Love Bound

by Rebecca Ryan

  "Like Harry Potter," he agrees and nods.

  This is all great stuff. The fact that he's asking questions is such a big step.

  "His feet are weird."

  "I have to trim his hooves. They are way overgrown," I say.

  "I can help."

  "Oh no, we aren’t doing that today. He needs to trust us more," I say and then hear the slam of a tailgate behind me.

  I turn around and there's Finn Colton moving some small bundle wrapped in brown paper from the back of his truck to the cabin, on the passenger side. His body looks strong and hard under the black T-shirt and a light breeze kicks it across his chest. He bends over to shove the package under the passenger side and his ass is round and tight in a faded pair of jeans. It's a chilly morning and I can’t believe he's out here without a jacket. He must burn hot, but it's my face that's burning now. I can’t stand that he pushes my buttons this way. Buttons in all those warm, tender places.

  He only glances over when the chocolate horse whinnies, a high thin screechy call of agony that makes Cory jump off the bottom rail.

  Shit.

  Now Finn's coming over.

  I have to keep it together for Cory's sake. He'd be totally confused if he senses I might flip out.

  Finn clears his throat. "We need to start over."

  "Not necessary," I say curtly.

  "I'm Finn Colton," he says, throwing out a hand, and the deep, rich, baritone of his voice rumbles in my sternum, releasing me from myself all the way down to a sweet spot I had nearly forgotten about. He's freshly shaven and his skin, flawless.

  "This is silly," I say.

  "You have to shake his hand," chirps Cory. "It’s the rules."

  I shake his hand. And he does burn hot. His hand is a little rough, big, and very warm. I can’t help but see how his pecs move under his shirt and my panties are wet. Warm and wet.

  Jesus. Get a grip.

  I shift my weight.

  He drops my hand and turns to Cory. "Finn Colton, how do you do?"

  This’ll be interesting.

  Cory's blue eyes widen and then he looks at the ground.

  "You can talk to him," I say. "He's our new neighbor."

  But my nephew goes mute. He sticks out his arm, making no move to go forward. His little hand dangles there.

  "Should I shake your hand?" Finn asks.

  Cory shakes his head "no," and I fold my arms.

  "Okay. Another time then." Finn turns his attention to me and I see in the morning light that his eyes are dark green now. Dark green, gray, a hint of navy blue. Whatever color they are, they’re depthless.

  I shift my weight again.

  "I'll make this quick," he says, turning his head with the stiff breeze to get some hair out of his eyes. I watch his neck move.

  Oh my God, he is gorgeous.

  "Please do," I say, regretting it. This is the kind of mixed message that sets Cory off.

  He lowers his voice. "First, I didn’t know you had a child."

  "Cory is my nephew."

  This seems to set him back for some reason. He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, "Okay. Well, whatever. I’m not a developer."

  "Look, this is my land, my building. It’s the only building I've ever practiced in. I'm not selling."

  He wipes his face with a hand, and I see for a moment how tired his eyes are. I fight a sudden groundswell of sympathy.

  "Can’t we come to some solution? If we get our attorneys involved in this, it’ll be a nightmare," he says.

  Is this some threat? I’m sure he can tell by the peeling paint on the Russo's Veterinary Clinic sign that I can’t afford an attorney for long.

  "How about you keep the clinic?" Now he shifts, and the sun is right in my eyes.

  I put up a hand to shield the glare. "Isn’t that the status quo right now?"

  "You keep the clinic and I buy the three acres of shoreline."

  For a fleeting moment, I admit to a vision of new paint, glossy steel equipment, an MRI and sonogram machines, maybe even a rotating surgical table. But then I see a row of condos or vacation cabins or an apartment with a dozen tenants all styled in faux New England architecture, sucking resources, wastewater runoff, and half the people in town unable to afford their houses because property values have soared.

  "It’s not for sale," I say.

  He takes a step closer to me, and I suddenly sense his weight, his height. With the sun in my eyes and his back to it, I can't make out the features of his face. All I hear is his voice, ringing with subtle threat.

  "This is all built on granite, right?" he asks.

  My stomach lurches. He wouldn't. He wouldn't dare.

