Leave a Mark

by Stephanie Fournet

  CHAPTER NINE

  “YOU SEEM PERFECT.”

  Wren couldn’t stop hearing his voice. And those words? No one had ever said anything like them. Not to her.

  “You seem perfect — I mean… you are unique.”

  Even with the qualifier, even if he didn’t mean she was actually perfect (And who could? No one on earth could be less perfect), he’d said she was unique. And it didn’t sound like he thought it was a bad thing.

  Her whole life, people had told Wren she was strange. Weird. A freak. For years — in grade school — she’d tried to blend in. Mimic the other kids. Dress like they did. Talk like they did. About the things they did. Not about Laurie. Not about having no daddy. Not about the police coming at night.

  It hadn’t worked. By the time she was in seventh grade — long after Laurie was gone — she’d given up. If the other kids were going to leave her out and whisper lies behind her back — or worse, whisper the truth — she could at least dress the part. Black lipstick. Black eyeliner. Black hair.

  Her Goth uniform had served as a shield. A giant Fuck You sign to the rest of the world. How could they reject her if she wanted nothing to do with them? At recess, she’d hidden in the bathroom and touched up her makeup, and at lunch, she’d gone to the art room. No one had ever been in there but Mrs. Bernard, and she’d been able to eat her tuna sandwich and sketch for half an hour.

  In high school, she’d bonded with a few other kids who were art-room refugees, and the more she’d learned about color and texture and shading and technique, the less she’d wanted to hide behind all black.

  But that didn’t mean she ever really fit in, not until she dropped out of art school at UL and got into ink. The day she got her first tattoo, it was like being reborn.

  Still, even in the life she’d built for herself at the studio, even with friends she loved and what remained of her family, even when she let someone into her bed, she had never heard those words.

  And his eyes?

  They were indigo blue. The color of the darkest swirls in Van Gogh’s Starry Night. The color of escape.

  She might have been able to dismiss them if they hadn’t looked so intense when he mentioned his mom. Wren didn’t talk about Laurie, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t give half her organs to have her back. Laurie had been a shitty mom, but she was still her mom. And Wren had a handful of memories that were strong enough to choke her when she let them.

  Like the night Laurie taught Wren how to paint her toenails. She’d sat with Laurie on the edge of the tub, her right foot propped on Laurie’s knee. Her mother had shown her how to swipe the tip of the brush on the inside of the bottle to keep from using too much, and then she’d taught her how to start by the cuticle of each toe and let the brush fan out just a little.

  When Wren tried on her own, polish had smeared off to the side. Laurie just dabbed it up, saying, “I make mistakes all the time. The only thing I got right on the first try was you.”

  So when she’d mentioned Mamaw’s peach pies, Lee didn’t have to come out and say he’d lost his mom. Wren could tell just by the look of longing in those eyes.

  She wondered when it had happened. How it had happened. She hoped it had been nothing like the way she’d lost Laurie. Nothing that Lee felt was his fault.

  In spite of herself, Wren thought about his words and his eyes for three days straight. On Monday, she gave up. That afternoon, Wren got out the butter, the flour, and the frying pan. She’d made fried peach pies only about a thousand times with Mamaw, so she knew the recipe by heart, and when her grandmother had stayed with her after the surgery, she’d left a jumbo bag of Sunsweet dried peaches behind.

  Two hours later, she had four hand-sized pies. They weren’t quite as pretty as Mamaw’s; those were always a perfect fan-shape, but these were golden, flaky, and plump. While they cooled, Wren made a bag out of parchment and scribbled a sketch out the outside.

  In less than a minute on Google, she’d found his street address on Dunreath. It was a little past six o’clock. Chances were that Lee would be at the hospital. But when he came home, he’d find the bag on his doorstep, and he’d know she’d left it.

  That was the plan anyway. But when she found the pretty blue house with his white Jeep already parked in the drive, Wren knew she couldn’t just leave his pies outside. He might never see them.

