Love Bound
Page 3
I can't keep up. With her, with the sun in her hair, with her smell, like vanilla and coffee and caramel. I lost my sense of smell really after Allison and I feel immediately guilty for noticing this woman's scent. "My boss?"
"The guy who bought this place. I need to get to him and tell him to drop it. The building isn’t for sale." The freckles stand out like dark little stars. She’s just revving up—I can tell.
"I am the boss," I tell her.
This takes a few moments to sink in. Suddenly her demeanor changes like she can't decide which to be: driven and pointed, or gently persuasive; and the result is a pendulum swing back and forth between the two.
"Please stop trying to make me sell the place next door. It’s my livelihood," she says.
Now, I don’t know how to respond. "You're the vet? You're C.L. Russo?"
She sticks out a hand. "I'm Claire."
"Finn. Finn Colton," I say and take it. Her hand is warm, alive, and I am suddenly aware that betrayal exists even in small moments.
Shoving both hands into her jean pockets, she continues: "It's where I live. It's what I do. I can't imagine not being here. I've been here forever."
"Well, I don't think that's for us to discuss. This is for our attorneys."
"No, it's not. You’re trying to force me out. The moment you signed the contract on The Inn, you came after me. I know how you developers are. You come in and buy everything up. Next, it'll be Weaver's Market and then the ice cream shop—"
I wave her down and shake my head. "You’ve got it all wrong. I'm not buying everything up."
She shifts her weight but keeps her stare leveled right at me. A force to be reckoned with. A small fury is what Allison would have called her. She has no idea what I’m doing and she has no idea why I want to do what I want to do.
It has to be done. And that's what comes out of my mouth. "It has to be done."
She stands up. "No, it doesn't, and if you want to fight, I will fight you. I don't have a lot to fight with, I'll be upfront with you about that, but this is not ethical what you're doing. It's just plain wrong."
I stare at her before I say, "Listen. I'm happy to eat your muffins and drink your coffee, and I'm very grateful you brought these over because I don't think I can cook anything here. I probably would have gone up to that shitty little restaurant at Weaver's."
At that, she presses her lips together in silent defense. She must have waitressed there or something.
"But I am not doing anything unethical and I will pay good money for your clinic. I'll cover moving expenses. So don't preach to me about ethics."
"I wouldn’t have been so nice to you if I knew you were the guy," she says.
"Oh, you mean the guy who owns this place?"
Her eyes go from light blue to dark navy almost, a trick of light until I realize they’re bright with unfallen tears. "You drove up in that shitty truck and I thought you were the contractor."
"I am."
"So you're a developer."
"No. I’m just the construction guy too. I’m doing this myself," I tell her.
Something about the statement makes her smile. "And you're starting now? In late September? Good luck with that."
"It's not so much about the building. It's the land with it. I just want the three acres. "
"Yeah. I got that. Great views."
"The land can’t be sold without the building. You could break the trust and keep the clinic," I say.
"I'm not breaking the trust."
"I'll give you top dollar."
"It's about a pretty view. For me. It’s my land. It's not about the money," she says.
I bet. She has no idea how deep my pockets go. At some point, it will be about the money.
"No. Great views. That land has great views." I say. And though I can't help myself, I have to add, "Don't want to waste it."
"Really? So you're just going to develop the land and put some houses up there? Oh no," she says wagging a finger at me, "Condos. It'll be condos. Can't wait to see how that's going to go over with town council."
I say nothing.
"What you're doing is wrong. Everyone likes me in this town. I grew up here. You do this to me, you will never fit in. You will never be a part of Echo Bay."
"That's fine with me. I don't want to be a part of anything," I say.
Her face starts to get blotchy, red.
I hate sounding the way I do, but she's pushing it. She needs to go. The clinic needs to go—collateral damage—and I need that piece of property.
"Listen," I pause. "I'm sorry this has become contentious. I don't want to fight with you. I really don't want to fight with the town’s people. I just want to turn this back into something beautiful."
She shivers and physically flinches.
"I want to develop—"
"That's right. I know you want to develop it because you're just like everybody else coming up from Boston. You're just going to buy our land, rape it, make our tax rates go up, and then leave. Fine." She rises quickly from the table and leaves. Just walks out of the place like she owns it, back stiff, head high, before I can get another word out.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I glance at my watch. It's nine thirty-five.
Great way to start a Saturday.
Chapter Three
Claire
Slamming in through the side door of the clinic, I fly up the stairs into the kitchen. The place smells like fresh coffee. My sister, Laurel, stands there with her son, Cory. He's five, but small for his age. He was bestowed with the Merridan genes from my mom: fine bone structure, egg head, and tiny hands. It works for me in surgery and might for him if he winds up a mechanic.
"Hey, Cory," I say, trying hard not to ruffle his curly blond locks.
Cory looks up and smiles. His big, clear, blue eyes crinkle and he laughs, thrusting something in his hand up for me to see.
I kneel down. "What you got there, buddy?"
"Motor," comes out clear as a bell, but it’s the laugh that makes me glance at his mom. Cory has come so far.
