by Rebecca Ryan
Where am I?
Finn's bed. I roll again, onto my stomach, and watch him sleep. He's healed enough to lie fully on his back now and one hand drags across his chest as he moves. I run a hand through that thick burl of dark wavy hair and his eyes open. The same color as the sea.
"Sleep well?" he asks and before I can answer, he's pulled me to him—hip to hip—and his penis swells swiftly between my legs.
Gently, throbbing against my hood, my sex is already slippery. I can feel heat oozing as he gently slides into me.
"I waited all night for this," he murmurs into my hair.
I let out a gasp as he fills me up. We lie there on our sides, facing each other, and he begins to move his hips. Slowing, I grip him with my sex.
"You're so soft," he whispers in my ear.
"It’s because you oiled me up last night," I try to explain, but he covers my mouth with his, and then I feel him up high inside me, moving, and my nipples harden.
With my head buried in his neck, his arms around me, him inside me, we stay like this for a long, long time.
I have never, ever, in my life felt so loved. A tiny piece of my heart tears open, and it reflects back.
I have never felt love like this for someone.
And it scares the shit out of me.
***
I am proud of myself, though. I don’t actually run out of The Inn after a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast. No. I act like an adult in a relationship and stay behind, do the dishes, kiss him several times, and then wander back to the clinic with the promise that I’ll come back over in the evening once my last appointment is over.
And this is how we spend the next several months.
I start to allow myself to ease into a real relationship, with a man who can turn me into a sloppy, happy mess at a touch, a glance, a gentle kiss, a grin.
I begin to learn to let go of control, to just let things happen. I begin to learn that control is an illusion. There is so much we can’t control, and despite the cliché that we can only control our reactions, I’ve learned in bed that that's not really true either.
I become used to letting go, of commanding a situation when I want to—not because I have to out of fear of not being in control. I know I can have him hard in seconds, every muscle tight, aching for release, and then leave him spent, sweaty, and exhausted in a pile of sheets.
But here's the thing: I learn to enjoy letting go in return. I learn the delicious excitement of not knowing what’s going to happen. The relief of just receiving. Of letting a man see me completely undone. And how that’s not just okay, but that it’s part of being a complete person.
Finn sees me. All of me. The dark and the light, the dirty and the sweet, the needy girl and the self-possessed woman.
I’ve never felt more alive or more loved.
I love Finn Colton.
And a beautiful thing begins to happen. The more deeply we fall in love, the more Allison becomes a part of our lives. Without her, he’d never be here at Echo Bay. Without her, he wouldn’t be the man that he is. And so, instead of pain sifting under the surface of maintaining some semblance of a life, Finn begins to really live.
His pain for her loss could completely transform to a sweet love again, like a melodic memory that wove its way in our lives and brought us even closer.
His letting go is different than mine, and his learning to be vulnerable takes a different shape, but we both learn from each other. The only thing he can’t bear to bring up is the week of their murders. He never mentions his unborn son.
I get to know Bryce and Nic a little better too when they come to help out on larger projects, mostly indoors now that the weather has edged into constant snow. From insulation to bookshelves to copper and brickwork, Finn would work on his own. The weekends, are for the three musketeers. I enjoy running sandwiches and beer to them and they’re always so grateful. On Saturdays, Finn fires up the grill and Bryce cooks tuna steaks or swordfish and Nic, somehow, always manages to pull out some fancy cheese tray with soft and hard cheeses, Asian salads, peanut noodles, and extravagant desserts. I begin to tease him about moving up here and becoming Finn's chef.
Everything he learned, he said he learned from Finn.
I love Saturdays. I love them because I get to see Finn with his friends. Over the ensuing month, I watch as his reserve around them becomes porous and his happiness shines through.
The first time Bryce catches us kissing on the back porch, Finn smiles, pulls me close, and kisses me again.
