In one hand, she held an almost-finished earring, a simple green stone accented with gold. In the other, her crimping tool. Another pair of earrings for Mary Beth, this time for Christmas, and Spencer would add them to the pile of things she’d made since yesterday. It was slightly alarming, that pile, as she had been creating nonstop since her talk with Lucy, a pretty accurate sign that she was stressing out.
The internal conversation started up again.
When had she become so incredibly passive? When? On what day, in what moment, had she decided it was totally fine to let life just go on along without her participation? When had she made that decision? To be a follower? To let somebody else choose her path and then follow along blindly?
She could blame Chelsea. She did blame Chelsea, at least partly. Chelsea had shattered something inside her, something important, something independent. She used to be strong and feisty, but now? Now she just…wasn’t. She could blame Marti, too. Sure. But that was the thing: it wasn’t Marti’s fault. Marti was just being Marti. In all their time together, she had never acted any way other than who she was. Spencer had to admire that. Was actually envious. Marti knew who she was. She knew what she wanted. Reached for it. Grabbed on.
Not Spencer, though. Spencer had apparently forgotten how to reach for things. How to grab on. Now she just kind of floated. Drifted.
Spencer had become a flounderer.
Emotions bubbled up in her again. They’d started yesterday, after her talk with Lucy, after her forced look in the mirror. Things had begun to simmer, with an occasional bubble here and there, like a thick sauce in a pot, left on low on the stove, a bubble here, a bubble there. It was a mix of disappointment, shame, and anger, combining into a sour stew in her stomach. That last one had been most prominent, much to Spencer’s surprise: the anger. It was a weird realization, to understand you’re angry at yourself. But she was. She had anger. Lots of it. Brewing up from deep within her, bubbling like lava, threatening to eventually spill over and out. Spencer wasn’t an angry person. She rarely yelled. She never swore. But right now? She was dangerously close to her breaking point. She didn’t understand it, but she could feel it.
Thus: jewelry.
She finished the earrings, put them in their own little velvet pouch, and reached for her bead board. On to the next project. She’d go all night if she had to.
Creativity and her focus on it—they were the only things keeping her sane right now. Keeping her from examining what a disaster she’d made of her life. Of what she was doing to Marti’s life. They were going to have to have a talk. Soon. She owed Marti that. She had no idea what she was going to say. Or how. She hadn’t thought it through yet. After spending time with Lucy, Spencer felt an odd combination of relieved and lost, like she had finally solved a difficult riddle but had nobody she could explain it to.
A roll of black leather had been on sale a couple months back and Spencer had snagged it from the craft store with no idea what she’d do with it. Travis’s necklace was brown leather and thicker, so she couldn’t use this one next time he needed a repair. Her brother thrived on routine, and a change as simple as his necklace going from one color to another could send him into a tailspin. So the new leather roll sat in the stack of other spools of various wire and elastic. Now it caught her eye. She picked it up, looked at it as she turned it in her hand, and an idea formed in her head.
She needed to stay busy. To not think. To not analyze. To not dwell.
Just focus on the leather, the silver, the tools. Feel them in your hands. See the piece in your mind.
Spencer reached for more findings and kept working.
* * *
In all the years Rebecca had known Nick Scarfano—and she’d known him longer than she hadn’t known him—she had never seen him look quite this bad. Not after the hit he took in college that had broken his collarbone. Not the day he was going to propose to Michelle. Not the morning after his bachelor party. No, this was far, far worse. He lay in the bed with his eyes closed, his skin a sickening gray, his hair stringy. Somehow, his enormous frame seemed small in the white sterile room. Nick had always been a huge presence. Strong and loud and big, the guy who sucked all the air out of the room, the guy you couldn’t help but notice. This quiet, subdued, small man was the complete opposite of what Rebecca was used to seeing, and it made her stutter-step in the doorway, have to brace herself against the frame and take a second to just breathe.
Nick opened his eyes then and focused on her. Without hesitation, she launched right in, because the best way to deal with this was head-on.