  "I think, the building is out of code. Something to do with setbacks?" he adds.

  "I think we're done here," I say, just as a red Corolla pulls up. That would be my ten o'clock. Golden retriever boxer mix, third set of shots. A happy visit.

  "It’s built on a granite shelf," says Cory suddenly.

  "Cory, let’s go help a puppy not get sick," I say, waiting for him to turn around and trot inside. I practically will him to go, but I don’t dare touch him.

  "Puppy?" He looks at the car, making the connection.

  I need to remember to tell Laurel he just did this. "A little tiny puppy who needs his shots."

  "It will hurt him," says Cory with the assurance of one who’s also been stabbed with a needle.

  "Maybe," I say.

  "No, it will," says Finn, and Cory looks wide-eyed again. "So, he'll need you to make him feel better."

  At this, Cory's face, always so stern and serious, suddenly lightens and he smiles—swiftly, fleetingly—and skips a little as he heads toward the back door.

  I could kill Finn Colton.

  Chapter Four

  Finn

  First thing this morning, I saw Claire Russo walking down the little trail between our houses in a wetsuit, tying her hair up in a ponytail. I didn’t want to watch, but her process proved riveting. No dancing around, no testing the waters. Just a fearless, mindful striding into sea froth until the water was up to her thighs before she dove in. Though I left the window, ten minutes later I saw her cutting a dark figure in the water, swimming away from the pier and the town.

  An hour later, I could see her again, this time from the bathroom window, while I rinsed the blade in the sink. She was treating some poor horse, clearly abused, its hooves overgrown and all curled up. I leaned over to take a closer look and then backed away when she glanced up to the window. When the little boy stepped out I felt a twinge of guilt.

  I didn’t know she was a mother.

  I was prepared to offer her twice what the property was worth, though. I had nothing to be guilty about.

  It wasn't until I was out by the truck and the horse whinnied that I realized I needed to make amends. But my whole let's-start-over thing never really flew. The boy was cute too, with his decorum and rules and getting all shy when I tried to follow them.

  I hated that I hit her with the setback. And the bedrock. Technically, the building is fine. It's a nonconforming structure for a nonconforming use. At least that's what my attorney said. But he also added: "You can always fight her and by the looks of things, she doesn’t have much to wrangle with."

  For a beat, I have second thoughts as I watch Claire make a determined trek back into the house.

  Clinic?

  It needs to look like a clinic.

  Is it worth it?

  The answer, of course, is yes. Allison is worth everything.

  Just as I turn around, a Lexus pulls up, the paint a deep navy blue, the sunroof down, and music—the faint call of Eric Clapton—welling from inside.

  I dig my hands into my pockets and trudge up the little embankment back to the driveway.

  A man climbs out from behind all that tinted glass and starts passing judgment on The Inn. "Shit. You're in thick, my friend."

  "You mean deep. Thanks, I think," I say.

  Nic Silvano
slides off his Ray-Bans and really looks at the building. "Jesus, it needs a ton of work."

  I dig my hands in my pockets even deeper. "Yep."

  He sighs. For a tall, lanky Italian, he carries himself very reservedly. He does not emote. "Listen. I'm—we're all worried about you."

  "Don't."

  "You leave and you move up here and you won’t answer phone calls."

  "Yours," I say.

  "I’m not the bad guy."

  "Look. If you're here to yell at me let's get it over with. I bought the place. I left you the business. I've been telling you for a year I was going to do this." I move to the front door and he follows me up the granite stone steps. I can feel him behind me and he catches the screen door. I make a mental note to look for the storm door in the cellar and swap it out.

  "Leaving me the business means letting me buy you out. You can’t just hand it over," he says.

  "I did."

  "I won’t accept it."

  "You don’t have a choice," I tell him.

  "It’s got your name on it for Christ’s sake. Colton Security Systems."

  "So change it. I can see it now." I smear an imaginary marquee. "Silvano Security." I pause and then, "See? Easy."

  "Where are you going?"

  "Upstairs. There's a leak in one of the bathrooms."

  "I bet there's more than one leak," he says.

  I'm halfway up the stairs before I hear him add, "She's not coming back, Finn. Let her go."