That night, Nic picks up a guitar, and with a fire popping in the fireplace in the parlor, he and Bryce sing a funny, raunchy limerick about a man who falls in love and wakes to find himself a three-legged man.
Bryce, it turns out, is pure Irish.
***
Finn becomes a fixture not only at my place, but also at Devon's and Laurel's apartment. As Christmas approaches, Finn is frustrated he can’t offer us The Inn, but the large front room is completely torn up with lathing and horsehair plaster everywhere.
And though I don’t want to tell him this, it would be weird for us to be back in that Inn over the holidays.
When Laurel and Devon decide to host, dinner proves sweet and short with one cheesecake and just us—Devon, Laurel, Cory, Travis, me, and Finn. I nudge him once about leaving to visit family, but he never speaks about family, so I drop it.
He fits right in. He jokes with Laurel and Devon and talks philosophy with Travis and though it takes a little longer, even Travis thaws and sees Finn the way I do—as a good man.
It’s enough for now. My sisters and brother like my boyfriend. Just the idea that I have a boyfriend seems surreal.
We open gifts on Christmas morning. My present to Finn is a nice tie and a handmade card for a dinner date at the fanciest restaurant in Camden, the Tibador, which overlooks the water and the islands. His gift to me is a pair of delicate gold earrings—simple hoops with a tiny gold disc dangling at the bottom. His tiny card with the watercolor pencil chickadee sticks out from the small box. Two short sentences, written in his architect-all-caps way, makes me cry: I loved Allison for the memories of the past we shared. I love you, now, today and always, for the memories of a future we will make together.
I love Finn Colton.
Nothing—nothing—is going to ever change this.
Then spring comes.
Chapter Eighteen
Finn
Spring came in short waves, buoyed by warm tendrils of air, the call of tired Juncos, and the sudden energy of the gulls. I’m amazed at my life right now.
It’s Saturday, with a long list of to-dos but I am equally aware of the what-ifs. What-if Allison and I had never come here and she'd never fallen in love with Echo Bay? What if Claire hadn’t returned and opted for a more comfortable and lucrative practice near Boston? What if I hadn’t been such an asshole and fallen? What if she hadn’t come over that afternoon and found me?
What if we never met?
That's the question that makes me splash my face with cold water, grab a towel, and stare at myself in the mirror for a few minutes. Arching my arms above my head, I twist to the right and left to warm up my latts and stretch scar tissue, and then it's down to the basement to the gym to work out.
Though Claire and I have decided to maintain our separate places, we are over at each other's most nights of the week. Wednesday and Friday she's on call for the region, so she kicks me out so I can sleep, but I’m ready to give that up too.
I want her with me all the time. I want her to come to me at night after a call, lift the covers, and wrap her icy legs and feet around me to warm up. The few times it’s happened, when she's had to go out, it’s always been a thrill for me. To feel her tense with cold, then warming, and finally sloppy with heat before she succumbs to sleep. I kiss her as she dreams and I breathe her in.
But I'm also aware I shouldn't ask for too much too soon.
The basement door is thick with a latch about a hund
red years old. Nic and Bryce helped me completely renovate it, from insulation to wallboard to installing a raised shower. Then heating, renovating the laundry area, and finally, converting the last third into a gym.
Nic had hauled the equipment from the storage facility and he and Bryce delivered it right after Thanksgiving. Now, working out is part of my routine, just like it always had been. Every other day, two hours, push-pull/resistance and isometric.
I do love to sweat.
I'm just cleaning off with a towel when the doorbell chimes. Glancing at the clock on the wall, an old battery-operated thing with an eggplant in the middle, I climb the stairs two at a time and though I can’t see anyone standing on the other side, I open the door.
There's no one. Frowning, I start to close the door, but then I see something that makes me catch my breath. It’s a pie box. Small, brown, and square. I can’t feel the cold spring air. It’s hard to focus on the new grass coming up or Salty nickering from next door. Slowly, I take my phone from my back pocket and take a picture. I take several, squatting at one point. Then I walk to the kitchen, tear off a paper towel, and retrieve the box.
