A Different Blue

by Amy Harmon

  I prided myself on my honesty and here I was, lying through my teeth. The truth is, the kiss was a big deal. It was a huge deal. And Wilson definitely didn't kiss like an old woman. But he wasn't getting that truth. Not now. Not after he had ruined everything.

  Wilson's eyes were on my mouth, and I could tell he was fighting an inner battle whether to establish his kissing prowess or let me calm his guilty conscience. He really couldn't have it both ways. Either the kiss was a very big deal and we were in an entirely different relationship than he was ready to admit, or the kiss was just a game among friends and he could go on pretending that everything was tidy and uncomplicated and he was just the good guy who looked out for Blue Echohawk.

  He approached me, moving deliberately. He stopped just below me so I was only one step above him. Our eyes were now level, as were our mouths.

  “It was no big deal?” he said softly.

  “Just a silly game,” I answered, just as quietly.

  “So why do I want to do it again?”

  My heart was pounding so hard that it echoed in my head.

  “Maybe you just need to prove to me that you aren't an old woman?”

  “Ah . . . that's probably it. I just need to show you that I am indeed a man, capable of delivering a kiss that won't make you think of crochet needles and baggy stockings.”

  “And talcum powder and dentures.”

  Wilson's mouth was a breath away. “That must be it.”

  My eyes fluttered closed as he nipped at my bottom lip and then my top. Then he parted my lips with a nudge of his tongue, tasting me softly. His tongue found mine, and we stood, with only our mouths touching, only our mouths moving. For several minutes we remained this way, our bodies inches apart, our hands at our sides, completely focused on the meeting of our lips. The kissing was slow, sweet, languorous, like a cat stretching in the sun.

  And then it was over. I held myself still – waiting, hoping – for his mouth to find mine again. But it didn't. My eyes slid open heavily, unwilling to face the end of a truly staggering kiss. Wilson was watching me, a small smile on his lips.

  “Take that, Camilla,” he whispered. Without another word, he sidestepped me, walked up the stairs and unlocked the door. He held it open, waiting for me to turn and join him. My limbs felt sluggish and I couldn't keep my eyelids open. The roof of my mouth was so sensitive it was as if I'd eaten peanut butter while in a coma.

  Wilson walked me to my door and whispered, “Goodnight Blue.”

  I didn't respond. I just watched him walk up the stairs to his apartment, wondering how he had managed to get the last word after all.

  Wilson resumed avoiding me for the next month. Maybe he was busy, maybe the new semester had him working late. Several nights I heard his footsteps in the apartment above me after nine o'clock. A teacher's life was a thankless one, I supposed. But I suspected it had more to do with the kiss on New Year's and staying away from me than an increased work load. And, of course, there was Pamela.

  Pamela was back from England, worming her way back into Wilson's life, gobbling up his spare time. They went to the movies, out to dinner, and even played tennis over the weekend. I had never even held a tennis racket. Guess we wouldn't be playing doubles. Plus, I didn't exactly have a partner. I couldn't imagine Bev being very good at tennis, and other than Wilson and Tiffa, she was my best friend. And that was just plain sad.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  And then the lab called.

  I had worked seven straight eight-hour shifts at the cafe, and when I wasn't at the cafe, I was in the basement, wallowing in all the space I'd been given. Wilson stayed away. The only connection I felt with him was at night, when I sat beneath the vent, listening to him play his cello. I had tried to wean myself from even that, simply because the music chaffed at my longing and made me feel raw and rejected. But night after night, I found myself with my face upturned, torturing myself with sound, cursing Wilson and his space.

  It wasn't that I had forgotten about the pending results of the DNA testing. I hadn't. But I hadn't awaited them eagerly. So when the call came, I was unprepared.

  “Blue Echohawk?”

  “Yes. This is Blue.”

  “This is Heidi Morgan from the Forensics Lab in Reno. We have the results.”

  My heart actually hurt it was pounding so hard.

  “Okay.” My lips felt numb, and the simple word was all I could form.

  “We have a match, Blue. We'd like you to come back to Reno.”

