4
Stella
Stella sinks deeper into the jetted tub, the warm water washing over her body. Her eyes drift to the open sliding glass door, the muted sounds of human voices and the squawking of blue herons and brown pelicans chattering along the water.
She never could have imagined life would be this good. From their beach house, they have panoramic views of the Pacific Ocean. This is her favorite time of day, the sun starting to sink behind an idyllic backdrop of pink, orange, and fiery reds. The colors bounce off the haze of water like beams of light, creating an illustrious film.
They’ve only lived here for two years, but she still has to pinch herself that this is her home and not a dream that she’ll soon wake up from.
Rubbing her arms with a loofah, she tries to relax, settling back with a magazine, but her mind can’t focus on gossip and pop culture, it’s too apprehensive about her upcoming meeting. On one hand, it could bring huge potential. On the other, she's scared shitless about losing control to corporate America.
Grant will be ecstatic when she tells him. He’s the one that encouraged, no, pushed her, kicking and screaming, into the perils of starting her own business. And she couldn't be more challenged or happier. His encouragement has meant the world to her.
Standing carefully, she dries off, throwing on some black leggings and a red USC sweatshirt. Heading into their office, she decides to boot up her laptop and answer some work emails. A built-in window seat overlooking the coast is her favorite place to curl up and work, the upholstered fabric bench cozy. She didn’t skimp when she had it redone, making sure it was more of a pillow top mattress cover instead of just cloth covering the wooden seat underneath.
Stretching her legs out, she gets lost in her inbox, sorting through junk email and ones that actually warrant a response. Before she knows it, her alarm shrills, signaling seven-thirty.
She searches in the fridge for dinner options, finding what their meal service has prepped for them this week. Opening the plastic lid, she smiles in appreciation at the salmon and rice pilaf with veggies. Setting the oven temp to pre-heat, she sets the table with actual dinnerware and silverware, no plastic utensils or paper plates tonight.
Hunting in their wine cooler, she finds a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rose, the perfect celebratory drink. The hints of black grapes and strawberry will go down smooth with their fish. She uncorks the bottle, pouring one wine glass for herself.
On the deck, she settles into a chaise lounge on the main level, looking out towards the unobstructed, endless blue. The beach house has decks on every level, a wrap-around one on the second floor and an observatory patio on the third. Sipping her wine slowly, she watches the last of the people pack up their tote bags and towels, the temperature not warm enough to swim. Only the avid surfers and swimmers with wet suits bother to enter the water right now.
Checking her Cartier, it’s now half-past eight.
Calling Grant for his ETA, she's alarmed when it goes straight to voicemail. Hopefully he’ll walk in the door soon.
Restless, she heads inside, pouring herself another glass of wine. Tidying up, she wipes down the kitchen, humming until the oven beeps. After she puts them on a baking sheet to warm up, she sets a timer and settles in the living room.
Her favorite spot besides the deck is the ‘comfy couch,’ as they call it, the overstuffed tan one that envelopes you like a bear hug, the fabric soft and inviting, unlike a lot of the stuffy, sturdy couches she sees in the furniture stores these days.
Draping a thin blanket over her shoulders, she succumbs to its embrace and falls asleep, her wine glass resting precariously against one corner of the couch.
In her dream she keeps hearing a loud shrill, as if it's a horn. Not a car horn, but one that rises an octave, like a fog horn.
It takes her a moment to realize it’s not in her subconscious, but the blare of the alarm. At first she thinks it signals an intruder in the house, but then the smell of putrid vapor makes her nostrils flare. It's now replaced the smell of saltwater and sand, permeating the air with thick smoke. Rubbing a hand over her face, she sniffs burnt food.
Jumping up, she runs into the kitchen, where half-asleep, she stumbles over a bar stool. “Shit, shit, shit, shit.”
Opening the oven door, smoke billows out as the heat smacks her in the face. Grabbing for the pan, she feels the hot metal searing her skin.