My heart hammers hard against my sternum—not from fear, but from rage. The weird thing is, when I take a knife and open the lid with it, and the first thing I see are the cherries, I am almost suddenly and resolutely calm. I know who I’m dealing with.
I take another picture while an ugly idea wiggles its way into my head.
It takes two seconds to check Claire's driveway. Jeep's there.
I call Nic on speed dial, but I get his voicemail. "He's here," is all I say, as I sprint across the expanse that separates the two buildings toward the clinic. I hit the side door at about sixty and careen inside, noting that Claire doesn't lock her doors anymore.
Because of me.
Because of us.
"Claire! Claire!" I'm shouting, racing up the stairs.
She's nowhere.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I see everything. The coffee in the pot, steaming. The fire cold. The pans, wet in the dish drainer. Crumbs on the table. Mug, empty. Book open, face down. The blood in my ears makes it hard to hear, but then, there it is—the sound of the shower.
When I fling open the bathroom door, all I can see is her—completely naked, wet, scared, her eyes wide, mouth open. It takes a split second to determine that she's fine. She's not hurt or dead. She is alive and standing in front of me and then I press her to me, bury my face in her hair, my eyes burning from tears I don’t dare shed.
I've already scared her enough.
"Finn." She pushes away from me, pulling a light blue towel from the rack behind her.
My hands are shaking and I can’t catch my breath.
"Did you run over here half-naked? What's going on?" she asks.
I crouch down for a moment and bite my knuckle. I want to scream and just keep screaming. Then my phone rings. I look at her, rise, and leave her in the bathroom, closing the door tight behind me. I can hear the flutter of her trying to dry off fast.
"That's impossible," is all Nic says.
"It's not. He's been here. He was on my doorstep." I send him the picture of the box and the pie.
"And it didn’t come from the bakery in town or Cod's End?" he asks.
"Fuck no. There's no writing on the box."
"Writing?"
"Logo, the print that says Echo Bay. It’s Miller." Irritation laces my words. I can hear it, but I can't stop it.
"Not possible. He's here in Boston. He meets with his probation officer every Thursday and he doesn’t leave. Bryce is on him like glue, Finn. Miller's here in Boston," Nic says.
"No, he's not."
"I'll call Bryce to trail him again."
"Where does the asshole live?" I ask.
"I'm not telling you, as per your own instructions," he reminds me.
"Where the fuck does he live?"
Nic sighs. "He lives on the south side, close to the shore. We've got his address."
I’m grateful Nic doesn’t tell me not to worry. He knows better.
"What's going on?" Claire asks, coming down the hall. She's dressed in jeans and a light long blue sweater with a white Oxford shirt underneath.
I look at her and then look away. I don’t want to tell her what I’m sure of, but I don’t want to scare her either.
"Here put this on," she says, handing me one of my own flannel shirts.
"Claire, there's something I have to tell you," is how it starts. How I start. How my last days with Allison, which I never talk about, now suddenly become the very thing I have to talk about in every detail.
"I need some coffee," I say, grabbing the empty mug from the coffee table and pouring us both a cup.
I'm so undone, I forget Claire likes half and half in her's so she pulls the small carton from the fridge. "What the hell is going on?" she demands.
I lean against the counter and begin telling the story that unraveled my life, before she came along. That's how I look at it: Before Claire and After Claire. The eras of my life, like my own personal BC and AC. I can’t look at her face, can’t bear to see judgment in her face, knowing she has every right to judge.
"Allison had told me about this really nice guy who was working up the road."
"Finn. Stop. What's happening?"
"This guy was working on a hot tub two miles up the road at the neighbors. The Merkle's. Who were away, actually, in Italy. But I didn't check that out. This guy's car broke down and his cell phone was dead so she let him in to call a tow truck. This was after several days of chatting with him while she weeded the herb garden on the side of our house, so she felt like she knew him."
