by Rebecca Ryan
I swing one leg over and shove my knee into the back of the cushions, my other foot on the floor, my hands on either side of her shoulders. I pull her shirt up, exposing her breasts. Dipping down to kiss her again, my chest just grazes hers and her nipples rise in the light from the fire. Her skin is so smooth, flawless, and every time she shudders, my penis throbs for release.
Slowly, careful not to put too much weight on her, I feel her mound with my penis, and I open her up with my tip.
Her mouth makes a small O and she tosses her head to one side, her elbows catching shadows.
Shifting slightly, I move an arm across and grasp both her wrists in my hand. She has to trust me, has to let go completely now. Most of my weight is on my legs and I gaze down at her body in the orange light.
Still, she doesn’t care.
I lower myself into her, her juice warm and flowing. Then I sink into her, deep, again pelvis to pelvis and we both look, we each see us together. I slowly begin moving, dragging myself out of her and sinking back in, all the while making sure I hardly touch her from above. Having her moaning and writhing beneath me, but positioned high enough to be able to see all of her moving, is such a turn on I feel like I'm going to explode.
And then she comes, wave after wave, her back arching, her body rising finally to meet mine. I sink down once more, this time lying on top of her. Her body is warm and tender and so fresh with sex I'm afraid I’ll come if I pull out. If I move at all. My penis throbs inside her.
And then she kisses me again, and when she turns her hips to the side, I slide out. A gasp comes from my mouth and she grips me hard with a hidden strength, her eyes widened, and she thrusts, once, hard.
I have to let go of her wrists to grip the sofa and stay off her, but she reaches up and pulls me to her. Her fingers rub my nipples, trace my neck, shoulders, arms. And she pulls me down, down on top of her.
All I can do is descend, as wave after wave carries my body into hers.
Chapter Twenty-One
Claire
Over two months have gone by with no near misses, no weird chance meetings in stores, and not one sighting of Steven Miller. There's just been two minor changes to the meter of our days and nights. First, Finn put cameras at both the front door and side doors to the clinic and ran an alarm from my place to The Inn, wired to every possible entry point into the building including the upstairs windows. With the accident fading from memory, I think this is overkill. Most of the time he's at my place anyway and on the nights he's not, we're at The Inn.
The second change has to do with night calls. Now Finn rides with me on each one. I still don’t know how to introduce him and we both have had to get used to the knowing glances from the local farmers when we climb out of the truck together. It seems everyone delights in the fact that I'm dating. They practically tsk tsk me when I slam the tailgate shut.
Connelly James, a sixty-year-old gentleman with one pair of gritty, persistently persevering overalls and a confederate flag dangling like rancid bait from his front porch, drew me aside to tell me, "It's lucky you got yourself a fella now," to which I replied, "Yes, Finn is so lucky to have me."
I have to admit though, it's nice having Finn in the truck, especially out on a chilly night. Holding open gates, bracing with me to pull a calf, cutting thread for stitches, leveraging a stint for a cow with gas, or holding me for a moment after I have to put an animal down. And then we travel home, and I learn more about letting go and finding myself with him.
During the day, he continues to work on The Inn, with Nic and Jackson helping out when they can, especially if a job takes more than one person.
Jackson, younger than the other men, has a naïve quality about him and easy grace. With his large eyes, shock of curly black hair, stubble, and quick grin, he's a charmer. He has most of the teen girls giggling and college co-eds in Echo Bay chatting him up whenever he comes to lend a hand. I found out through Jackson how Nic filed an order requesting the dismissal of Steven Miller's permission to work on the Savvy-T, and pulled some strings to make sure it stuck. Within a week of the accident, Steven Miller could no longer leave the state.
When I probed Jackson more, I found out that Finn and Nic did not trust a little piece of paper. That's why Bryce wasn't coming up to help anymore; he had volunteered for tailing duty.