“Jesus, you look like shit,” she told him as she crossed the room and waved a finger up and down his body. “This gray and sallow thing you’ve got going on? Definitely not a good look for you.”
Nick’s body moved as he gave a silent chuckle; Rebecca saw his shoulders move. “You don’t like it?” His voice was more of a croak than anything else, and he cleared his throat.
“Absolutely not. I recommend going back to that healthy flesh-tone color you wore earlier.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
Rebecca pulled a chair close to his bed and sat. She closed her hand over his forearm and they stayed that way for several moments. Finally, Rebecca spoke. “My God, your arms are hairy.”
Nick’s laugh bubbled up from deep within him and rumbled out of his mouth. Then he groaned. “Ugh. Don’t make me laugh, Becks. Come on.”
“Seriously. It’s like a little bear cub lying here on the sheet.”
“Stop,” he pleaded, as he laughed harder. “Ow.”
“You big baby,” Rebecca said, but her tone was gentle. Once his laughter subsided, her eyes welled as she whispered, “You scared me.”
“Get in line.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t more serious.”
Nick studied her for a beat before he spoke again. “You know what went through my mind? In the midst?” Rebecca shook her head and Nick shifted his gaze to the acoustic tile on the ceiling. “I’m having this pain in my arm and I can’t take a breath, like there’s a fucking hippo sitting on my chest. I’m sure I’m having a heart attack. The first thing—the only thing I could think was that I’d never see my baby.” His dark eyes filled with tears, and as Rebecca watched, one spilled out the corner, left a wet path across his skin.
Rebecca tightened her grip on his arm, uncertain of what to say. His tears were a foreign sight to her and they took her by surprise, so she stayed silent and present.
Another beat went by before Nick cleared his throat and took a swipe at his eyes. “So,” he said, his voice firmer than it had been since Rebecca came into the room, “I need your help.”
She gave him a nod. “Anything.”
“If there’s one thing an almost heart attack will teach you, it’s that life is too fucking short. You can be gone in the blink of an eye.” He finally shifted his focus from the ceiling to Rebecca, snagged and held her gaze with his. “Life is too. Fucking. Short.”
She nodded, captured by the intensity of his stare, feeling like it was boring into her, burrowing deep, planting a seed.
“So. I need you to help me get into shape.”
Rebecca blinked, felt released, and gave him another nod. “Absolutely.” Then she absorbed the words, replayed them in her head, and a smiled widely. “You know I’ve been waiting to hear those exact words from you for, like, our entire friendship, right?”
“I know,” Nick said, with a sigh. “I know. And I don’t want any I told you sos. Got it? Just…help me.”
“Got it. I will not say I told you so. I promise.” And then she was on her feet, pacing, ideas and meals and an exercise regimen already forming in her brain. Then she stopped, pivoted to face him. “There will be ground rules, you know.”
“Terrific.” He arched an eyebrow and looked decidedly unamused.
“If I’m going to be your trainer, you’re going to have to listen to me. No complaining.”
“No c
omplaining? Seriously, Becks, do you even know me at all?”
“Fine. A minimum of complaining.”
“Done.”
Rebecca started ticking things off on her fingers. “We’ll get you into the gym at least three times a week. More if we can manage. I’ve got some great books for you to look at about how to eat better, but still have what you like…”
“Becks.”
Rebecca stopped and looked at Nick, saw the softness in his eyes, the friendship, the love.
“Thank you.”
She took a moment, smiled tenderly at him before saying, “Are you kidding me? Whipping your ass into shape? This is a dream come true for me.”
Nick shook his head. But he was still smiling.
Chapter Nineteen
The only good thing that had come out of Nick’s ordeal, at least for Rebecca, had been that it had shifted her focus away from Spencer Thompson. Since Sunday, all her attention had been on Nick. Getting him home from the hospital, convincing him to take the week off and just rest, talking to him about the changes in his diet and in his overall lifestyle they were looking to make. All of it had taken the majority of Rebecca’s concentration, and that was a good thing.
