Fugitives of Love

by Lisa Girolami

  “It’s okay. I just don’t talk about it much. But I would like to know something about you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell me about your tattoo.”

  Brenna raised her arm and pulled up her sleeve, and Sinclair moved closer to inspect the ink that began at her wrist and ended at her shoulder. She touched Brenna’s arm and said, “It’s a mermaid.”

  “I had a whole underworld seascape done.” She showed her how the mermaid wrapped around her forearm and intertwined with a beautiful octopus, a seahorse, and a starfish. The background was a complement of varying blues and purples, which highlighted the oranges and reds and yellows of the sea life.

  “The small bubbles give the whole tattoo dimension. It’s like an exquisite painting.”

  “Thanks. I really love it. It took about a year from start to finish.”

  “Really? Did it hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  Sinclair laughed. “You don’t mince words, do you?”

  “No.”

  Sinclair ran her finger gently up and down her arm, following the artwork, as if she were drawing it herself. Brenna almost closed her eyes with the pleasure of her soothing touch but thought doing that might make her seem too desirous. Still, her mesmerizing strokes made it hard to think or speak.

  “I really like how the colors blend on the mermaid’s tail.”

  “Uh-huh.” Brenna swallowed.

  “The needles must be really small to get this detail…” Sinclair looked up and must have understood the look on Brenna’s face because her one-finger stroking changed to four fingers that slowly caressed up and down her arm.

  “I’m hypnotizing you, aren’t I?” Her roguish smile had powerful appeal.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So, how about thirty percent for your exhibition fee?”

  “Okay.”

  Sinclair stopped caressing and wrapped her warm hand around Brenna’s forearm. With a squeeze she said, “I’m just kidding. I wouldn’t take advantage of you when you’re compromised.”

  Brenna blinked away the yearning for more strokes and smiled unhurriedly. “Good thing. I think you found my weak spot.”

  “Should I continue and then ask for your car keys as well?”

  “And the keys to my flat in the city while you’re at it.”

  Brenna laughed but noticed Sinclair’s expression had frozen in what looked like sudden hesitation.

  “I’m sorry,” Brenna said. “That was probably too forward. I was truly just kidding.”

  Sinclair seemed to catch herself, blinking away her uncertainty. “I guess I knocked the type A right out of you for a second.”

  Brenna didn’t know where Sinclair had gone just then, but she seemed to be back. “Today has been one of the best days I can remember. When taxi horns are blaring and helicopters are flying overhead in the city, it’s hard to empty your brain and relax.” She picked up her glass of wine and took a sip. “But I’ve gotten to relax all day.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Chapter Nine

  What foreign person has taken over my body? Here she was, sitting in front of her fireplace with a woman she’d met only a couple of days before, and she was rattlebrained and wound up. She couldn’t believe how straightforwardly she had reached out to touch Brenna’s arm. Sure, wanting to inspect the tattoo had been a good reason, but she probably would have asked to count her freckles as long as she could feel that smooth skin. And the powerful desire to have physical contact with Brenna came from a long-ago place she considered unreachable or, at the very least, unresponsive due to the slow death of her neglected heart.

  Sinclair hadn’t been this excited to be around someone in a long time. Actually, maybe ever. She pursued her desire for women on occasion, but the effort sometimes came more from the need to fend off her long bouts of cabin fever or to warm prolonged winter nights than from a true desire for a particular person.

  But if being bowled over by someone feels this fantastic, then keep the strikes coming.

  Type-A Brenna from New York seemed really easy-going once she slowed down and tuned in to sea-glass hunting. Her animated interest seemed to mean she was truly thrilled to find the sea’s treasures. Her intelligence and humor captivated Sinclair, too. She hadn’t talked to someone nonstop in years, if ever. She’d never really let someone in like that.

  The familiar clutch of distrust, that would constantly originate in her stomach and flood her body, didn’t come. For some reason she could relax into Brenna and throw her worries right out into the surf.

  Although alarm bells should start clanging in her head, for once the urge to put her guard up had disappeared. She allowed herself to feel comfortable and secure, though it could prove to be a dangerous mistake. But just for tonight, she told herself, it would be okay.

  Brenna put her wineglass back down on the floor by the fire. “I must admit, I was a bit intimidated when you first walked up to me on the beach.”

  Sinclair looked down a moment and then back up. “Oh, that. I’m sorry. I’m a pretty private person and I don’t like surprises.”

  “Well, I came unannounced so it’s really my fault. But I’m glad I did. A letter just wouldn’t have been as enjoyable.”

  “And you wouldn’t have gotten dinner out of it.”

  “I loved it.” Brenna patted her stomach, then glanced at her watch. “My lord, it’s late. I should get out of your hair. I’m sure low tide is early tomorrow.”

  Sinclair pointed to the tide clock on her wall. “It’ll be at 6:40 a.m. so I can sleep in.”

  Brenna looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly. “We city folk stay up into the wee hours. I shouldn’t corrupt you with my wicked habits. Plus, I need to get back to the Pine Cottages soon.”

  “The oldest hotel in Maine.”