  She parked her Mustang on the side street and debated with herself. She didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable, and she didn’t want him to thank her. And most of all, she didn’t want to have to look him in the eye where he could see that she hadn’t stopped thinking about him since the night they met in the ER.

  But she did want him to have the pies while they were still warm. And she did want him to feel like she thought he was special, too. And she couldn’t deny that she wanted to see him again.

  Wren killed the engine, grabbed the parchment bag, and walked around the corner to the path that led to his front porch. It was screened in, and the door creaked as she opened it. The house made her smile. She’d told him the day he brought her home that she hadn’t pegged him for someone who lived in the Saint Streets. But that was before she’d known that he had an eye for antiques. His home itself was like an antique. It had character and history, and she liked the thought of him living there.

  After taking a deep breath for courage, Wren knocked on the dark-stained French door. Footsteps crossed the house, but they were too fast. Too light. Wren’s heart fell just before the door opened.

  “Can I help you?” The words were polite, but the copper-blonde towered over her with an expression of annoyance.

  “Um… I…” Wren gulped and glanced down at the bag in her hand. Grease had soaked through the parchment in a few places, spotting her drawing.

  She looked up to see that the woman’s eyes had followed hers to the bag, and now her lip curled in disgust. Were it not for the scowl, she would have been gorgeous. For a moment, Wren thought she was staring at Blake Lively.

  She tried again, fully committing to her humiliation. It wasn’t as if she could turn and flee now.

  “Is Dr. Hawthorne at home?”

  At her question, the woman’s eyes narrowed, and the ends of her mouth turned up in a hint of a malicious smile. “He’s indisposed at the moment.”

  The blonde was sizing her up. Wren could feel it. And the look in her steely gray eyes and that fake smile told Wren she didn’t come close to measuring up. And how could she? The woman before her — from the top of her salon-smooth hair to the bottom of her Sergio Rossi slingback pumps — was elegant. Chic. Lethal.

  Next to her, Wren looked like a circus act.

  “This was a mistake,” she said, but it came out only just above a whisper.

  Blondie rose to her full height and crossed her arms with a smug nod as if to agree when a voice cut across the house. “Marcelle…? Who’s there…?”

  This time, the footsteps that echoed across his wood floor were heavy, measured, and Wren had just enough time to die a little before he reached the door.

  Because she had lied to herself. The homemade pies weren’t just a gesture of consolation from one motherless child to another. They were a reason to be in his presence. To feel what she’d felt when he looked at her. To find out if the pull toward him was more than one-sided.

  Clearly not — not at all.

  But the universe was rarely kind to foolish girls, because he stepped into view scrubbing a towel over his shaggy, wet hair, wearing only a pair of light-washed jeans. His sculpted chest and abs were cruel in their beauty. The masculine patch of dark curls on his chest and the flash of hair under his arms would be hard to forget.

  Kill me, now.

  “Wren?!” His look of shock would have been almost comical if she weren’t the one mortifying herself. Lee’s dark blue eyes bugged full tilt.

  Blondie — Marcelle — whipped around to glare at Lee. “You know this person?”

  Lee’s eyes tracked from Wren to his
girlfriend back to Wren before settling on the bag in her hands.

  “Yes,” he said, looking back at Marcelle. “She’s a patient.”

  Marcelle’s head cocked back, like a cobra ready to strike. “Well, what’s she doing here?”

  At least she’d directed the question to Lee. Wren glanced to her left through the screen. She guessed she could make it back to her car in about five seconds if she sprinted.

  “I don’t know.” She heard Lee say. He sounded mystified, but the softness in his voice made her turn. His eyes locked on hers, and in them, she could read an apology.

  I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, they seemed to say.

  At that, even in the pit of her humiliation, Wren felt a spark of anger.

  I have to get out of here.

  Summoning what remained of her dignity, she thrust the greasy bag of pies into Lee’s hands. “This is just a thank you. I’m sorry to disturb your evening.”

  And she turned and bolted out the screen door.