I pause and then look out the kitchen window. "When she told me that night, I was irritated with her. Rule one is you don't let strange men into the house. Ever. But he left, she told me, and soon a tow truck roared by in the direction of Merkle's so she figured he got his car towed."
"Why are you telling me all this now?" Her voice is quiet.
"The next day, Steven Miller stopped by and dropped off a cherry pie for her as a thank you. He didn't come in and was just leaving it on the stoop when she opened the door. I came home and had dinner. We laughed, watched a movie, and then she brought out the pie. We each ate a slice. I never thought twice about it. Never once did it register. Nothing he did registered."
Claire lets me take my time, because I know she knows how this story ends. We've never talked specifics though.
My voice sounds robotic to my own ears. "The next day, I left for work. I got a call from her around eleven that morning, telling me not to bother coming home for lunch. So, I didn't."
I pause again, and Claire touches my hand.
Folding my arms against my chest, I continue. "Instead, I stayed out after work, late, without checking in, and came home at seven at night on a weekday. She wasn’t anywhere. Nowhere. And then I saw that the chaise lounge by the pool was overturned. And I found her there. In the pool, tangled up—"
"Finn, it wasn't your fault."
"My job was to keep people safe. It’s what I'd been trained to do." I feel a sob start somewhere in the back of my throat. Now I look at Claire, directly at her. "I can’t remember if her voice was strained. If there was something in her voice that should have told me."
Claire cups my face in her hands. "Why is all this so raw today?"
My eyes are stinging now. "The pie was on the counter, open. But she hadn’t eaten any more. It was his calling card. His warning."
A tear falls on the counter and I stare at it for a moment. "I still don’t know if he was there when she called me. She died at two in the afternoon. He could have tormented her verbally for four hours."
Claire still doesn’t have the final piece, the one that will bring all this into sharp focus.
"Someone left a cherry pie on the front porch this morning," I tell her.
The deal was, Claire would go nowhere without me. I was impressed she did not seem
at all frightened. She listened, nodded, and agreed to my terms. She opened the surgery that morning, extracted a tooth, fixed a male cat, and then started seeing patients. I spent my time watching the clinic, the comings and goings of her patients and their owners. At my request, she referred a man with a sick dog to another vet farther inland because he wasn’t anyone she knew.
At the end of the day, she assures me that’ll be the last time she'll do that. “Not so good for business,” she tells me.
Nic sends her a photo of Steven Miller so she knows what he looks like.
Tonight, she's got the window above the sink open. It's a quiet May evening and the sun has decided to set later. Claire offers a backrub while I sit on the edge of the ottoman.
Her hands are strong and I can feel the knots in my shoulders start to melt. At one point she takes her elbows and really digs in. "It's like trying to massage a rock," she says, then kisses me on the nape of the neck.
Tonight, I don't want to make love to her. I just hold her for a long time, staring out the window into the blackness of the night. She moves against me, small struggles as she tries, in her sleep, to set some bed boundaries, but I don't let go.
The next morning at seven, she gets a call from the police chief—Alan Morrison. One of his milking goats is suffering through a difficult delivery.
"I'm going," she says. "And Devon's hitching a ride in with me, so you don’t have to come."
What Claire doesn't tell me is Devon is not riding back with her.
A couple of hours later, two things happen almost simultaneously.
First, my phone rings and it’s Nic. He and Bryce are on speakerphone.
"Miller's there," says Nic.
I feel the ground surge under my feet and I’m nearly lightheaded. "How? How is that possible?"
Bryce's voice, steely and low, breaks in. "'Cause the asshole's working a ship. A boat."
My mind races.
Shit.
Another call beeps through. I don’t recognize it and let it go.
Bryce continues. "Miller works on a boat Friday through Monday or Tuesday and then reports to his parole officer on Thursday."