  “Is it really?”

  Sinclair chuckled. “No, but the locals say it is. The structure leans toward the north a bit, but it hasn’t fallen down, so I think you’re safe.”

  “That’s a good thing because all my paperwork is in the room. I have to go over some homework and check in at the gallery.”

  Sinclair stood and Brenna followed her to the kitchen with the dishes.

  “The gallery’s still open?”

  “Until eleven. But the staff is staying later than that right now to get a show ready for opening.”

  Sinclair walked Brenna to her door. When she opened it and Brenna stepped out onto the stoop, Sinclair said, “I think we’re forgetting something.”

  Brenna hesitated, then nodded her understanding almost timidly. She leaned forward and gently kissed Sinclair. Their lips lingered together for a few seconds, and Sinclair thought the dizziness that suddenly came over her would cause her legs to collapse.

  When she pulled away, all she could see were Brenna’s blissful chestnut-brown eyes.

  Sinclair’s heart beat in her ears and she sank into the door frame for support. “That wasn’t what I meant when I said we were forgetting something, but that…that was wonderful.”

  Brenna’s eyes opened wider. “Oh. What did we forget?”

  “The details of the exhibition.”

  Brenna touched a finger to her chin. “I’m so sorry, I—”

  “Don’t be. That was better than what I was thinking.” She placed her hand on the side of Brenna’s waist. “I’d love to see you tomorrow if you can. Maybe nine or ten?”

  “I promise to talk about the exhibition this time.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  Sinclair watched Brenna walk to her car and get in. Through her windshield Brenna waved and Sinclair held up her hand.

  Sleep wouldn’t come very easily tonight. She had been keyed up all day, but that kiss had sent her heart into hyperspace.

  Chapter Ten

  Sinclair had been back from her beachcombing for a couple of hours and anxiously awaited Brenna’s arrival. The sun had warmed her as she collected some unusually large and perfect pieces of sea glass and ski
pped up the stairs to her house. She felt alive and laughed at her own silliness. She lightheartedly glided around the front room, straightening up and vacuuming the rugs. Even Petey the squirrel seemed happy for her because he was rolling around on the warm wooden deck.

  She was eager to finish the windows she and Brenna had discussed that would round out the collection for the exhibition in New York.

  When she heard a car approach, she cheerfully opened the door. Brenna pulled up and got out, beaming. It looked as though she’d also benefited from a great morning.

  “Hi, there,” Brenna said as she reached Sinclair at the door.

  “Hi, yourself.”

  This time, Sinclair leaned forward to kiss Brenna, the contact as tender and gentle as the night before. She really liked Brenna and thought it might be mutual. Their attraction could heat up and move toward something a lot more intense, and maybe that wasn’t a smart thing to do, but for now this felt right.

  They spent the morning touring Sinclair’s shed and Brenna praised every window she showed, which delighted Sinclair.

  When they returned to the house just past noon, Sinclair fixed lunch and they sat next to each other at the table, devouring big bowls of chowder and toast in no time.

  “I’ll have a contract drafted and sent to you,” Brenna said as she dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Just let me know if you have any questions. It’s a standard boilerplate contract, and fairly simple.”

  Sinclair stacked her toast dish on top of her empty bowl. “What happens if the windows sell?”

  “You mean when they sell. We handle all the details, take our percentage, and send you the check. Whatever you don’t sell, which should be very few, if any at all, we ship back. We’ll need your estimation of the value of each piece because we also cover them on an insurance rider for you. You and I should discuss each one’s value since I think you need to charge more than you do now.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Absolutely. It’s time to raise your artistic worth. I’ve been selling art a long time and know where the market is from year to year. We price them reasonably so we create a buzz and then, for future work, the prices can increase from there.”

  “Supply and demand, huh?”

  “It certainly works that way. It’ll be up to you to determine how frequently you construct each new piece. Some artists create very few new things and, depending on their popularity, the fewer pieces go for a lot more because of their scarcity. You don’t have to work that way, though. I don’t really like to control the market deliberately, but the timing has to work for the artist.”

  “That makes sense.” Sinclair got up from the table and took their dishes to the sink.

  “Good. I’ll arrange to have your windows shipped to the gallery. We’ll have them hung about three days before opening night, so plan on getting there around the same time. You’ll be able to change anything you’d like.”

  Startled, Sinclair said, “I’m not going to New York.”

  Brenna stared at her for the briefest of moments before saying, “What?”

  “I’m not going to New York.”

  “No, I heard that. But what do you mean? Opening night is designed specifically for the art buyers to meet the artist. The bulk of the sales occurs then. There’s nothing like meeting the artist of the piece you’re buying. It adds a special importance to the provenance of the work.”

  “I appreciate that, but I’m not going.”

  “But, Sinclair, it’s a huge night.” She shook her head and lifted her opened hands, palms up. “That one evening makes the difference between being unknown and exploding onto the art scene.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Sinclair looked down, not wanting to meet the increasingly stressful look on Brenna’s face. “I’m not interested in becoming known.”

  “Do you want to sell your art?”

  “Of course. But I won’t go.”