  CHAPTER TEN

  LEE STARED AT the warm bag in his hands. The scent that rose from it was unmistakable. Fried peach pies.

  Oh my God.

  “Wren! Wait!”

  She didn’t turn. Instead, she ran straight for a turquoise 1968 Mustang coupe parked on Calder Street. He was out the screen door and running barefoot across the yard when Marcelle yelled after him.

  “Leland, what the hell?!”

  “I’ll be right back,” he called over his shoulder. “Ow! Damnit!” A pricker lodged into the ball of his right foot just as Wren reached her car, but his curse made her turn.

  “Wait. Please.”

  Wren stopped and watched him over her car. He raised his foot, dug out the thorn, and took one hobbled step. When she saw that he was unhurt, Wren opened her car door.

  “I’m sorry. I have to go.” In an instant, she ducked inside, and the engine roared to life.

  Then she was gone.

  Lee stared at the empty curb a whole five seconds, unable to process the last unbelievable minute of his day. He finally turned and headed back to his front porch where Marcelle waited, seething.

  “Who. Was. That?”

  Lee limped up the steps and walked through the screen door. “I told you. She’s a patient.”

  “Oh, really.” Marcelle leaned against the doorframe, her scowl turning her gray eyes into daggers.

  Lee stopped in front of her. “Yeah, really. She had a hemorrhaging cyst rupture, and I operated on her.”

  Marcelle’s face relaxed a fraction. “If that’s all, why was she here?”

  Lee looked down at the bag in his hand. “She said this was a ‘thank you.’”

  He knew it was more than a thank you. She’d already thanked him. This was something else. Something he wanted to shield.

  “It seems kind of weird,” Marcelle said with a toss of her head. “And she looks like a ho-bag.”

  “She’s not a ho-bag,” Lee snapped.

  Marcelle’s eyes widened.

  “She’s my patient.”

  “Well, excuse me, but you’ve never had a patient pay you a visit or bring you gifts before.”

  Memories flickered through his mind.

  “I remember patients bringing my dad baskets of watermelons.”

  Marcelle blinked. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. And one guy brought firewood.” Lee remembered a man and his sons unloading it on their back patio.

  “But your dad had a private practice. He didn’t work at a charity hospital.”

  “That doesn’t mean he never took charity cases,” Lee said truthfully. “Sometimes, patients pay with what they have. And sometimes they want to say thank you. Wren might have died without that surgery.”

  Even as he said the words, Lee wanted to wipe them out of his mouth. And not just because he was hiding something. The truth was Wren could have died, and the thought gnawed at him.

  “Well, what did she give you, anyway?” Marcelle frowned at the lumpy bag he held. “It looks greasy.”

  “It’s fried peach pies. Want one?” He opened the bag and reached inside. The warm, sweet aroma grew, and he drew out one golden, hand-sized pie.

  “Fried pie? That’s disgusting.” She eyed him in horror. “You aren’t really going to eat that, are you?”

  “Hell, yes. They’re still warm.”

  Marcelle turned on her heel. “Too bad you don’t have a side of cracklin’ and blood sausage to go along with it. I’m making myself a salad. Enjoy your dinner.” Then she disappeared inside.

  Even though Lee knew Marcelle’s words had been meant to prick him, he couldn’t blame her. Wren’s inexplicable visit had threatened her, and his girlfriend always turned mean when threatened. He’d have to reassure her later, but now, he needed a minute.

  Lee crossed the porch and settled himself onto the cypress swing. The pastry in his hand looked just like the ones his mom had made when he was a kid. Even the fork ridges on the seam were the same.

  He brought the pie to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled memories of their old house on Roselawn. Thanksgiving… his mom’s blue apron with the yellow daisies… King, their golden retriever, napping in front of the stove…

  Despite the knot in his throat, Lee took a bite of the pie with his eyes still closed.

  “Mmm… Mama.”

  The word fell from his lips without warning, wrecking him. Hot tears followed. The taste was exactly the same. The buttery crispness. The tart bite of peach softened with syrup. The warmth. It tasted like home.

