Isabel Sharpe Page 15

  “Oh.” Tricia wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say to that.

  “As you should,” Jim said.

  “Don’t take offense. You wouldn’t believe how often authors are asked to look at other people’s work. I stopped saying yes because the truth is, it doesn’t matter what I think. Your work needs to impress an agent or an editor and eventually your readers. They’re the ones who can get you someplace, not me. I’m just one opinion and mine doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay.” She tried to hide her disappointment, not even aware until that minute how much she’d wanted the validation of a professional opinion. Why would Beatrice want them to come up here just so she could say she couldn’t help?

  “However.” She reached down to get a folder beside her chair. “I have to say this little calendar witch absolutely stole my heart. She’s wonderful. I’d go out on a limb and say you have something big here.”

  “Thank you so much.” Tricia spoke breathlessly. A delicious feeling of pride started choking out her nerves. She glanced at Jim, who was grinning as if she’d just won a Pulitzer.

  Beatrice opened the folder, paged through the sheets, laughing occasionally. “I love this idea of stealing time. Not only that, stealing holidays—good times with family and friends, time away from work and duties. I think that’s something every one can relate to. We all have calendar witches in our lives.”

  Tricia nodded, trying to get past the pleasure-buzz to listen to what Beatrice was saying. She hadn’t thought through why the adventure appealed to her so much, but yes, of course, there it was. The crime of someone stealing away your special time with family. Two children fighting to get it back. How obvious.

  “I illustrate my own stories, so I can’t work with this one. I do have a friend in Texas looking for an illustrator, but if you really want to know…” She closed the folder. “I wanted to meet you before I suggested this, to get a feel for who you are, or as much as anyone can in half an hour, but honestly, I think you should write your own story. In many ways you already have with these pictures. It’s just a question of finding the words that go with them.”

  Huh? Tricia gaped at her. “Oh, gosh, I’m not a writer.”

  “Maybe not. But it’s worth a try. I’m happy to help if you want.”

  “You said you hate helping other people.” She spoke impulsively, then wanted to smack herself.

  Beatrice seemed unfazed. She smiled at Jim. “Let’s say in this case I’m willing to make an exception.”

  Tricia froze. She did not want to hear any more about this.

  Jim cleared his throat. “I photographed her daughter’s wedding last year. She seems to think she owes me favors.”

  “He forgot to mention he wouldn’t let me pay him.” She put her hand on Jim’s arm. “Don’t let this man go, Tricia. You’ll regret it forever. Trust me.”

  Tricia laughed to cover her embarrassment. Beatrice obviously thought they were involved; it seemed rude to contradict her. “We lost touch for a lot of years. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t want to impose on your time if you don’t like—

  “Let her help, Tricia. You can learn from her.” His gray eyes were watching her steadily. “She wouldn’t offer if she didn’t want to.”

  “He’s right. I genuinely love the drawings and think you have a great and highly marketable story. I’d enjoy helping you.” She patted Jim’s arm. “We’ll just not mention that Jim threatened to bomb my house if I said no.”

  Tricia’s head whipped around to Jim; he was laughing.

  “Now that—” he picked up his lemonade and toasted her “—was a sick joke, dear.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Beatrice smiled warmly at Jim again, and Tricia’s intuition told her there had been something between these two once upon a time. She couldn’t blame Jim. There was a graceful, sexual quality that lightened and complimented Beatrice’s solid, earth mother warmth.

  The three of them chatted, about Florida, Wisconsin, California. Stories came out—Jim apparently met Beatrice at one of his initial AA meetings and they hit it off right away. Beatrice demanded stories of Jim and Tricia’s misspent youth.

  At a natural lull in the conversation, Jim thanked Beatrice for the lemonade and cookies and Tricia thanked her for the lovely comments about her book and promised to try her hand at writing the story, a promise she wasn’t at all sure she had the courage or chops to keep.

