by Rebecca Ryan
I’m shaking—and I let go.
Catching me with his arm, he settles us on the bottom step, me on top of him. I can feel his erection. He slides his finger from my vagina. His bottoms are off, and he's got me by the shoulders, slowly lowering me onto him.
His skin glistens, wet with sweat and water and excitement. His dark hair curls around his ears and forehead, his chest slick. When he begins to enter me, he gasps, and I practically come right there.
We are weightless.
He thrusts up and pulls me down onto his shaft and in that one moment I come, wave after wave after wave, over and over. I arch back so hard he catches me, holding my head above the water. His head is buried in my damp neck as he comes as well, his body convulsing, not letting me go. He holds me to him, pressing me into him. I feel him quiver inside me as his orgasm finishes.
We sit in the hot tub for a long time, unmoving. My arms are hooked over his neck, my face on his chest. Slowly, I feel him slip out of me and I give him a goodbye squeeze. I try to speak, to tell him what he means to me, but he puts a finger to my lips.
Then he sits me up and massages each arm, using both the jets and his fingers, kneading along the biceps, deltoids, triceps, forearms. Then come the hand massages, each finger stroked, the palms of my hands stretched and kneaded.
"Oh, Finn," I say, finally limp. Leaning forward, I hook my arms back around his neck. I can’t even stand properly, and he’s on his knees.
What if . . .
What if I drowned? If I never met him? If he hadn’t come?
I finally start crying. Not just weeping, full-on sobbing.
He wipes my face, kisses me, steam and tears mixing enough for him to have to wipe my face a few more times. I lay a forearm against his bare chest, his skin smooth and his chest hair tickling my wrist—an intoxicating juxtaposition. My fingers sit on the slope of his collar bone, and I feel his heart thudding hard.
Then, he kisses me so deeply, so profoundly, clutching me to him in a sudden rush of love, that I well up again. "I love you, Claire Russo. Always and forever."
I swallow and try to steady my voice. "I love you, Finn Colton. Always and forever."
He kisses me once more.
***
It's been three weeks, now. I've gone from wobbly and sore to able to get to the Jeep and back. I dress, see a few clients, and was in surgery this morning with a cat who needed neutering.
It's taken longer than I thought it would to reenter the world.
Finn even let me make him breakfast this morning before we headed out to the hospital for my final chest X-ray. And he worked out yesterday while I was at the clinic. Progress for both of us. Except I’m starting to feel rather doughy.
We're sitting on the top steps of the back porch, looking out at the ocean.
"You know, I think I might take up running. I could go with Devon," I tell him.
He says nothing and glances at me.
My wet suit is somewhere in my closet at the clinic. I know he thinks I need to get back to swimming, but I've even had to let another vet take the cases out on boats. It's mid-summer and I'm not earning much money, but I won’t step foot in a boat. I just can’t do it. And I'm certainly not swimming in the sea by myself.
He changes the subject, reading a text from Laurel and relaying her question. "Anything else you need from the store?"
"Nope. Just you."
He pretends to text this back, and I throw a tiny clamshell at him.
Smiling, he tucks the phone back in his pocket. "I know one thing you need at the store."
Clueless, I shrug. "Coffee?"
He shakes his head. "I've been thinking about that imaging machine."
"You are not buying that for me. It’s too much."
He leans against me for a moment. "It's not too much."
"Besides, you built a hot tub." We've had several evenings in the tub, including one sleepless night when we were both restless. And one great, wet, sloppy, funny, and sexy morning. "That's plenty."
"That's for The Inn. You just get to come and play in it." He pauses then stands and extends a hand to pull me up "Okay. I actually have another idea. It would be all your money."
Oh my god. He still wants to buy the land from me.
"And it’s not the land. Good grief, can I read you or what?" he says.
Yes. You can.
Grinning, he grabs my hand and hauls me to my feet. "Ready for a little hike?"
"I have to get my shoes first."