"What does it do?" I ask him.
He shrugs. The utility of things and people is not in his repertoire yet and may never be, but I always ask. What riveted his attention was the mechanism itself, not what it did. Just taking things apart mattered. The motor looks fancy like something you'd buy from the Smithsonian and I bet Laurel picked it up at the library sale. Some summer tourist probably donated it when their grandkid didn’t get around to finishing their grandparent-sponsored enrichment program.
Laurel's voice is quiet. "Cory, Aunty Claire, and Mommy are going to talk for a while. Do you need any more tools?"
He glances down at the tiny wrench, pliers, and flat head screwdriver and he shakes his head.
"Okay, look at Mommy. Cory, look up," Laurel says, and his little jaw juts in her direction. "We’re going to the living room now. Do you want to stay here or sit with us?"
In answer, he squats down and keeps going, and I marvel at kids who have spaghetti legs.
She nods and holds two steaming mugs of coffee and I realize I've left mine at The Inn. Instead of growing furious again, I focus on her. She's here, she needs me.
Her eyes look bruised—lack of sleep. I love Cory, but I hate how he worries her. I am not a parent, though. Never will be.
"What happened?" I ask her.
She sighs. "It's the school. They interviewed him, and now they're saying he doesn't need an IEP."
I instantly flare but lower my voice so Cory doesn’t hear us, but now I fear I'm hissing. "What the hell? Did you explain you've worked your ass off to get him this far?"
She closes her eyes and I instantly regret flying off the handle. Laurel's conflict-phobic and now I've done what I often do: put her in the position to defend the people she's having conflict with. Not that I know this about myself. I've just had three of my four siblings tell me I do this to her. It’s one of the reasons I'll never have kids. I've already had my par
enting critiqued all the way through my high school years.
"Yes. Of course. But they say the budget is tight and he can’t have a one-on-one aid," Laurel says.
"How long did they interview him?"
"Half an hour."
"Oh, please," I say.
"Right?"
"They think they know how he’s going to react?" I lower my voice again. "All it's going to take is that pinwheel display about the wind they do every year and he'll start wetting his pants."
Laurel glances toward the kitchen. "I know. Or a temper tantrum, or crying, or he'll just go mute." She sets her mug down and takes a hair tie from her wrist, stretching it to hold her mass of dark curls.
I was the only blonde until Cory was born, all bright surfer toe-head, and Travis doesn’t count. Of the girls, I'm the only one who turned out like my mom. I look like I was just recently plucked off a hill in Wales, while the rest of them are dark brooding Italians. Everyone would smile at the Russo sisters and then I'd appear and the smiles would fade a little. And they never knew what to do with Travis. I always got a little thrill when someone would meet him for the first time and he was introduced as a Russo.
"If I can help you, let me know," I say, even though she likes to handle things herself, which means she doesn’t handle them well.
She always seems to get the short end of the stick. Laurel never finished school, never even tried for college, and knows she needs to just apply for a class or two. But Cory has been her project for so long and she's done such a good job with him, I can't fault her. She's devoted to him and works hard to give him the tools to manage his life.
"What about you? Did you meet the guy next door? The builder?" she asks.
"That's not the construction guy. It's the owner, Finn Colton. Finn asshole Colton. What a jerk," I say.
"You tried?"
"He basically said, 'I don’t have a choice,' yadda, yadda, yadda. Oh, and ‘you have to leave.’"
"You have to work on your wily ways," she says.
I make a face. She knows I am wily-challenged. She's twenty-two, super curvy, with a beautiful tiny waist, gorgeous, full breasts, thin arms, great calves, and a wild mane of shimmering black hair. Men love her. They always have, and she found that out early in life. She enjoyed them too, though. Her sex life is the opposite of mine. I live in the Sahara Desert. She's in the middle of a steamy rainforest I will never be able to chart or navigate.
"He's going to take this land and develop it. All of it," I state.
Laurel pauses. I have to say, for someone so young, she nearly always gives a measured response. She's had to train herself to be this way because of Cory. "The elders aren’t going to like that."
She means town council and she's right. They are all in their seventies and the alchemy of gossip and power makes them a potent bunch of white men probably all punched to power on Viagra. Last year, they shot down some poor high schooler's attempt to create a dog park at the edge of town, said the birds needed nesting areas. There is nothing but trees and mountains between us and Acadia to the north and Portland to the south. They're just cranky.
"Listen," I say. "Let's talk about this later."
"No, let's talk about it now. This is a big deal. This guy's after our place."
"It's not our place anymore," I reason.
"This is your place, Claire. He has no right to make a land grab," she says.
"I can’t deal with this right now."
She lowers her voice. "This is so much more interesting than what I went through last night."
The sounds of tinkering stop in the next room.
Laurel tilts her head up slightly and calls, "Mommy's talking about her headaches. Don't worry. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you."
I scoot to the edge of the sofa so she can lean in and not be overheard. "Did he tantrum again?"