I felt for Bryce. The reports he filed with Nic were of days filled with the day to day detritus of tailing a man with nothing to lose, no friends, and no ambition. There were altercations in bars, on a bus, and with the next-door neighbor's dog, a Boxer mix. It barked incessantly, and Miller made certain the owner knew how much he hated it.
It took ten days before Finn decided he wanted to see the reports himself.
As May shifted into June, and The Inn really began to take shape, Finn began spending a lot of time on the second floor.
It’s early in June when I skip down the stairs to the basement, with six muffins in a tin, still warm, hoping to find him working out there. He’s not in there, but there’s sound coming from the second room next to his bedroom, this one facing the water. I walk from this bedroom with horsehair plaster walls and warped glass windows with a broken sash into the future.
Finn is standing in a gorgeous, sheet rocked, white room with daylight lamps, a panel of computer monitors, most reflecting back my clinic from various angles, two computers, a shredder, a fax machine, and filing cabinets. On the wall, however, is a framed picture of the Echo Bay lighthouse in the fog.
I wave the muffin tin in the direction of the poster. "This is supposed to be cozy?"
He smiles. "No. This is," he says, taking the muffins from my hand and setting the tin down on his massive desk.
And then, as only Finn can, he places a hand on the back of my neck, draws me in, and kisses me. It isn't just the seasons; something has shifted in him as well, I feel it.
Spring melted into summer and a short heatwave in June meant that local visitors were coming up from Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maine, and even Vermont and Connecticut. I’ve spotted New York and Rhode Island plates as well.
The Inn is looking good. Fresh white paint, barn red shutters, green deck paint, and adorable little accoutrements—mostly picked out by Devon and Laurel. They have a much better sense of what The Inn needs and what looks good.
Devon had installed a brass knocker in the shape of a whale. I scraped old shutters and painted them to hang behind beds like a kind of faux headboard. Cory washed apple crates and left them to dry in the sun and even hammered in the stray nail or two. They would be used as nightstands and bed tables. And Laurel helped with the menu, finding old recipes our mother might have had as well as new, more international and gluten-free versions for a more nuanced palate.
Our mother had a family recipe book that disappeared along with Chloe. My mom and Chloe had worked side-by-side in the kitchen, but Laurel had watched everything they’d done.
Finn has nearly a dozen guests sporadically booked for the last two weeks in June with more on the way. As he’s only opening the first two floors, The Inn won’t run at full capacity, but it’ll be enough for a rehearsal for next year. His plan is to close it after peak season in the fall, mid-October, and then start renovating the third floor.
And yet, he seems to be spending more and more time in the office. He'd get phone calls from Nic, look at me, raise a finger, and then leave whatever room we were in. When he returned, he was often preoccupied.
"What were you talking about?" I’d ask.
"Just a client," he'd say.
Or sometimes, "How to tighten a soft perimeter."
“Design a sting."
"Container sweeps," or "Safe routes to the airport."
This last one made me blurt out, "in Boston?"
To which he mouthed, "Seoul. Korea."
I'm slowly realizing he loves what he used to do and has always loved it. And now, he's doing more of it again. But I think he's torn.
Finn's also falling in love with
Echo Bay. The herb garden is lush and full and he makes sure weeds never take hold over the granite stone.
Yesterday, I hung the picture of Allison up in a small alcove by the front door and helped him write a small description of who she was and the herb garden. I bought a pretty little white frame and printed off the dedication and found an acrylic display to slip it into.
I cried a little when he hung her picture, and he put his arm around me and kissed me. I wished I’d known her. One day, he said, one day he'd show me a video of her, but not yet. He isn't ready.
That's okay. I don’t think I'm ready either.
Laurel had helped him hire several of her friends to run the kitchen, though the decision was made to only offer breakfast this year. Now it's mid-June, and The Inn is about ready to open.
The first set of travelers, a family of four, cancels at the last minute. One of the kids has pink eye and the family is delaying their trip. I find this out while lunging Salty. Cory's little hands hold the lead and Salty trots around the pen as if he's been doing this his whole life. His lines are clean, his hooves are strong. His coat is glossy, and his eyes are always watching us with a soft eagerness to please.