***
We take off down the little dirt road in the direction of the forest, not the town. In a quarter of a mile, Finn breaks us off onto a thin trail.
"This is going to be buggy," he says batting at a mosquito.
"And probably full of ticks," I add.
"Not helpful."
I should have brought spray. I knew better; he didn’t.
"Where are we going?" I ask, noticing that the trail has been hacked back—and not by deer. I'm looking at someone's handiwork as we make our way through the woods. Someone with a pair of nippers.
"Devon and Laurel keep telling me about this Christmas tree plot back here."
I stop. "It’s a mess. It's just a mess."
He turns and takes my hand again. "Come on."
I remain standing in place. "I haven’t been out here since my mom and dad died. That was the year we finished planting all of them."
"I know. Do you know how many trees you can plant on an acre?"
I do. "One thousand and seven."
He stares at me.
I shrug. "That was Travis's seven."
"Speedy guy. That's all he managed to plant?"
"He was like ten."
Finn picks up his question again. "No. I mean, do you know how many you could plant?"
Again, my shoulders hitch up. "I have no idea."
"Fifteen hundred."
"Good God." I can see more sunlight filtering up ahead and realize we must be closer to the field of trees. It seemed much farther away a decade and a half ago. I guess I'd been dealing with Travis and the bugs.
"Look," he says and I'm staring at a pretty tidy field of somewhat straight rows of Christmas trees.
Someone’s trimmed them up, making them ready for harvest.
I look at him. "I don’t understand. Did you do this? How did you do this?"
"Ralph Burke did. All these years, he and Geo have been coming out here and trimming trees."
"Oh my god." I grab his hand. "And you think—"
"No, I know. These have been growing for over a decade. Not all of them are Christmas worthy, but even if you lost five percent, that's still a lot of trees. Some of them are over twelve feet high. You have at least fifty of them over twenty."
"Yeah, my dad planted some years before," I explain.
"After costs, you are sitting on a chunk of money. Lots of nest eggs."
I swallow. "How many eggs?"
He grins again and then turns to the crop of trees. "About ninety thousand eggs."
"Are you kidding me?"
I lean hard against a fir tree—a real fir tree, not one from the crop. "Well, I’d have to get a crew in here, and people and trucks, then find a buyer. I mean—"
"Done."
"What do you mean?"
He rubs his hands together. "As the kids say, 'I hooked you up.'" He pauses a moment and spreads his hands. "I mean, it's your call—your family's call. This way you can be self-sufficient. You get your imaging machine and whatever else you need and give the clinic a makeover."
"Or pay off some of Travis's school debt," I muse.
Finn catches my eye and tucks his hands in his back pockets.
"What? What have you done?" I ask.
"That's taken care of already."
My mouth opens, but he doesn’t give me a chance to interrupt him.
"I talked to Devon and Laurel and then I approached Travis." He holds up a hand. "You can complain all you want, but these are not going to be
your bills. They're his. This way, his school debt is erased, and his next three years are taken care of."
I try to interject, but he holds his hand up even higher. "Listen, it's his life, not yours. And I wanted to do it."
I'm surprised, but more than that I'm shocked by Devon and Laurel going behind my back, not even discussing this with me. And then I soften. I always complain that I have to do everything. Maybe I don’t. Letting go is a part of that. I am already indebted to this man. For my life. Why does it matter that decisions are made without me? I don’t have all the answers anyway. And that's okay.
"If you thought you were going to pay it off yourself, well, you can take some of this money you're going to make—about twenty grand after you split it with the amazing Russos—and then help me plant a memorial garden here. And we can regrow a patch of trees for some other rainy day."
The garden.
He means his garden for families.
Suddenly, I could see it all. Rolling grass, wildflowers, hostas, ferns, bee balm, black-eyed Susans, lupines, a crop of sunflowers. Lilacs in spring and nasturtiums in the summer. Granite benches, little shrines. A place for siblings to come and play and build stone cairns. A place to remember those little ones who are gone.