  “Okay,” I repeated. They had a match. They knew who I was. “I . . . I need a second to think. I will have to get off work and get a plane ticket . . . and I . . . I need to think,” I stuttered out, sounding ridiculous even to my own ears.

  “Absolutely,” Heidi Morgan replied warmly. “Give us a call when you've made your arrangements. I have been in contact with Detective Moody and Sergeant Martinez. Everyone is pretty excited, Blue. This kind of thing doesn't happen very often.”

  I promised I would be in touch and disconnected the call, collapsing onto my old recliner where it rested beneath the vent, awaiting another late night symphony. I tried to calm my racing heart and breathe through the nerves that had me biting my nails and tapping my feet against the floor. I needed to tell someone. I needed to tell Wilson. But he wasn't home, and I was mad at him. Without pausing to talk myself out of it, I grabbed the keys and headed out the door. I would go see Tiffa.

  Tiffa's building had a doorman, and I supposed that was good because he warned Tiffa I was on my way up, giving her time to compose herself in the face of my surprising visit. But she answered the door immediately and pulled me into the house with a fierce hug and a wide smile.

  “Blue! You twit! Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I would have ordered lunch and champagne to celebrate! And I would have had a chance to change my blouse! Melody spit up all over it. She spits up on everything, so be warned. At the very least I could have changed her nappies so she could make a good first impression! As it is, you are going to have to put up with us as we are – smelly and hungry!” Tiffa's laughter floated around me like a balmy breeze, and I relaxed immediately, letting her pull me toward the bedroom.

  Melody's nursery looked like a garden with butterflies and birds fluttering on the walls and perched on the branches of blossomed trees. A chipmunk poked his head from a hole in the trunk, and a family of rabbits hopped along the wall above the the plush pale green carpeting. The ceiling was a blue sky, peppered with fat white clouds and a flock of tiny geese flying in V formation. A wise old owl looked down from a branch that stretched above the crib, which was draped in seafoam green canopy, sprinkled in little pink flowers, like a little hill in springtime. There were stuffed animals straight out of the movie Bambi lining the edges of the room, and a giant white rocker brimming with flower-shaped pillows took up another corner.

  It was absolutely enchanting. Every little girl should have a room like that. But it was the baby in the crib that held my attention. She gurgled and kicked her chubby legs. The black hair that she had at birth had morphed into a lighter brown, and she had easily doubled in size. I had only seen her for a few seconds, but those seconds were burned in my brain. This baby looked very different tfrom the image in my head. But her eyes were blue. She smiled and wiggled, arms and legs churning, and I found myself smiling back, blinking through eyes that had suddenly filled with tears. The regret that I had feared, that I had dreaded, that had kept me away, didn't crash down on me like I thought it would. The tears in my eyes felt more like relief than sorrow, and I clung to Tiffa's hand, grateful for her in a way I would never be able to put into words.

  “She is . . . so . . . so..” I stammered

  “Perfect,” Tiffa finished, her own eyes shining with tears as she put her arms around me and squeezed me fiercely. “Perfect. Dirty nappies and all. Let me change her bum so you can hold her.”

  In three months, Tiffa had become a pro, changing the diaper with deft hands and whiskin
g it all away while she cooed and talked to Melody, whose eyes stayed trained on her face. Tiffa let me powder Melody's wrinkly pink tush, and we both sneezed loudly when I got a little carried away.

  Tiffa laughed. “You do it just like Jack. He says you can never have too much baby powder. When Daddy's on duty, Melody gives off a little fragrant poof every time she kicks.”

  Tiffa scooped Melody up and set her in my arms.

  “Here. You rock the wee one while I get her bottle.” Tiffa patted my cheek, dropped a kiss on Melody's flyaway hair, and was out of the room before I could protest. I sat stiffly on the edge of the rocker. Not counting the few seconds after Melody's birth, I had never held a baby. I tried not to hold her too loosely or too tight, but her face wrinkled in dissatisfaction and her lower lip jutted out, as if she were preparing to howl.

  “Okay, okay. You don't like that position. We can adjust!” I rushed to oblige, holding her so her head bobbed above my shoulder, one of my hands on her bottom, one hand pressed against her back. She promptly latched onto my cheek and started sucking frantically. I yelped, pulling away, and she reattached herself to my nose.