“Ouch, dammit.” Sucking her fingers, she yanks an oven mitt out of the drawer, throwing the charred remains of salmon and veggies into the sink. Punching the OFF button, she stands on a chair and swats at the smoke alarm, the offensive noise pounding the headache that’s starting to aggravate her temples. Pulling the batteries out, she steps down to tend to her throbbing fingers.
She leans over the sink, letting cool water run over them. A rattle indicates the garage door’s opening and then the sputter of a car engine groans to a halt.
“Stel?” She hears Grant's voice before she sees him, his footsteps heavy and purposeful as they stride into the kitchen. “Stel, what’s going on?” Grant’s concerned. “Are you okay? Is there a fire in the house?”
“I handled it,” she answers weakly. “The only casualty was dinner.”
Grant eyeballs the remains of their meal. “You burn yourself?”
“Yeah.” She sighs.
“Here, let me kiss it.” He grabs her hand from the running water and kisses each finger slowly, staring into her blue eyes with his chocolate ones.
“What happened, babe?”
Grumpy, she moans, “I fell asleep on the couch. It's that damn comfy chair.”
“It sucks you in every time,” he agrees.
“I put the meals in thinking you’d be home. I set a timer...”
“I know, it’s late, almost nine.”
Pointedly, she says, “You said between seven and eight.”
He runs a ragged head through his hair. “I know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d be late so I’d have waited to put the food in?”
“I did, I sent you a text.” Stella tends to misplace her phone, and searching around the kitchen, she finds it by the wine fridge.
Sure enough, there are five unread texts, two from Grant.
“Must’ve been when you fell asleep,” he adds. “I was worried when I pulled in and could hear the alarm. I figured you fell asleep in the tub with one of those damn candles going.”
“Then it would hopefully just fall into the water and be extinguished.” She rolls her eyes at him. “What should we do now for dinner?”
“I had that client meeting and I snacked on some appetizers.” His gaze drifts to the table. “Wow, you brought out the real dishware, all right,” he whistles. “You must have some big news to share.”
“Potentially.” Except she no longer feels like talking about it. Grant knows her moods, and he reaches out to wrap her in his arms for a hug. Whispering in her ear, he murmurs, “There’s no ‘potential’ with you, I’m sure it’s huge and I want to hear all about it. You settle back on the couch and I’ll go change.”
She nods as he turns to head upstairs, his feet thudding on the tile that looks like whitewashed floorboards. Squirting some dish soap in the sink, she lets warm water run over the baking sheet so it can soak some of the crusted food off. Lighting a few candles and opening the patio door, a cool breeze filters in through the screen. Breathing it in, she inhales, the pungent odor of smoke wafting out and the ocean air kissing her cheeks with salt spray.
That’s what she loves about the Pacific. Soft and gentle most of the time, it cleans away so much unpleasantness with little effort.
When Grant reappears with a sheepish smile, he’s freshly showered in plaid pajama pants, a navy tee, and his ratty old slippers. “I’m sorry about dinner, babe.”
“You shower?"
“Yeah, I feel like I stink.” He motions to his armpits.
“What do you want to do about dinner?”
“I’ll
whip something up.”
“You mean oatmeal or a frozen pizza?”
“Exactly.” He smacks her lips, “freshly prepared from a gourmet packet or a box. Even better, I ordered us something when I was upstairs.”
“You did?”
“Chinese.”
“You get the steamed pork buns?”
Shooting her a dirty look, he groans, “Would I ever forget those?”
“Of course not.” She puts a hand to her heart. “Unconscionable for me to even ask.”
“I forgive you, milady.” He points to the couch. “It should be here in thirty. I offered the guy an extra fifty for quick delivery. I told him I messed up a surprise.”
“You told him it was our anniversary again, didn’t you?”
“Maybe...”
“If he tallies it up, we’ve had seventeen already this year.”
Grant waves his hand in the air. “Then he's made an exorbitant amount of tips.” Settling on the couch beside her, he claps. “Okay, what’s the big news?”
