time in the world to celebrate like she’d planned to tonight. Another night would have to do. Still…disappointing. She pushed the door open slowly, but to her surprise, the house wasn’t dark. It was candlelit. Her eyes danced over the glow-softened interior before settling on the hand-lettered sign on the wall:

  DEANNE VARGAS’S HOMECOMING

  FOLLOW THE CHOCOLATES

  A smile teased its way onto Deanne’s face, and her heart began to pound with anticipation as she located the first Hershey’s Kiss on the floor. She stooped to palm it, then noticed a second, and a third, a whole silver trail of them leading through the living room, into the breakfast nook—

  Dee stopped short. Uh-oh. Clearly busted.

  A circle of votive candles glowed and flickered on the table, and in the middle of them sat a red leather journal. A note on the front read, You’ve read the rest, now read the best. Deanne shook her head and laughed softly. She’d been so careful with that damned Cyndi Lauper journal. How could she have tripped herself up?

  She popped a chocolate into her mouth and reached for the journal. The cover felt rich and smooth, and the color reminded her of the dress Paloma had worn earlier. A dress that had just begged to be ripped off. Deanne’s body throbbed. She suppressed a shiver of raw need, opened the book, and began reading:

  If you’re reading this, then you’ve probably figured out that I know you read my journal. Thought you could slip one over on your wife, huh? Ha ha ha, silly woman. You must admit how unusual it looked when you suddenly started “remembering” stuff from the past. Memory has never been your strong point, you know (not mentioning missed anniversaries here). I put two and two together, then threatened Emie and Iris with their lives if they didn’t confirm my suspicions. Don’t you know best friends hold stuff over on each other for leverage in just such situations?

  But don’t worry. I’m not mad.

  Me <——— totally reasonable woman.

  Oh, my beloved Deanne…you know I didn’t write those journals to keep anything from you, right? My journal was the one place I could always express my feelings without my mother telling me “good girls grin and bear it.” I love her, I just don’t want to live her life. Through writing, my true feelings always came out, as I’m sure you read. I only wish I would’ve realized I could express those emotions with you rather than on paper. Consider this the first entry in our journal. It turns me on thinking I can write whatever I want in here…to you. You can do the same. No secrets. I can’t tell you how romantic it is that you’d go to so much trouble to win me back, Deanne.

  Pat yourself on the back—it worked like a charm.

  I’ve had a lot of time to think this evening, and I want you to know a few things. First, I love you. I want you back as my wife, my partner, my lover—forever. I have never wanted anyone other than you, and I’m sorry we’ve gone through so much lately.

  But we survived, yeah?

  Somehow deep inside me, I always knew we would.

  I hate to think what might’ve happened if you hadn’t been so annoyingly persistent.

  I’m going to make you a couple of promises. I promise to be more open with you. I won’t hold things in like I’ve always done. I promise I will never, ever make you choose between my love and your career again. That was unfair, and I will probably feel horrible about it for the rest of our lives. Keeping this relationship together isn’t solely your responsibility. Know that. I’ll work on myself, too, I promise.

  I promise things won’t ever get so silent in this house again, and I promise the past is the past. Ah, yes. You better also believe that I promise we’ll never go six months without making love again.

  On that note, I have a few promises I’d like you to make. Promise you’ll always need me. And want me. Promise you’ll always look at me in the way that’ll make my daddy go for the shotgun. Promise we’ll be together forever, Deanne Vargas, and that nothing will ever come between us again. Oh yes, please, for the love of God, promise you’ll never play Rick James’s Super Freak to warm me up. (ha ha)

  And, Deanne? One last request…promise you’ll grab the champagne from the fridge before you come into our bedroom. I told you I’d be waiting for you when you got home.

  Well…you’re home, lover.

  And I’m waiting.

  Emotion slammed Deanne in the chest. The words on these pages were written in the hand of a woman, not a girl anymore. Deanne adored both versions of Paloma, but this woman was her wife, and she always would be. Paloma loved her enough to give Deanne another chance. Her nostrils flared and her throat ached with pure, unadulterated love, as the words blurred before her eyes.

  Deanne set the journal aside and crossed to the fridge. A cold bottle of Mumm champagne and a bowl of ripe strawberries occupied the bottom shelf. With a surge of desire, she retrieved them.

  Knowing it would be a long, sweet ride, and not wanting one moment of it interrupted by the damn fire department kicking down their door, she took a moment to blow out all the candles on the table and in the living room. The delay was agonizing, but sometimes a sharp
jab of pain was just the thing to bring a woman back to real life, back to the moment at hand.

  Deanne crept down the hallway and eased open the door to find the bedroom blazing with candlelight, too. The air smelled of wax and woman. Her wife. The golden glow gilded Paloma’s bare skin…skin barely covered by the red silk teddy and—oh my sweet Jesus—thigh-high hose. Deanne wanted to fall on the ground and weep with gratitude for being privy to such beauty. Instead, she moved to the edge of the bed and sat down. For a minute, they just stared at each other, warmth and love and forgiveness stretching between them, binding them in commitment forever.

  Deanne reached out and toyed with Paloma’s ring. “I promise,” she whispered.

  Paloma’s chin quivered. She reached out. “Me, too.”

  With a groan of submission and possession, a love so strong it blocked out everything but this moment, Deanne swept Paloma into her arms and captured her mouth. She tasted both sweet and sultry, felt both familiar and completely new.

  Paloma.

  Her soul mate.

  Thank God for second chances.

  Pulling away, Deanne lost herself in Paloma’s big brown eyes, swallowing back the knot in her throat. That familiar sweet ache filled her, and she said the only words that came to mind, the only appropriate statement for this moment.

  “I love you, Paloma Vargas. Forever—”

  “And a day?”

  With a chuckle, Deanne shook her head, then slowly kissed her way down Paloma’s lush body. “Not long enough, baby girl. Not nearly long enough.”

  About the Author

  Lea Santos has been concocting tall tales since she was a child, according to her mother. Usually these had to do with where she was, who she was with, and whether or not she’d finished her math homework (which she hadn’t). When it came time to pick a career, Lea waffled, then dabbled in everything from guiding tours in Europe, to police work, to bookkeeping for an exotic bird and reptile company—probably not the best choice, since (1) she never did finish that math, and (2) the Komodo dragons freaked her out. (A lot.) She eventually decided to go with her strengths and continue spinning wild stories, except this time, she’d turn them into whole books and call it a career. She rarely lies anymore about where she’s been or who she was with…

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