  On the way down the driveway Tricia waved and looked back more than once to see the lovely hilltop house receding behind them. She didn’t know why the idea of Beatrice living there by herself made her feel wistful and a bit sad. Maybe it was that living in the middle of nowhere like that would make Tricia stark raving bonkers.

  Half an hour later, Jim pulled into the parking lot of a take out barbecue restaurant just as Tricia was about to yell that she needed a bathroom. While she went, he loaded up on food, then drove them to Devil’s Lake State Park for a picnic.

  The lake was a gorgeous blue surrounded by forested, rocky hills. Fluffy white clouds floated overhead and an eagle soared over the water looking for his dinner.

  They set their food on a picnic table and dug into the juicy, fragrant meat, white rolls and coleslaw, hardly talking while they ate, relishing the view and the delicious meal, the quiet companionship more valuable just then than anything they could say.

  “I miss beer the most with food like this.” Jim set down a rib and picked up another.

  “Same here. It’s worth it, though, to know we’ll get home alive.”

  He chuckled. “Pretty good incentive, huh?”

  “The best.” She pushed her plate away. One more bite and she’d explode. “Thank you for taking me to see Beatrice, Jim. I wasn’t sure what to expect but I liked her a lot.”

  “She’s something. Designs her own jewelry, paints, raises chickens, has a huge garden, fruit trees. She is as self-sufficient as possible.”

  “I’m trying to be the same. Without the chickens.” Tricia licked her fingers. “How long did you date her?”

  “Can’t get anything by you.” He grinned and touched her hand. “For about a year. We joined AA at the same meeting. She was going through a divorce, I’d just broken up with some one…we both needed a body to lean on. But we weren’t right for each other. I couldn’t live out there in the boonies and she hated the city.”

  “She’s lovely.”

  “You noticed that, huh?”

  Tricia kicked him under the table.

  He laughed. “What did you think about her suggestion you write your own book?”

  “It’s totally beyond me.”

  “Geez.” He rolled his eyes. “There’s my Tricia, brimming with can-do arrogance.”

  She snorted and kicked him again. “I’m serious. I’m not a writer. I barely got through high school.”

  “So reenroll. Take some classes. Find out if you have any talent.”

  She collected her plate, napkins and plastic to give herself time to process what he’d just said. Classes. “I never thought of that.”

  “Because you haven’t started looking ahead yet. You will, though. Right now you’re so glad to be out of the crap that it feels fabulous just being alive and awake some days, and on others you’re still fighting the pull of various chemicals. That’s enough to deal with right now. But it won’t be forever. Soon the urges will be manageable, and not spiraling down isn’t going to be enough. You’ll want to move forward. When that hits, you’ll know. And you have a goal already.”

  Her throat swelled uncomfortably. What was it about this man that moved her so deeply? “Your goal was pictures.”

  “Mine was building my studio, yes. It’s gone well.” He wiped his hands clean with a napkin, added it to their trash bag and turned to look out at the lake. “Now I have other goals.”

  “What are those?”

  “Ah, Tricia.” He didn’t continue, sat looking out at the water, a slight frown
wrinkling his brow.

  She felt an unreasonable fear, without any clue as to its source. “Jim?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you okay?” She leaned forward and touched his arm. “You left me there.”

  “Sorry, I got distracted. My goal right now—” he leaned down to dig through his bag and came up with a camera “—is to take your picture.”

  “Oh, God, no.” She waved him away. “I hate having my picture taken.”

  “Tough. Stand up. Come over by the lake.”

  Tricia rolled her eyes. “Do I have to, Dad?”

  “Yup.” He held out his hand. She took it in exasperation and let him haul her to her feet, held it while she extracted herself from the picnic table.

  He found a place he thought would suit for her portrait after four or five tries that involved climbing over rocks toward a huge cliff, while she got more and more cranky, and he got more and more cheerful and enthusiastic.

  “This is it. Perfect.”

  “Here?”