She’d canceled the bride class on Monday, taking the day to get Nick home and settled into his easy chair, make sure Michelle didn’t need anything, running to pick up prescriptions. The poker gang had all been in and out, but Rebecca’s presence was near constant, until Michelle finally told her, gently and kindly, to go home. Rebecca obeyed, and once there, had dug out her books and checked her bookmarked websites to help her work up a new regimen for her best friend. He was going to live a long and healthy life if it killed her.
Tuesday, she’d gotten back to the grind, and it was a full day of clients. She was helping Phil on the dip machine that evening when she happened to glance up at the windowed wall of the spin room and saw Spencer pedaling away in all her sweaty blond glory. The sight did things to Rebecca. Many things. It made her smile, filled her with trepidation, tickled her with longing. Phil had to say her name twice before she forced her eyes away and back down to him. When she looked up again, class was over and Spencer was gone.
Rebecca was both relieved and disappointed.
After work, she’d called Nick to see if he needed anything from the store, since she was going anyway. Then she picked up two bags of vegetables and other produce and a six-pack of non-alcoholic beer and took it over to the Scarfano house to help Michelle make him a healthy, filling dinner. To Nick’s credit, he only whined once.
By the time Rebecca got home, fed a very irritated Veruca Salt, and dropped into bed, she felt like a discarded dishrag: soggy, flimsy, and useless. Veruca rolled in a ball on Rebecca’s stomach and began to purr, and that’s all it took. Sleep claimed her instantly.
Rebecca knew it was a dream.
It had that strange, foggy, soft-lit quality to it, like she was watching through cheesecloth or gauze. The lighting was too perfect and there was background music. Large, ornate double doors opened in front of her, and she was faced with the interior of a church full of people as she stood at the end of the center aisle. No sound other than the music, which was something pretty but unrecognizable to her. Strings and a piano, maybe? Coming from above. Unaware that she made the decision, she began walking down the aisle, the strangers that filled the pews on both sides watching her, but saying nothing. When Rebecca looked up, to the end of the aisle, two women stood there.
Spencer was stunning. Ethereal in a white flowing dress that was made just for her. It was strapless, leaving her shoulders and the top of her chest exposed, an inviting expanse of creamy skin. The top edge of the dress was scalloped, the lacy pattern encompassing Spencer’s full breasts. Not caring that she was in a church and shouldn’t be gawking, Rebecca let her eyes follow the bare shoulders down Spencer’s arms to the small, tasteful bouquet of white daisies she held with both hands, and when Rebecca got closer, looked up and into those beautiful blue eyes, they were filled with confusion, with hurt, and with something else…hope? Spencer didn’t speak. Every emotion she conveyed, she did with her eyes.
Rebecca turned to the other woman. Marti. Of course. Her dress was almost as gorgeous as Spencer’s, but not quite. She didn’t have the same curves, the same inviting aura that Spencer did. Marti was attractive, but not warm, as though she wore an invisible force field to keep people at arm’s length. Rebecca met her brown eyes, but her emotions were much clearer than Spencer’s. And there was only one: anger. Rebecca did a double take when she saw Marti’s mouth moving, but no sound came out. Was Rebecca the only one who couldn’t hear her? Marti pointed back down the aisle, obviously telling Rebecca to get lost, but when Rebecca tried to reply, she found she had no voice of her own, couldn’t speak even when she felt as though she was making a massive effort to do so. The only sound continued to be the soothing notes from the music, a confusing and bizarre soundtrack to the otherwise silent film playing out before her.
Rebecca looked to Spencer again. Their gazes held and something passed between them. Rebecca felt it like warmth, like a gentle summer breeze off the ocean. Again, she tried to speak to Spencer but made no sound. Spencer looked down as if studying the flowers in her hands as Marti continued to flail and point, and it was the only moment Rebecca was glad for the lack of speech. She didn’t need to hear what Marti was saying to understand it. What she didn’t understand was why Spencer made no effort to talk. She said nothing. Her mouth never opened. She simply looked on, watched what was happening around her as if she had no other choice.