Nodding, she pushes her hair back from her forehead like she did when she was little. "It started around eleven. He woke up for the night and I tried to hold him. I tried holding really tight the way they taught me and I couldn't. He's getting too big. You know he's five and he's strong. Anyway, he totally freaked out and started headbanging. I thought we were over that."
She lowers her voice even further and I have to really listen to catch what she's saying. "I don't know what to do. He seems so miserable. I just started crying and tried not to yell at him to stop."
"You are an amazing mother. He’s not miserable. He's just unhappy in that moment. I know it's hard to tease apart normal behavior and the autistic parts, but you were the same way. Full-blown temper tantrums." I lay a hand on her shoulder, but she won’t look at me. "It's not going to be easy but you will get through this."
"It's not something he’ll ever get over."
I sigh. "You caught this so early. Look how far he's come. He's amazing." I say all the things I'm supposed to say and feel guilty knowing I'd crack if I were in her shoes. "He's speaking in full sentences now."
She wipes her face where a few tears left her chin wet and takes a deep breath. "I know, I know, I know. It's just hard. Man, I needed this coffee."
Weaver's, the general store, doesn’t open until nine now, because it's offseason. The gas pump at the pier opens at five-thirty for the fishermen, but Laurel was out of coffee and had come straight to me.
I pat her knee. "Glad I could help."
"Anyway, let's get back to your story, though. Far more interesting."
"Nothing to tell," I say. "He just wants me out."
"What can I do? There's must be something I can do."
"Nope."
"You told him this is your clinic?" Laurel asks.
"Yep."
"Did you tell him that we grew up here? That Mom and Dad are gone?"
I didn't want him to know that. Not yet. It somehow seemed like a sneaky move—using our parents to make a case—in some shady deal. "No, I didn't. It's not his business. He just wants his condos. It shouldn't matter why we want to do what we want to do, or why we should stay. I don’t want to pull on his heartstrings."
"Well, doesn't sound like there are any strings to pull on."
"That may be true," I say, "but I still don't want to play that card. Let's just save it."
"Since when did you become a poker player?" she asks.
"Since Jimmy Whitehead," I say, surprising even myself.
"That was a long time ago," Laurel says. "You've got to let that go."
How do I let that go? How do I let Jimmy Whitehead go? The boy I'd gone to high school with, the one who drove to Tufts in the middle of the night with a dozen white roses and a ring, the one who'd make me homemade ice cream and brownies. The one who held me when my parents died. The one who cheated on me with my roommate in vet school and then told everyone in town I'd broken off the engagement. How do I let that go? People still shake their heads about poor Jimmy Whitehead.
"Okay. All right,” I say. “Off the table. Not talking about it. Oh, for Christ's sake—"
The "Mommy!" from the next room nails me.
I mouth, "Sorry."
Cory's little voice, in careful monotone, explains, "That's a bad word. It offends people."
"Sorry!" I say again, calling out loud.
Laurel's grinning. "He's learning the rules, I guess. That's good. I wish he could do it organically or because he feels it."
"Oh, I bet he feels it. He just reprimanded his aunty." I rub her shoulder. "He's getting there."
But my touch makes her well up and she starts to really cry. As her face begins to redden she shakes her head and moves up off the couch, heading to the bathroom sink to splash water on her face.
"Don’t let him see you—"
"I know, I know, I know," she says, taking a towel from my hand. "I'm just really tired. Got zip sleep last night and I'm on at one today."
I only have three appointments, all small pets. "I can watch him for you. Why don’t you go take a nap and then I'll run him to Teresa's for you?"
Laurel closes her eyes for a moment. "That would be great. Thanks so much. I feel like I'm gonna crash and burn."
We move back into the kitchen and she kneels down to Cory, who’s still sitting like a little bird on the floor.
"Hey, you," she says softly, but there’s no response. "Cory," she says a little louder, and his head snaps up. "I’m going home to take a nap before work."
He glances down at his engine, which is now in four different parts, and says, "Okay."
"You’re going to stay with Aunt Claire and help her with the new horse."
"What's his name?" he asks.
Laurel glances at me, her shoulders in a half-shrug.
"He doesn’t have a name yet," I say.
"It's a boy?" he asks.
"Yes," I reply.
"But he doesn’t have a name?"
"No."
"Why not?"
My mind spins. I can’t say because he might die, so I say, "Because I can't think of one yet. I have to get to know him better."
"Did you wait to name me?" he asks his mother as she moves to leave.
"No. No. When I first held you, you were Cory. You have always been Cory," Laurel says.
"Then I'll name him," says the little boy who has to name everything in order to understand it.
***
Cory balances on the bottom plank of the paddock, alternating from peeking over the middle board and hanging from the top one and ducking under to watch while I try to tend to the gelding.
"Is that medicine?" he asks.
"See how he has this jagged hurt on his rump? It's a burn. And this is medicine that will help it go away," I explain.
Though cross-tied, the gelding is weaving and flinching every time I touch him. I don’t like that he's panting.
"Will the horsey have a scar?" Cory asks.
"Probably," I say. "Like a lightning bolt. All jagged."