  “Up. We’ll climb there.”

  “Up where, there?” She pointed to a nearby flat ledge.

  “Nope.” He pointed higher. “There.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Do I look like a mountain goat?”

  He gave her a severe look and jabbed his finger toward the spot. “Climb.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a silly hot thrill at her rebellion. “And if I refuse?”

  He held her gaze, leaned forward. “I’ll kiss you until you can’t breathe anymore.”

  Her swallow was audible over the lapping of the lake.

  “Okay.” She had to clear her throat. “Okay, I’m climbing.”

  “Good girl.”

  Tricia sputtered in disgust. “Girl? I’m sorry, am I your puppy?”

  “Ungh. Good wo-man.” He put caveman emphasis on the phrase, which cracked her up.

  The climb wasn’t as bad as it looked from the bottom, and in about five minutes she’d reached the ledge he’d spotted, and arranged herself. The cliff rose up about five hundred feet beyond them, but he better think this was far enough or she’d push him off into the lake.

  “That’s it. The late afternoon sun is perfect. You’ll glow.”

  “From sweat?”

  “Your inner light.” He looked through the lens, focused, stepped around a bit checking the angle, the background, moved her three more times until she was getting ready for that oh-so-satisfying shove.

  “Now smile. Be happy.”

  She tried. She really tried. But every time she thought she had a lovely happy smile going, he’d make a sound of impatient disapproval. “What?”

  “Don’t try so hard. Be yourself.” He shifted his footing. “Look out into the lake. Just enjoy it. Forget the smiling.”

  She stopped smiling. Looked. Tried to be herself. “Should I meditate?”

  “If that helps relax you, sure.”

  Tricia nodded, lengthened her spine, drew in some breaths, closed her eyes for a count of five then opened them again, relaxed her body, let her mind go free.

  “There. The-e-ere.” He drew the word out the way someone does when you’re giving him a massage and you hit just the right spot. She wondered if she’d be able to resist him if he ever came on to her in spite of her request that he not.

  And in the next thought she realized that Jim never would. And that he was probably the finest man she’d ever known. Accepting her, encouraging her to reach beyond what had become her limited but safe new life. Quietly making opportunities for her to keep moving forward, to keep her from slipping back.

  Good man. She was so lucky he’d come back into her life.

  No, she didn’t believe that. No such thing as luck. No such thing as accidents. He’d come back into her life because he was fated to. Because she needed him. And maybe he needed her, too.

  The camera clicked, clicked again, startling her; she laughed, having practically forgotten he was there. Click. Click.

  “Look back into the lake. Keep thinking about whatever you were thinking about.”

  “Okay.” She looked back into the lake. Kept thinking about Jim, though her thoughts gradually became less noble, and strayed in spite of her best efforts, to include his kisses, his strength, his passionate intensity. Click, click, click click click click.

  “God, you’re beautiful.”

  She turned, startled again, and found him watching her over the camera. She wasn’t beautiful. She was gray and prematurely aged by the violence she’d done her body, chemically speaking, and she could lose ten pounds and not miss them.

  But with Jim she felt beautiful, young, healthy…sane, even.

  He sat beside her and they watched the sun gradually lower, the light grow richer and more golden, the colors of the lake and the woods deepen. Tricia felt more content, more complete than she could remember ever feeling in her life. The joyful peace she usually had to meditate to experience had come automatically, just being here with Jim.

  And it hit her that when she moved to Florida and left him here, she’d fall to pieces and have to build up a new life all over again, this time without him.

  13

  MELANIE PULLED UP in front of Edgar’s apartment building and checked her messages. Still nothing from Stoner about this date they were supposed to have had the previous night, which he’d canceled and promised to reschedule. Typically unreliable. Hard to imagine she’d spent so much time nuts over annoying self-centered men like that.

  At this point she was ready to say forget it and good riddance, which wasn’t like her. Usually she loved beating her head against the brick wall of unrequited longing. Maybe this change was a good thing. Progress toward self-esteem. If nothing else, maybe Edgar would raise the bar for her future relationships.