Rebecca had never felt the need to rescue somebody so deeply before in her entire life. Dream or no dream. She wanted to wake Spencer up, so she tried. She reached out, grabbed her by those sensual bare shoulders and gave her a shake. She screamed at her without sound, told her to look around, to understand her own worth, to participate in her own life, for God’s sake, that she deserved so much better than she was settling for, that life was too fucking short. Spencer simply looked at her with a small, sad smile.
Rebecca woke up.
She lay there in her bed, eyes adjusting to the pre-dawn light in her room, and stared at the ceiling. Rebecca wasn’t one of those people who remembered her dreams in vivid detail. Most of the time, she barely remembered bits and pieces. But this dream…
With a slow inhale, she rehashed every single element of it. She could still see the church, could almost smell it. She remembered the anger on Marti’s face, the rage as she flailed her arms. Rebecca found it interesting in that moment that, while she’d been able to reach out and touch Spencer (she could still feel the warmth of her bare shoulders under her palms), Marti had made no attempts to physically remove Rebecca from the scene.
I certainly would have if the roles were reversed. I’d have shoved her out of that church so fast…
Mostly, though, she focused her memory on Spencer. On the beauty of her dress. On the corkscrew curls that dangled near her ears and all around her upswept hair. On the sadness in her eyes.
A glance at the bedside clock told Rebecca it was four a.m. She had a five-thirty client and would normally sleep for another forty-five minutes, but she was wide awake and she knew it. With an irritated groan, she threw off the covers and headed for the shower.
Unlike normal dreams that tended to fade away as the day progressed in wakefulness, this one stayed with Rebecca. Any time she wasn’t focused on a client or an email or a fellow employee, her mind drifted back there. Back to Spencer’s lack of words, to her resigned smile, to her sad, sad eyes.
Was this simply Rebecca’s mind messing with her? Punishing her for what she’d done? Or was it something more? Something bigger? A sign of some sort? Sherry was big on that kind of thing. After all, yoga was all about the mind-body-spirit connection. During her training, she’d immersed herself into a lot of that type of thing, and she was always pointing out “signs.” Rebecca made the air quotes in her head because that was how she norma
lly thought of such things. But this…this had thrown her for a loop because it seemed to come out of nowhere. Not the sexual desire, but the emotions. She could still feel them from the dream, as strongly as if they had happened in a real-life situation. Her frustration, her worry, the urgent need to rescue Spencer from something bad.
That last one got her. Rescue. Rebecca shook her head as she sat at her desk and pretended to be reading email. Spencer was a big girl. She didn’t need rescuing. If she was going to leave Marti, if she needed to leave Marti, that wasn’t for Rebecca to say. In fact, it had nothing at all to do with Rebecca, and she’d do well to keep reminding herself of that.
Right?
With another hard shake of her head, Rebecca blew out a breath and squinted at her computer just as Sherry dropped into the chair nearby.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Rebecca said in reply. “Housewife yoga over?” That’s what they called the two o’clock yoga class, as it seemed to be filled with women who dropped their kids off in the child care room on their way in.
“Yep. Nearly fifteen today.”
Rebecca raised her eyebrows and nodded. “Impressive.”
“Yep.” Sherry managed to stay quiet for a good ten seconds before asking, “So, what’s up with you? You’re all over the place. Is it Nick still?”
“Yeah. I mean, he’s going to be fine and he’s been great about listening to me when I talk about exercise and eating better.”
“So it’s not Nick, then.”
Rebecca could feel Sherry’s eyes on her, feel her stare, and hated it. Sherry could see right into her like she could read her thoughts. Even Nick wasn’t that good.
Sherry sat back in her chair with a grunt of affirmation, like she’d solved a puzzle.
The Shape of You Page 20