"Oh, that's too bad," I say, noticing how Finn is hardly paying attention. I know he doesn’t need the money, but I thought he was looking forward to hosting his first real guests.
"It's fine. There's another group flying in from Portland next Wednesday," says Finn.
"And it's your birthday party time," interrupts Cory.
I hate my birthday. I never plan to do anything, but Cory's got a weird thing for dates.
Finn just stands there, the blue sky behind him, his face in shadow. "And why don’t I know this?"
I say nothing and kiss the top of Cory's head. It's wonderful he lets us do this now. Then, he drops the lead.
"Cory, what day is Aunt Claire's birthday?" asks Finn.
Cory looks up with bright anticipation doused with a little apprehension. He knows all about birthdays: presents, cake, ice cream, mixed messages, loud children, looks he can't understand, headbanging.
Slipping the halter off Salty I try with, "Oh we don’t need—"
"June twentieth," Cory says, throwing his hand up in the air.
June twentieth. The day Chloe disappeared.
Or, rather, the day we noticed she disappeared.
Geo had everyone get together at Drift End Beach near Tenants Harbor for ice cream and steamed lobster. Fires had been going nearly all day, tended by Devon and Travis, the pyros. Chloe was taking the bus from Portland and I was picking her up in Waldoboro, except she never showed.
Mom and Dad had died the December before and she didn’t have the guts to finish school. According to friends, Chloe bombed her final semester, packed up her car June first, and drove away in a borrowed car.
She just left us.
The bus she was supposed to be on came and went and I sat there for two more hours, using the gas station phone to call Greyhound, convinced she was dead. Her roommates had scattered for summer and no one had phone numbers for them. Geo was out of his mind. Travis left in tears. Laurel practically went catatonic, and it was nearly exactly a year later that Devon had leapt from the bridge.
All we ever learned was that Chloe took off and joined some religious cult in West Virginia led by some asshole with no pupils. That was how her ex-roommate Cheryl described him, anyway. He talked five girls out of not finishing school and took them away to some Jesus camp. And my family was never, ever religious.
So, no. "I don't really celebrate my birthday." I'm hanging up the halter, trying hard not to replay the day nearly a decade ago in real-time.
Finn gently takes the lead from me and coils it expertly, hanging it on the wooden peg. Then he takes an arm and slips it around my waist from behind. "Geo told me what happened that day." He presses his chin to the top of my head, and I resolutely decide not to think about it. "He told me last month when I asked about what to do for your birthday. I knew it was coming up sometime."
"You called him about my birthday?" I ask him.
"He didn't betray you. I never got a date out of him. He just mysteriously said ‘summer.’"
"But you called him?" I ask.
"We text."
"I don’t believe Geo texts." Geo could hardly figure out the remote on his television.
"Well, he's learned. I was in town getting supplies and we chatted about your birthday. He wants to come up tomorrow," Finn says.
"Well, he can come up, but that's it. Just don’t do anything else."
"I'm sorry about Chloe. I figured she was a runaway."
My anger over the years has faded into reticence, or maybe some odd form of resignation. I don’t handle betrayal well. It's another reason I hardly ever date. "She ran away from us. To something else." I pause. "To someone else."
"I want to do something for you. It's important," Finn says.
I try to shrug him off, but he takes another arm and wraps it tight around me. For some reason, a hot lump starts to form deep in my throat. "It's not important. It's just a day."
His voice is quiet, strong, and powered by truth. "Not everyone is lucky enough to have a birthday," he says. "We're doing something special."
I feel his heart thudding against my ear and I turn around to face him, burying my head in his shoulder.
"I want to celebrate life with you. Your life," he whispers, and then, as I lift my chin, he reaches for my face and kisses me so deeply my clit suddenly swells and I'm wet.
I reach up under his T-shirt and pull him to me, feeling his back. The even curve of his spine and the muscle knitted there. And that ever-present heart, beating hard, fast, alive—and for me.