  Lee hadn’t savored anything like it in twenty-one years.

  He cleared his throat, swallowed the bite, and wiped his eyes, letting the moment pass. He took another bite, coming back to the present. It was damn good pie.

  Enjoying another bite, he looked down at the bag and noticed the drawing for the first time. Lee stilled. A tawny brown and white bird carried a peach in its beak. The fruit almost outweighed the little wren, who seemed to pump her wings furiously to stay aloft.

  She flew toward a tree in the distance. But it wasn’t an oak or a pine or even a peach tree. Lee was pretty sure it was a hawthorn.

  “Oh wow,” he said around a mouthful.

  Chills broke out over his chest and down his arms. It wasn’t because he sat outside in the evening breeze without a shirt, his hair still damp from the shower.

  He’d heard the knock on his front door as he’d pulled on his jeans after his shower, and he’d sent Marcelle to answer it. And then the sound of her voice had teased him. Lee had recognized it, but he hadn’t imagined for a second that Wren would turn up on his doorstep. He’d rushed across the house for reasons he didn’t want to name.

  Now, sitting on his porch swing, he examined the confluence of feelings. He didn’t know which was more unsettling: that he’d raced to the door to see her again, or that he’d raced there to protect her from Marcelle. His girlfriend would never welcome someone who looked like Wren.

  Either way, he’d been too late. By the time he reached the door, Wren’s face had been a mask of misery, and she’d fled as soon as she laid eyes on him.

  And by the looks of it, she’d cooked for him all afternoon. As if that weren’t enough, she’d made for him something so personal, so precious that he’d been brought to tears. In a chance encounter in the grocery store, Wren had listened to him utter only two sentences about his childhood, yet she’d heard everything.

  Lee rested his elbows on his knees so he could cradle the stirring he felt in his chest. He’d have to set it aside later, but for now, he let himself feel it. Feel her.

  He couldn’t remember a time when someone had given him such a gift. So unexpected. So sweet. The warm ache it gave him spread throughout his body.

  But what was she feeling now?

  Lee pressed a hand to his chest. The look she’d worn when she’d apologized — apologized — for her gift pierced him. It told him so much. The shame in her eyes spoke of rejection. And, as
kind as her gift was, there was more behind it than kindness. Did it mean attraction?

  The thought made his skin flame.

  He wanted to go to her. It was impossible, but he wanted to. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to thank her. And, more than anything, he wanted to pull her into his arms. Lee only had a hint of what it was like to know Wren Blanchard, but a hint was enough. She didn’t deserve this.

  And he didn’t lie to himself. He would have liked the chance to tell her that she wasn’t alone. That he felt it, too. That if he were free, things would be very, very different.

  But he wasn’t free. Lee and Marcelle had been together for more than a year. They were in a committed relationship. They’d talked about getting married and raising a family. Even if this… this… whatever it was with Wren had addled his brain, he couldn’t turn his back on that.

  Lee traced his finger over the drawing. He knew that whatever this was, it would fade with time. For both of them.

  “LET’S GET A dog.”

  Lee had just shut off his five a.m. alarm and pulled Marcelle into his embrace.

  “What?” she murmured into her pillow.

  “I think we should get a dog,” he said again.

  Marcelle rolled onto her back. He could tell she was still half-asleep by the way she breathed, but she’d usually get up and head to the gym when he left the house.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, coming around. “Where did this come from?”

  He wasn’t about to admit it, but Lee had fallen asleep thinking about Wren and her pies and the onslaught of memories the taste of peach unleashed. His father had put King down when Lee was sixteen. They’d had the golden retriever for as long as he could remember, but, by the end, the old boy had been blind and riddled with arthritis.

  Lee had understood that it was time. After watching what his mom had gone through, he hadn’t wanted his dog to suffer. And his father had promised that they’d get another dog one day, but they never did. Tom met Barbara a short time later, and within a year, they were married. Barbara was allergic, and Lee had been headed for LSU.