I push off from the tree, step forward, and hug him. I hold him gently, this man with all these ideas.
But on the way back, something bothers me about the math.
***
We trudge back along the narrow trail, hand in hand, except where the trail narrows, back to the little road with the strip of green running down the middle. We start to pass the clinic when I realize Cory is standing in the driveway holding something.
Unlike most kids who jump up and down when they’re excited, or dance around, Cory squeals, sounding like a seal as he flaps his hands. But you never know why. It could be because he's cut himself, or that he has a new Lego kit. It's called "stimming" and it's what Cory does sometimes when he's excited or stressed.
Right now, he glances over at us, swivels his curly head toward The Inn, and runs up the porch steps, squealing. Then the hand flapping starts, like a bird. Laurel's tried to work with him on this, so kids don’t make fun of him in school.
"Cory! My man," calls Finn, jogging the last few yards and bounding up the steps.
Cory holds out his hand for a shake but doesn't look at Finn.
I don’t know how Laurel does it. And I think again: For every step forward there are three steps back. Something has set him off.
"Do we need to go inside?" asks Finn.
Cory grabs my hand and keeps flapping the other.
Finn glances at me and shrugs. "He seems excited."
Or nervous. "Where's Mommy?" I ask, suddenly scared. This is not normal. He shouldn't be here all alone. "Auntie Devon?"
But Cory just pulls me toward the door.
Finn lifts the door handle and we enter.
The first thing I smell is sugary carrot cake. My favorite. A flurry starts in my stomach. "Wait a minute," I say, pulling back, but Cory is relentless, with his hand flapping away, and I laugh.
From behind, Finn puts his hands on my shoulders and semi-pushes me into the dining area.
There's a white shelf paper banner with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CLAIRE-DARE” written in bright markers, and hand-drawn pictures of balloons, hearts, fireworks, and presents.
But it's the people in the room that I focus on. There are so many of them—enough for Cory to hide from.
Maybe it is really one step forward, another step forward, and we just don’t see the context necessary to assess progress.
There's Ralph and Emily Burke, Devon, Laurel, Travis, Nic, Bryce, Jackson, Molly with a horse T-shirt on, Brighty, and Geo. All the people who love me among the memory of people who once loved me, now gone.
Finn squeezes my shoulders and comes around, pointing to the center table already laden with party bags, a few gift boxes, and a cake. A stack of plates is off to one side, a tumble of forks and stash of napkins sitting picnic-style next to the cake.
Cory drops my hand and shouts, "Happy Birfday!"
Finn turns and smiles. "You never got one. So, this is your year and a month birthday. To the day."
Everyone starts talking at once and comes over to hug me. There's the singing of the celebratory happy birthday song which is mildly embarrassing, and Laurel assumes the position of cake slicer.
I insist on being last. While everyone is milling around, I enjoy watching Ralph talk with Jackson about lobstering—two men I never would have guessed to have anything in common.
Then, Devon comes over to sit across from me at one of the square tables. Her smile is swift, troubled, and I’m in no mood for trying to figure out what's wrong.
I take a stab of the cake. And then I stop, savoring the mouthful. It's our mother's recipe. With zucchini and carrots, no nuts, cream cheese frosting with a shot of double vanilla. I would know that cake anywhere. It’s from the family recipe book. My mom's book. Our book.
"There's something I have to tell you, but you have to promise not to get mad," Devon says.
"Devon, nothing could make me mad at you. I don’t get mad." I pause. "I get hurt. And I get scared."
"You were mad that day on the bridge."
"I was scared shitless. I thought you were trying to kill yourself," I admit.
"Why would I do that? See, you didn't trust me."
I can see old wounds reopening. Not today.
Not today.
I catch Finn’s grin and wave from across the room. He seems extraordinarily pleased with himself for pulling off a surprise party.