  Tonight, their second date, he was cooking a fancy dinner for her at his apartment, another first. Previous dates all shared her taste for crowds and loud music, late nights and plenty of alcohol. If any of them could cook gourmet food, they hadn’t bothered showing off that talent for her.

  Melanie locked her car, hurried over to Edgar’s building, surprised to find herself eager to see him. Not an unusual emotion before this whole dating thing started, but since, she’d been a mass of contradictions. Today she felt good, happy, not tied up in knots. Maybe meditating daily was helping. She was following her mom’s recommendation to go on the next two dates with Edgar, enjoy herself and worry about deciding what to do later. Maybe a cop-out, but the decision got rid of some of the confusion and most of the stress. For now, anyway.

  She pushed the call button to Edgar’s apartment, clutching a bottle of wine recommended by the staff at Ray’s Liquor on North Avenue. He buzzed her in; she bounded up the two flights and found the door open. Inside, Emma, his cat, lifted her head from the couch pillow, eyed Melanie disdainfully and went back to sleep. The fish ignored her.

  Edgar, busy at the stove, paused and flashed her a wide grin. The smile was his customary greeting, but because she now understood the emotions behind it, the welcome made Melanie more and more shivery every time she saw it.

  “Hi, Edgar.” She held up the wine, a chilled white called Viognier, which she couldn’t begin to pronounce. “My contribution.”

  “Thanks, Mel.” He stirred something, checked something else in the oven, then came toward her, wearing a striped canvas apron, which looked at home on him.

  “Something smells incredible.”

  He went to kiss her cheek, and without even thinking, she turned her face toward him so the kiss landed on the corner of her mouth. He lingered the briefest second and she got a small sexual buzz, curious to see what he’d do. He smelled as good as his kitchen, spices and rich roasted smells, and under it his subtle aftershave.

  “I hope it will taste good.” He took the wine, made appreciative noises after glancing at the label. Not polite noises, but real, as if he understood its quality. He
could even pronounce it: vyon-yeh.

  She felt hopelessly outclassed. By Edgar.

  “I’ll open it now. White will go well with the soup.”

  “Mmm, we’re having soup?”

  “For the first course, yeah.”

  The first course? “What kind?”

  “Chilled zucchini with lemon shrimp and cilantro cream.”

  Her mouth dropped. “Campbell’s?”

  “Um, no.” He laughed and shot her a sexy sidelong look.

  Sexy. He was sexy. How had she never noticed? His eyes were incredibly expressive. She must have been asleep for the past two years. Or maybe he was letting her see more than he used to. “Need any help?”

  “Open the wine and pour? We can have a glass outside before we eat.” He gestured to the back of the kitchen.

  “Balcony?” She’d never noticed one.

  “Door’s right there.” He jerked his head to the opposite end of the kitchen where there was a door. “It’s small, but nice on summer evenings. It faces the river.”

  “Sounds perfect.” She accepted the corkscrew, managed to get the cork out without making a horrible mess, and poured the wine into elegant crystal glasses that looked delicate enough to shatter from a mere glare. On the narrow balcony he’d set up two chairs and a table on which were bowls of olives, salted nuts and a creamy dip surrounded by cut vegetables. A soft breeze kept the temperature mild; the sun was making its way down behind the buildings across the river to their right, its light gaining in richness what it lost in brightness.

  “I had no idea you were such a chef, Edgar.”

  He shrugged and waited for her to sit before he took the chair next to her. “My parents are into entertaining. I guess I inherited the passion from them.”

  “What kind of entertaining do they do?”

  He blew out a breath. “Mostly impress-other-people entertaining.”

  “You’re hard on them.”

  He looked surprised, then thoughtful. “You’re right, Mel. I should let them be who they are and get over it.”

  “I didn’t mean to criticize.”