Biting her lower lip, she raises her eyes to look at him.
“Don’t you dare do that, Stel. You know what happens...”
“Do I?” She gives him a coquettish smile.
“I don't want to ravish you here on this couch. I mean, I do, but first I need to have your undivided attention.”
“Why, you had a bad day?”
“No, I want to hear about you. Why do you keep avoiding it?”
Interrupting, she says, “Saks called me.”
“...and...”
“They want to give us a credit limit increase.”
“Haha, very funny.” He smirks. “Your wardrobe speaks volumes about the money we’ve invested in them.”
“They want to meet with me about SMK.”
Emphatic, he pats her leg, thumping his hand up and down. “That's fantastic! Holy shit, Stel. That’s what you wanted for the next step.”
“I’m a little concerned because they’ll want exclusivity with their stores and you know I don’t want to pigeonhole myself, but I’ll hear them out.”
“You taking Darcy with you?” Darby Moyer is her attorney and advises her on all things SMK related. A red-headed Irish woman, she’s fierce in business, an expert negotiator, and an avid divorcee as she'll tell you.
“Yes, if she’s available.”
“You need me to go?”
“No, I can’t imagine this would be anything but boring for you.”
“It’s business, baby.”
“Nah, this is just an initial meeting.” She kisses his cheek, “but one day we’ll walk in and see my silver filigree tubes.”
“Now I feel like a dick for not making it home earlier.” He gently tugs on her ear. “Let’s celebrate this weekend.”
“That’d be fun. I’ve actually been thinking I'd like to go to that new club that opened, the one on Vine.”
“Wait, a club?” He slaps a hand on his knee. “What are we, twenty-five?”
“Grant...”
“Babe, what about a nice dinner?”
“I want to go out and let my hair down.” She shakes her blonde hair out in a halo around her.
“I’ve never understood that expression.”
“Let’s go dance and get wild.”
“You know we’ll be in bed by ten.”
“Come on, it’s one night.” Stella juts her lower lip out. “Please...”
“Stel, can’t we go to a steakhouse or even listen to live music?”
“We could, but this is supposed to be my celebration. You’re railroading it.”
“You know I don't do clubs. I hate getting my toes stepped on by six-inch stilettos, loud music with nonsensical lyrics, and drunken idiots that do nothing but bump into you and spill your overpriced drink.”
Giving him the evil eye, she swats him. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“I just did.” Grant pulls her into his chest. They sit in silence for a moment, Stella pouting, hoping he’ll change his mind.
Snapping his fingers, he yelps, “I got it.”
“Got what?”
“A compromise.”
“Oh great, a compromise on my night out.”
“Hear me out, babe. I’ll take you to dinner and then drop you off to meet some of your girlfriends at that club.” He kisses her forehead. “Just Uber home when you’re done.”
“Maybe I won’t come home...”
“Is that so?” He starts to flick his tongue in her ear.
“Maybe I’ll run off with a twenty-three-year-old male model.” She snuggles into him. “One that has many talents besides his body of work...”
“Six-pack?”
“Definitely.”
“Don’t worry, mine’s hiding somewhere.” He starts to run his fingers up her shirt, grazing her skin. “Let’s go to bed.”
“What about the take-out?”
He claps a hand to his forehead. “Shit, I already forgot. I’ll put it in the fridge.”
Kissing her, he stands, pulling her off the couch.
Stella follows him up the stairs, their clothes leaving a trail behind them, impatient before they even reach the bedroom. Grant grabs her around the waist, settling her on the chest of drawers.
Moving in close, their mouths connect, then their bodies, and it isn’t long before she forgets about everything except the way he makes her feel when they're skin to skin.
5
Stella
In the morning, Grant gives Stella a kiss on her forehead as he snuggles in closer to her. Tucking a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, he murmurs, “I’m so proud of you, babe.”
Sleepily she whispers, “Thanks, love.”