She looks away for a moment, and then back. "I love you, Claire. No matter what happens, I want you to know I love you probably more than you'll ever know."
Now she’s scaring me. All the ongoing background conversations seem to turn into a wash of white noise. I set down my fork. "What's wrong?"
She wipes her hands on her bare legs and looks down at her fingers. "Nothing." She sighs, taking a handful of her straight black hair before flipping it over her shoulder. "Just look at these, and don’t judge. Just be open." Slowly, she fishes envelopes out of both her back pockets and unfolds them on the table.
I can see paper inside. Notes. Letters.
She releases a shaky sigh. "They’re from Chloe."
Chloe. Our big sister. The one who was supposed to do it all. To protect us, save us, love us and be there.
The one who left three months after Mom and Dad were killed.
That Chloe.
Blood drains from my face, my ears ringing, and I can see Devon's hands tremble as she lifts the letters from the envelopes. I try to be rational. I try to be fair. But I'm not sure I can be either, so I swallow. "So that's how Laurel got the recipe for the cake? From her?"
Devon catches Laurel's eye.
Moments later, Laurel's standing next to me. Her voice is soft. "So, she knows?"
Instead of answering, Devon starts talking in layers with Laurel and it's almost a verbal dance.
"We didn't want to tell you."
"Not right away."
"We know how mad you are at her."
"We know how hard you had to work."
"We know you sacrificed to keep us all together."
"But don’t blame her."
"Don't blame her."
"I would never blame her," I say, and with that, a huge black ugly weight is lifted from both my conscience and my chest. "I would never blame her. I love her too. I'm just sorry we weren't enough. That we couldn't give her what she needed." I pause. "That she had to run away."
Laurel leans down and takes my hand. Hers is soft and warm, and then Devon takes my other one and I see Finn watching me carefully. We are on our way to somewhere and my heart is happy.
As the three of us walk by Travis, he gives me a peck on the cheek and whispers, “Happy birthday,” in my ear.
What is this?
But I think I know.
By the time we make it into the kitchen, I'm almost sure.
And as I round the corner, I see her.
Chloe's sitting at the small metal prep table, looking just as she did when she left. Willowy. Taller than all of us girls. Thinner. Her hair tousled. Her face etched with a vertical line between her eyebrows. And she's tan.
When she left us, she was a college student indoors three seasons and an Inn helper in the summer. She never stepped outside.
Clearly, she's been out in the elements for a long time.
I take all of this in.
Chloe starts to stand, and I see everything in detail. Dark, cold coffee in a sweating glass with muted ice cubes. Sunlight streaming in from the open window on her thick, long, brown, wavy hair, her face both tearful and full of love.
And I think I'm prepared.
But I'm not.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Finn
It's late, or early, depending on how you chart three in the morning. Those Russo's have stamina.
When Claire had emerged from the kitchen and everyone clapped, Travis came sliding over in socks and grabbed both his oldest sisters around the waists, trying to dance with them. Conversation erupted, louder and longer, and the afternoon waned into the evening, with people taking turns in the hot tub. Geo, in particular, loved it. He kept dipping in every fifteen minutes for another fifteen minutes. For nearly three hours.
"As I grow old, I love heat," he said, stretching out his legs.
Old my ass. The guy is jacked.
We played charades and word games, and once Cory had fallen asleep on the loveseat in the parlor, Geo cranked up the music on shuffle and we danced to jazz and rocky blues with a hint of '80s rock. There was some moaning from everyone, but they all loved it. Nic danced with Emily, and she was flushed by the time they left. Bryce danced with Chloe, twice, and I gave him a warning look. He never dances. He says his thighs are too thick. Then Nic did karaoke with Molly, and they belted out old Beatles tunes.
And though all this was fun, I won the night, because I got to dance with Claire Russo. I got to feel her press up against me, to see her twirl and bounce and move.
She made my heart beat.
Laurel wrapped up the last two slices of cake for me and Claire.