  My whole body stiffens. I know this. She's never coming back. The dead only tear holes in your heart. Its amazing mine can still beat, tattered edges of muscle trying to pump life. "I'm not talking about this."

  ***

  Nic sits on the toilet seat, handing me tools.

  I'm on the floor, shirt wet, the trap having cracked and broken off at the same time the shut off valve came off in my hand. There's a mound of old sodden towels tossed in the clawfoot tub and I'm wiping water out of my left eye while lying on my back.

  Nic, of course, has managed to not only stay dry, but clean, and not one straight black hair is out of place. He doesn’t even use hair product. "I didn’t just come up here to berate you."

  "I know. Plumber's tape," I say. As he hands me the small, white roll, I can almost feel his worry. "Just about done here. And you can head on back to Boston proper."

  "Shit. That hurts. Look, I'm not taking half the biz. I hashed it out with the attorneys— "

  "Phil and Vin? Good God." I stick my head out from under the sink. "Why did you involve them?"

  "We're talking millions here. I'm not doing it. When you get your mind back you're going to regret this. You'll be a nonparticipating partner in the meantime."

  "No, I'm not."

  "As of yesterday, you are," he says.

  Damn. He just doesn’t get it. My oldest friend and he doesn’t get it.

  "You'll get quarterly deposits. What you do with the money is up to you," he says.

  "I won't work there. I won’t be at meetings. I won’t be running cases, won’t be functioning." The moment I say the last one, I know it’s a mistake.

  "Well, that's clear."

  I sit up, my T-shirt clinging to my back and my ass completely drenched. "I want to do this. I want to be here. It was her favorite place, and she always talked about it. I want to develop a park next door for families who have lost their children. I need to be here for a while." I stop. "I'm not thinking about it, you know. I told you, I'm past that."

  How I got past wanting to end my life, an idea that devoured me, reverberated, claimed me like an unhinged obsession for the first six months after she died, I still don’t know. Something just shifted inside me. The harm it would cause others—my mom, my younger sister, my friends, Nic.

  "There's something else you should know," he says as I duck back under to screw in the new valve.

  "Yeah?"

  "Steven Miller is being released next month."

  The blood drains from my arms and they feel suddenly heavy. I crack my forehead on the way out from under the sink when I sit up too fast and say, "Are you shitting me? He's served nothing—no time."

  "He's getting out on good behavior," Nic says.

  "He's a fucking sociopath."

  "Court psychologist thinks otherwise."

  I feel a hard lump form in the back of my throat and it gets coated in bile.

  Nic's hand comes down on my shoulder. "Listen, I know we couldn’t prove it, but he's out now and he'll have me breathing down his neck."

  "It doesn’t matter," I say.

  "It doesn’t matter? He's insane. He's going to go after somebody else. I'm convinced Allision wasn't his first."

  "He's robbed me of my life. It's what he said he was going to do and he did it."

  "Allison wouldn’t want you to be doing this. It's been two years," Nic says.

  "I know how long it's been."

  ***

  Nic ended up staying for hours. He actually got dirty, wet, and had a beer, clad in my clothes and my old pair of sneakers. His purple Hobart tie and his Zegna suit hung pristinely dark blue on a plastic hanger in his equally pristinely blue car. He always pointed out how the Zegnas were a gift from a client. I’d point out that he didn’t have to wear them.

  "Someone's got to show off," he'd answer.

  We cart crap out of the cellar all day. Two old washing machines, a brine barrel, boxes and boxes of broken dishes, one moldy box of stuffed animals, Legos, puzzles and word games that have all transmuted to digital. Then there was a countless stream of fans, rusted out window air conditioners, tools, gears, empty gas cans, broken lounge chairs, three broken canoes, and just shit.

  I finally told him to get lost and to head back, that I wasn't putting him up at my inn. Not yet anyway. I left after that, the truck loaded with trash, and headed off to the dump. One local guy, about a thousand years, old told me to turn left at the church, wind around for four miles inland, and watch for the seagulls—couldn’t miss it.

  I didn’t have the patience to explain to him that he had no idea what I could miss.