"You like kissing too much," chirrups Cory, who’s been playing in the water bucket. He doesn’t like kissing at all. His version is to stand with his eyes closed and smack his lips.
As we break apart, I think Cory's right. No one should like kissing this much.
"I want to go to the store," Cory says suddenly. The store means home and I feel bad. We must have made him uncomfortable.
"I'll be right back," I say, pulling away.
"I can go myself," he says, looking right at me.
Laurel's been working with him on eye contact, having him look at a picture of a bird and then, she quickly puts down the card and looks him in the eye. It's her own therapy, but I think it's working.
"It's okay," I say, letting go of Finn. "I'll walk you home."
"To the store," Cory corrects me. "I do it myself."
"We’ll stand in the driveway and watch you," says Finn in a voice that's firm and offers no wiggle room.
And with that, Cory waves to the ground, "Bye-bye!" and takes off, running down the driveway to the dirt road.
We follow, watching him cross the asphalt, look both ways, and then cross to the sidewalk.
I have to let go of Finn's hand to call my sister about this new development. If I stand at the end of the road, there's a better chance the call won’t get dropped.
"I'm watching him now,” I say. “He's talking to Cappy."
Laurel's voice is tense. "Okay, but next time, you tell me first. I'm going downstairs now."
Finn and I watch as Cory pulls the big screen door open and a man steps out, then a woman. She says something to him and he responds and points to the bay. The woman fishes around in a paper bag and then hands him a pastry from Weaver's.
My stomach rumbles. Teri Coombs is a baking genius. Despite the promise of a sweet, Cory doesn't know quite what to do, but right then Laurel steps out and talks to the woman for a moment and then waves to us. Taking Cory's other hand, they disappear, and the woman crosses the street to head toward the pier.
"Was she pissed?" Finn asks, but he's still looking at the woman making her way back to the pier. There's a puzzled look on his face.
"A little," I say as we turn to go back to the clinic. "But every step is scary for her. People say she's a control freak
, but parents have to be. There's so much you can't control." I instantly realize this is the wrong thing to say to Finn.
But his attention is back on me and he just slips an arm around my waist and nuzzles my hair. "I think you need food."
"I need you more," I say.
I don’t care if the Burkes are looking out their window. Finn tastes so good in the outdoors, in the sunlight, his face against mine, his arms around me, his stubble against my face.
We're back to kissing.
***
Finn leaves that Friday afternoon for Rockland to get more sheetrock screws, a new battery for the electric drill, and to pick up a drywall lift on rental from the hardware shop.
Floors one and two do not need new ceilings, but the rooms on the third floor definitely all need new sheetrock. Plaster had fallen in places or was buckling, and he and Jackson had ripped nearly all the plaster out. Without the family coming, Finn now has three days to work on it. Nic is due within the hour and slotted to spend the entire weekend.
I think of Bryce sitting somewhere in a car, or by a window across the street, relieving himself with a pee bottle. This is information I never thought I would know: the underbelly and unromantic stories of surveillance operations.
The reports Bryce sends are of watching Miller walk all over the city, smoke weed and cigarettes, get into bar fights, and yell a lot at that barking boxer next door. The dog would bark at anything, day or night, and it drove Miller nuts. But Bryce is vigilant and sends daily reports to Nic, who then passes them to Finn on a need to know basis.
This last month, there had been no need to know anything.
Readying for my ten o'clock, an elderly sick lab/boxer mix named Althea with an abscessed anal gland, I set out a heavy surgical blanket, grab a half dozen forceps from the autoclave, a curved swaged needle, thread, antibacterial sutures, a fifteen-milligram syringe of succinylcholine to get her under, an IV, calibration for the oxygen/nitrous oxide/Sevoflurane-anesthesia mix, intubation paraphernalia and, finally, a bag valve mask just in case the ventilator malfunctions. I can at least hand pump air into her if things go south. The patient is a referral from a vet in New York and the last thing I need is a lawsuit from a disgruntled flatlander.