  “You’re being unreasonable, Sinclair. You have to attend the opening!”

  Brenna’s voice rose and Sinclair looked up, frustrated. “Are you always this pushy?”

  “Pushy? I’m trying to help you!”

  She pointed to the floor. “This, right here, isn’t helping.”

  Brenna threw her hands into the air and they came back down with a slap on the sides of her thighs. “This is how it works, Sinclair. I take care of the art and you take care of showing up.”

  It was her turn to raise her voice. “I’m not leaving Pemaquid Point.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Well, if we’re going to do this show, I need to know why.”

  “Actually, you don’t.” She knew she was being difficult but she just couldn’t tell her more.

  “Sinclair, please consider that this is really important. We can work out whatever you have against going to New York.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “It’s not like I’m asking you to move there. It’s just for a few days.”

  Panic rose inside Sinclair. She was caught between wanting something so much but knowing she couldn’t allow it. “I said no.”

  “So now you’re going to back out?”

  “If that’s what it means.”

  “I don’t know what any of this means!” Brenna had become extremely agitated, her hands punctuating every word.

  Sinclair knew she was being unpleasantly mulish but anger bubbled over as well. “It means I’m not going to New York.”

  “Sinclair—”

  “I’m not talking about this any more!”

  Brenna shook her head in small movements as if her frustration was causing tremors. Her face grew red. “You think I’m pushy? Well, you’re being pretty damn obstinate, so I guess we’re stymied.”

  “I guess so.”

  Brenna opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. She stood, fished car keys out of her pocket, then shook her head again, but this time, Sinclair knew she’d thoroughly thwarted Brenna.

  She turned and walked out the door.

  Sinclair listened for the car to start, and when the gravel crackling under the tires receded, giving way to a desolate silence even the waves couldn’t drown out, she felt more alone than ever.

  *

  “Damn it to hell.” Brenna stomped around the gallery. Her fourth cup of coffee sloshed around in its mug. “This is fucking ridiculous.” She’d driven all that way to hand Sinclair a golden goose, and Sinclair had thrown it back in her face.

  “I know you’re not agoraphobic,” she said aloud, “because you said you traveled up and down the coast looking for sea glass. So what’s up your ass about New York?”

  She ran through a hundred scenarios. Was Sinclair worried about the crime in the city? Had something bad happened to her there? Was she afraid to tell her she couldn’t afford the trip? Did she think she wouldn’t fit in with the Manhattan crowd?

  And why had Sinclair become so angry? It was as if she was being asked to commit a crime or step off a dangerous, rocky ledge.

  Had she been too pushy, like Sinclair had said? She looked out the window for a moment before saying to herself, Oh, hell, no. I’m doing my business and arranging for an exhibition that any artist in the world would give their last meal to have.

  But Sinclair has demands.

  What the fuck?

  Brenna swiped at the counter and tapped a furious staccato that did nothing but irritate her more. She stopped and took stock of her thoughts.

  In the past, she’d handled much more volatile situations with more control and composure than she’d exhibited at Sinclair’s. So, what made her fly off the handle like that?

  It was the kiss. Well, more than the kiss. She’d really started to like Sinclair, and her enthusiasm had moved far beyond the excitement of the exhibition. Everything had been going so well. She was feeling so much for this creative, beautiful artist. She’d relaxed around her and everything seemed
to click perfectly. And when Sinclair put her foot down, Brenna realized that not only her business deal was getting stomped on, but her personal feelings as well.

  Rejection had come on two levels, an experience frustrating and new to Brenna.

  And strangely, even when they argued, she was so damn attracted to her. Sinclair was feisty and aggressive. She stood her ground in her decisions as doggedly as Brenna had.

  They’d both gone from zero to sixty in seconds, and though artists did that all the time, Brenna could control the urge. She was mad at herself for losing her cool. Such a flare-up hadn’t allowed for them to strike a constructive compromise. What surprised her the most, though, wasn’t the sudden clash between them, but the fact that it had kind of turned her on.

  Still, the compulsion to charge out of Sinclair’s house and drive away was so strong and familiar that she acted on it without question. She couldn’t think of any other way to react.

  How dare Sinclair cop such an arrogant attitude? She had no idea what Brenna was offering her. But then again, Brenna needed that art maybe more than Sinclair needed to show it. It would be such a coup to bring it to New York.

  She looked around the gallery. It was essential to make another indelible impression with the art press. There was too much competition in the city and Brenna had a sure thing. Well, she almost had it.

  She had to go back and convince Sinclair to show her work. Her business was too important not to. She could certainly handle her growing feelings for the artist and secure the artwork.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sinclair hated how their evening had ended two days before. She felt silly that she hadn’t figured out that an exhibition of her work would require her to attend. Typically, she delivered her pieces to Kay at the Breakers Gallery and never saw who bought them.

  The assumption that she’d travel to New York had stunned her, and her reaction was pathetically rude. No wonder Brenna had just up and left. She hadn’t given her much choice.

  But she didn’t want their last time together to end like that. Brenna had obviously left believing her to be a discourteous, unpleasant artist.