  Two years ago, I came home from a job, walked through the back door to the deck, and found my wife at the bottom of the pool—a hose wrapped around her neck, her arms, her swollen abdomen.

  “Accident,” they said.

  She tripped and fell and got caught in the hose.

  Allison was eight months pregnant.

  Steven Miller worked our neighbor's hot tub installation site a half-mile down the road. Allison had told me about him. How his truck broke down right at our curb, how they seemed to hit it off. How he helped her with grocery bags into the house. How she fed him sandwiches and a beer on Monday. She and our son, Kenny—still curled inside his momma—were dead two weeks later.

  Finn Colton, the bodyguard of celebrities, the architect of one of the safest panic rooms in North America, the guy who spent his whole life anticipating next moves, had never seen Steven Miller coming.

  I couldn’t protect my own family. And then we couldn't get a case. All circumstantial.

  What a shithole life.

  Chapter Five

  Claire

  Cory was great during the three hours I had him and his transition going back home with Teresa proved smooth. He was having a good day.

  I had a dewclaw on a Doberman litter, which I hate doing, snipping off the claws into a tiny, bloody pile of hard, curled C’s, and two well visits. One was for Mr. Pomfrey's purebred eight-month-old Cairn terrier, a blue-ribboned, bright-eyed eager little pup named Sheila—who Pomfrey doted on and fretted over as if she was his daughter. She was adorable. He was like the captain from The Sound of Music, all whistleblowing, clicker-obsessed, and stern-faced but with a gooey mess of love in the middle.

  The second well visit was for Mrs. Kleinman's cat, a huge fifteen-pound aging orange Tabby named Orville, who, despite mats, a poor appetite, abscesses, and lost teeth, clung to life like he was on a sinking ship. She fed him mini-ma
rshmallows.

  I worked with the gelding for an hour in the afternoon, just standing with him—following close, but not too close—and having him get used to my touch, my sound, my smell. He was feeling better; I could tell because he was more skittish. When he’d arrived, he was so shell-shocked, he didn’t care enough about what I did to him. Now he’s recovered enough to feel fear. Careful not to come up in his blind spot, front-on, I always approached from the side. But every time I’d touch him, he’d sidestep away. I’m desperate to trim those hooves, knowing he’ll feel so much better once he can move naturally.

  The evening sky is in red and orange ribbons behind Chevre Mountain when I decide to go out and grain him. I mix two tablespoons of lecithin and one of molasses to entice him to nibble. I'm concerned his teeth are in terrible shape, but I can’t float them safely yet if he doesn’t trust me. All I can see in the depths of the stable are the whites of his eyes and the velvet of his muzzle—a lighter shade of chocolate.

  Done, I leave, still not thinking I'm ready to name him. The spats of phlegm in the straw tell me he’s still clearing his lungs. I walk along the tufts of spent sea poppies, down the little sandy trail framed by low blueberry bushes. We five would pick them with Mom for pancakes for guests. Whatever was leftover, we would eat.

  Wrapping my thick white and blue Starsky sweater around me, I wander out to the sand and water. The shore is protected by the little bay, and the waves—usually non-existent—create a lyrical wash of water coming in ripples on the rocky shore. Teeter-tottering my feet out of my shit kickers, I roll up my jeans to just below the knee and step into the water. It always takes my breath away, the cold, the icy cold water, even in summer. Devon and Travis were the only two who really enjoyed swimming up at Drift-In Beach, a yawning "U" of fine sand fringed with rock, sea poppies, and evergreens a mile up from the docks. Even at low tide, they'd run screaming into the water, thigh-high, and dive head-first into the blue melted ice.

  I nearly get a headache thinking about it. I hate cold water. My dream is a hot tub. Despite this aversion to the North Atlantic cold, I swim nearly every morning heavily done up in a neoprene wetsuit I've had since college. The trick is to take a hot shower first, then zip up and wait a few minutes so the water trapped inside gets to body temperature. Winter is my off-season, and it lasts a long time, but come early May, I start swimming again and can usually plunge in until October. Devon thought it was out of character for me to swim like this until she discovered I don't go out very far. If I get a cramp I can just trudge through the water back to shore. Though I started doing this in middle school, I could never get any of my siblings to join me.