  “Tiffa! Help! She's got my nose!” I laughed, trying to disengage from the little blood sucker. She immediately started to wail, and I turned her around so she was facing outward, her head against my chest. I bounced her a little and walked around the room, talking to her the way Tiffa had.

  “Oh look, Melody. There are some baby bunnies! Little grey bunnies the color of Uncle Wilson's eyes.” I stopped myself abruptly. Where had that come from? I moved onto other exciting features of the room. “Oh, boy!” I continued in my syrupy sweet tone. “There's a little chipmunk. He's looking for Melody. He sees you, Melody!”

  Melody stopped crying, so I kept going, walking around the room, bouncing her in my arms. “That little chipmunk better watch out! Mr. Owl is watching him, and owls love to gobble up chipmunks!” I bit my lip. Maybe that was scary. I tried again.

  “Owls are the only bird that can see the color blue. Did you know that Melody?”

  “Really?” Tiffa walked into the bedroom, shaking a bottle briskly in her right hand. “Is that true?”

  “Yes. I mean, I think it is. Jimmy, my father, loved birds, and he knew all sorts of random interesting things. I've probably forgotten most of what he told me, but that was a joke between us. I assumed, naively, that because owls were the only birds who could see the color blue that I must be invisible to all other birds.”

  Tiffa smiled, “Because you were BLUE.”

  “Yeah. I thought it was awesome.”

  “Invisibility would come in handy, wouldn't it?” Tiffa handed me the bottle, but I begged off.

  “You do it, please! She's hungry, and I don't want to make her cry again. She tried to get milk from my nose.”

  Tiffa giggled, took Melody from my arms, and settled into the rocker. Melody began to suckle in earnest. Tiffa and I watched her, our eyes glued to her happy face, her cheeks moving in and out in ecstasy, so content and easy to please.

  “Speaking of invisibility,” Tiffa said quietly, not raising her eyes from Melody's face, “I'm a little surprised to see you. Happy – but surprised. What's going on, Blue?”

  “The lab called today. They said they have a match. They know who I am, Tiffa. They know who my mother is. They asked me to come to Reno.”

  “Ohhhh, Blue,” Tiffa drew the words out in one long sigh. Her gaze was full of compassion and a lump rose in my throat. I swallowed hard and tried to laugh.

  “I hope I didn't scare you, showing up here, wild-eyed and panic-stricken. I just needed to tell someone. And I thought of Melody, and how I need these answers for her sake, even if sometimes I would rather never know.”

  “I'm so glad you did. It was time. And you weren't wild-eyed and panic-stricken. You are always as cool as a cucumber, Blue Echohawk. I read people pretty well, but you are always so self-contained, so private. What's that saying? Still waters run deep? In that way, you and Darcy are so much alike.” When I didn't comment, Tiffa just shook her head in exasperation, as if my silence proved her point.

  “He came by yesterday, you know,” Tiffa said casually. “I think he's smitten.”

  My heart dropped to my toes. My face must have registered my distress because Tiffa stopped rocking abruptly.

  “What? Blue, what did I say?”

  “Nothing,” I lied, shaking my head. “I figured as much.”

  Tiffa cocked her head to the side, confused. “Figured what?”

  “That he was smitten,” I responded flatly. I felt sick.

  “He's smitten with Melody!” Tiffa cried, and shook her head, disbelieving. “You should have seen your face. Who did you think I was talking about? Pamela?”

  I looked down at my feet, unwilling to answer.

  “Blue. What in the world is going on with you two? I thought after New Year's that you would both finally admit you have feelings for each other. It's so obvious! I asked Wilson about you yesterday and he acted so aloof. I didn't know what to make of it.”

  “Yeah. Wilson must be a rare breed of bird. Definitely not an owl because I've become completely invisible.”

  “Oh, luv,” Tiffa sighed. “My brother is my mother's son. Maybe not biologically, but in every other way. His sense of propriety is positively archaic. I've been surprised he's allowed himself to get as close to you as he has. And that kiss? Alice and I were crowing about it for days.”