“What do you have going on today?”
“I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Sabin.”
“That’s right.” He caresses her shoulder. “Wait, I thought that appointment was yesterday?”
“In the midst of all the excitement, I forgot.”
“That’s not like you.”
“I know.”
Casually, he asks, “How are you feeling about seeing Dr. Sabin again, it’s been what, like six months?” Stella tenses, her shoulders stiff, as she considers his question. She knows it’s good-natured and comes from a caring place, but she feels bombarded when Grant wants to know her thoughts about this.
It’s a struggle, and she feels worn down and exhausted.
“Yeah, it’ll be good to see him.” They both know that’s not true, she hates therapy and discussing her most recent outburst.
Grant nudges her, wanting her to elaborate on how she’s feeling.
Sighing, she surrenders her feelings. “I feel okay about seeing him, just nervous since I feel like I’ve been struggling.”
“You have, which is why we need to make sure you don’t have this long of a lapse in between. We have to make sure we manage your illness as best as possible.”
“I know this.” She tries to keep her voice neutral, a trace of annoyance popping up. Frustrated, she adds, “You know I didn’t ask to be this way.”
“Of course you didn't babe, and you’re brilliant, and have so many other fine qualities.” Grant squeezes her against him. “I worry about you.”
“I know.”
“We just don’t want another episode.”
Her face burns in shame as he reaches for her wrists, a permanent reminder of an earlier episode. He runs his fingers gently over the faint outline of scars. She has a few more, a couple on her ankles, one jagged line down her inner thigh. The most recent was on her inner arm.
“Please stop,” she protests.
“Babe, I love you. Just promise me you’ll go today and talk to him about what happened. I have to be honest, it scared me.”
Grant’s referencing the last episode she had, and it wasn't one of self-mutilation. It was dangerous, and it drove a wedge between them. Even though she was hospitalized and put on new medication, she saw the fear and turmoil in his eyes.
/> Rolling over, she turns to face him. “I know Grant, I know.”
“I don’t want to lose you, Stel.” He rubs her cheek. “You’re my other half and my best friend, and no one else even comes close to lighting my fire the way you do.” Tugging a lock of her nearly white blonde hair, he mutters, “You’re so brilliant and passionate, and I know it manifests itself into other areas of your life.”
Nodding, she says nothing, instead feeling the warmth of his breath as she closes her eyes, feeling safe for the moment, where she’s supposed to be.
“You’ll tell him everything that happened, right?”
“I’m sure they have the discharge paperwork from the hospital.”
“I just want to know he knows everything, so he can treat you the right way.”
“He will, Grant. Now stop worrying about me and get out of bed.”
Giving her a lingering kiss, he rubs a thumb over her lips. “My enigmatic Stella.”
“I’ll call you later,” she offers.
He seems relieved at this, and the smell of him sticks to her skin as he heads to the shower, a quick backward glance over his shoulder to make sure she’s really, truly fine.
“Stella.” Dr. Sabin enters the small but cozy office, his six-foot tall demeanor imposing, his handshake grip even more affirming of his status.
He’s retirement age, but says he hates golf and puttering around the house, doesn't like the senior discounts he gets, and his wife still works, so what’s he really going to do at home? Stella agrees that closing his thirty-year-old practice would be detrimental to his clients, but most of all him.
She’s glad he doesn’t refer to her as a ‘patient.’ That word makes her cringe, the weight of it, like you’re a specimen waiting to be examined, some type of freak. Part of what drew her to him five years ago was his ability to provide positive reinforcement and put a spin on her disorder.
His office is decorated in a non-clinician way, no bare white walls and ugly artwork, no dark leather furniture and framed pictures. It’s full of floor-to-ceiling windows, bookshelves, and a chaise lounge that she prefers to sit in instead of the sofa. There’s no desk in there for Dr. Sabin, just a glider chair that has a matching ottoman he can rest his feet on.
The Perfect Stranger Page 4