  I kept my face averted, uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation, but Tiffa kept rocking and talking. “What my brother needs is a push. It sure worked when we dangled you in front of Justin. Maybe it's time for you to spread your wings and force him to make a choice,” she mused, patting Melody's back. The bottle was long gone and Melody was too, snoring softly with milk dribbling from the corner of her bow shaped mouth.

  “I have been working on something, but I haven't wanted to tell you until it was a sure thing. I had an artist scheduled to be part of a exhibit at the Sheffield next Saturday night. He decided he wanted to renegotiate his contract, and ended up renegotiating himself right out the door. It just so happens that I think your work will gel nicely with the entire exhibit. In fact, I think your work will stand out. I've been holding back 'Bird Woman' and a few other pieces, simply because they demand a certain kind of audience. I think we will be able to sell 'Bird Woman' for $5,000 at the exhibit, where it might sit for months in the gallery.”

  I gulped and swore under my breath. Tiffa just winked at me. “That's a bargain, luv. Someday your work will sell for far more, I guarantee it. 'Bird Woman,' 'Rubicon,' 'Witch,' and the one you named 'Armor' are the only pieces I have left. All of those will be stunning, but I need more. What do you have completed?”

  I had carved one called 'The Saint.' It was St. Patrick immortalized in wood, though the stooped man with a shepherd's staff walking in the curling flames that appeared to dance around him could easily be mistaken for something entirely different. The one Wilson had named 'Loss' was in the basement too, covered by a sheet beside my workbench so I wouldn't have to see it. It might be my best work yet, but it hurt to look at it. And there were several others, including the intertwined branches that I had frenetically lost myself in a month ago.

  “I can come up with ten.”

  “Then it's set. Get me the pieces, and I will make it happen. And Blue? Don't tell Darcy. It will be our little surprise.”

  I finished my shift at the cafe late Thursday night and headed for home, my mind on Saturday's exhibit, on the carvings I had assembled, and on the call to Reno I hadn't yet made. They must think I was nuts. Detective Moody had left two messages on my voicemail and I'd received another from Heidi Morgan at the lab. I told myself after the showcase I would call them.

  A big part of my indecision was Wilson. I had shared this journey with him, and in the last month I had hardly seen him. He'd become my best friend, and I missed him desperately, and was angry with him for pulling away. I'd
decided “space” was just another one of those, “it's not you, it's me” slogans people use when they want to end a relationship. But friendships weren't supposed to end. I wished we'd never shared that damned kiss. Wilson hadn't been the same since.

  I was standing in front of my apartment door, perusing my mail, when I heard Wilson's door open and shut above me. I tensed, listening to his footsteps near the top of the stairs, and then grimaced as I heard Pamela's voice asking him about the exhibit at The Sheffield on Saturday.

  “I saw the tickets. Were you going to surprise me? Is it my Valentine's Day surprise?” Pamela teased, and her flirtatious tone made me want to run up the stairs and hurl her over the banister. She must not have sensed my murderous intent, because she kept right on talking.

  “We can have dinner with my parents before. They'll be staying at the hotel through next week.” I had forgotten about Pamela's connection to the hotel. Tiffa said the Sheffield family wasn't the sole owner of the hotel any longer, but money talked, and the hotel still bore the Sheffield name.

  Pamela and Wilson reached the bottom of the stairs and I slunk back, hoping they wouldn't see me. I should have gone into my apartment and closed the door. Now it was too late to do so without alerting them of my presence. So I stood, frozen, watching Pamela loop her arms around Wilson's neck and stand up on her toes to place a quick kiss on his lips. I looked away. I should have watched, should have made myself acknowledge that she was the girl in his life. And I was the neighbor. The project. The whim? I had no idea what I was to Wilson anymore.

  “See you Saturday?” Pamela asked.

  I didn't hear Wilson's answer, I was too busy unlocking my door. I decided I didn't care if they knew I was there. I shut the door behind me. When I heard a soft knock several minutes later, I considered ignoring it. It could only be Wilson, and he would only make me feel worse. But I was just a girl. And the guy I liked stood on the other side of the door. So I opened it.