Where We Are

by Annie McDonald

  “Sid, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’re doing,” he said after she’d laid the new developments out for him.

  “I’m just glad there were breadcrumbs to follow. You do know that no one at the gallery knew what this idiot was doing, right? Nonetheless, he put us in a terrible spot, and I hope to get us out.”

  “Do you think my offer is fair?”

  “I think it’s better than fair. I spoke to the buyer this afternoon. Fortunately for us, he has ultimate respect for provenance, so the proviso that gives him back right of first refusal if you ever decide to sell the two pieces will be well received. I feel confident of that. Just know that this proviso includes private and public markets. The fox in the henhouse here is the broker. He wants extra fees, likely because we’ve interrupted other moves he may be involved in. I won’t lie, Martin, things are still volatile.”

  “Which is why you’ve asked me to keep an eye on the market at my end. I owe my friends at least that much.”

  Martin had a lot of friends, people whom he had convinced to invest in Canadian works, primarily the Group of Seven but also Emily Carr and other contemporaries. They trusted him just as he trusted her, which was why she felt it imperative to make it right.

  “Thank you, Martin. I appreciate you entrusting me with this. I can’t say sorry enough for dropping the ball.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t drop the ball in the least. In fact, you didn’t even hold it. You work for the gallery, and the purchase wasn’t under your purview. The piece was privately owned, and if the broker in all of this mess had even a speck of the integrity you have, my dear, he would never have leveraged the deal. You know that. I know that. And soon, everyone will know that.”

  “Duncan Harris didn’t raise me to work without integrity. I promise I’ll call when I have a response. The buyer is in New York this weekend. So, likely Tuesday or Wednesday?”

  “Perfect. Talk to you then. And Sid? I want you to think about what I said earlier this week. Whether you make this deal or not, I can tell you’re ready to leave the gallery. I can set you up with clients. You know I can. And I’d be honored to. Just say the word.”

  How Martin knew that she was restless, Sid could only guess. She was learning that people knew more about her than she thought. Nonetheless, she was touched by the faith Martin had always shown in her and relieved that she was making progress. Now she could only wait as the shadow of the trees outside her window fell slowly across her desk. And then it struck her. The shadows were over the house.

  Dinner with Mia!

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Sid was hurriedly tucking her shirt into her pants as she flew down the stairs, then slid in her sock feet partway across the great room’s hardwood toward the kitchen. She’d had a choice to make: dinner on time or clean and fresh. She chose the latter.

  “Slow down there, cowboy! Where you going in such a hurry?”

  Sid’s heart skipped at least a beat and not solely because Mia—who stood next to a freshly built fire—had taken her by surprise. She was a vision in a cobalt blue midi dress with a skinny-strapped, satiny bodice that displayed her cleavage exquisitely.

  “You look…” Sid couldn’t find the words.

  The dress flowed at the waist into a two-layer skirt, the crochet lace overlay cascading to just below Mia’s knees and the sheer hem showing off her legs from just above her knees down. Mia always looked lovely, even when she was wrapped in an old tee and a bathrobe. But standing barefoot in the living room, she was drop-dead, breathtakingly gorgeous. Sid couldn’t look away, nor could she complete her sentence.

  “Hungry?”

  Yes. Hungry. “I was going to say exactly that, yes.” Sid felt conspicuous, one hand still half-tucked with her plaid shirt inside her distressed relax-fit jeans. She pushed her hair back over her ear and moved, entranced, toward Mia.

  “Are you really a good poker player?” Mia looped her fingers in the belt loops on each side of Sid’s waist, pulling her into a kiss.

  Sid could think of little else than how Mia—in that dress—was making her feel. “Why do you ask?”

  “I haven’t known you long, but are you aware of your tell? Just before you shift gears, at times when you’re having trouble staying on task—”

  “When I’m distracted like I’m distracted right now?” Sid licked her lips, her mouth suddenly as dry as a bone.

  “Yes.” Mia smiled. “Like now. Did you know that you have a habit of tucking your hair behind your ear?”

  Sid smiled and crooked her head. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you noticing that. I don’t like to think of myself as predictable.” She said it only half jokingly. A lifetime of relationship difficulties had given her insight into a destructive habit: she didn’t like being truly seen. And being seen as acutely, as intimately, as Mia apparently saw her scared Sid. She shuffled a step back, but Mia pulled her close again and kissed her. At first, the kiss felt reassuring. Then inviting. Then it rolled with passion. Sid’s body crested, and she let the wave carry her until she could find bottom. Mia released her, and she steadied.

  “I get paid to pay attention to signals,” Mia said. “I’m skilled at it. Your tell is subtle, and it’s not likely others have noticed. The proof is in how much you leave the table with, right?” She smiled, yanking on Sid’s jeans. “Besides, I enjoy predictability; sometimes it’s like a warm quilt on a cold night. Speaking of which, I could still smell you in my bed this afternoon. We took a short nap together.”

  It’s hard to stay annoyed with this one. “Fair enough. I’m blaming tonight’s hair tuck on how amazing you look.” She ran her index finger behind one of the shoulder straps, then along the border of the bodice. “Maybe I should stop playing poker. I would lose my shirt if you were at the table.”

  “That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?” Mia’s hands moved around her waist and up and down her sides beneath the un-tucked hem of her shirt.

  “It won’t be, I promise. But I promised you dinner, too, and I haven’t eaten today, so I’m starving. Again.” Being around Mia always stirred an appetite of one sort or another.

  She led Mia into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine, explaining what had gone on that day with the art deal while pulling various things out of the fridge and scattering them onto the counter.

  Mia laughed. “Do you have a plan, here, or are you free-styling?”

  Sid confessed that the day had gotten away from her, but Isabel’s leftovers were infinitely better than anything she could create. She began to prepare vegetables for a crudité.

  “Something tells me you’re underselling your abilities in the kitchen. Those aren’t the knife skills of a culinary amateur,” Mia said, then picked up a mushroom and tossed it toward her. She deftly speared it on the end of the knifepoint. Mia shook her head in disbelief. “Seriously? Are you slow-playing me, Harris?”

  “Honestly, chopping is easy. If you have the right technique, anyone can do it with eyes closed. I’ll prove it.” She placed a cutting board on the counter, put a celery rib on it, and handed Mia a chef’s knife. “First, make sure the target is stable.” Sid turned the celery so that the curved side was up and the cupped side faced down. “Now, hold your fingers near the end you want to cut, on top, like so.” Sid demonstrated on her board. “Tuck the tips of your fingers in, and rest the side of the knife against your knuckles. See, you couldn’t cut your fingertips if you wanted to. Now work the blade cyclically, like so.” Sid pushed the knife down and forward through the rib, then came up and back, forward and down. “And slide your fingers down the rib slowly, letting the blade but not the edge find your knuckles. If you keep the tip of the knife on the board as you work, you’re not in danger.” She was pleased with how quickly Mia mastered the technique.

  “Shall I close my eyes?” Mia asked.

  “I’m not sure I can trust you…yet. You look like a peeker.” Sid grabbed a clean tea towel out of a drawer and spun it
diagonally. She pressed her hips into Mia’s backside and placed the towel over her eyes, tying it at the back but keeping Mia held between her and the counter. She felt a stirring where their bodies touched.

  Mia wielded her knife in the air like a blind pirate. “And you say there’s no one else here? I ask in case one of us gets hurt.”

  “Duncan and Isabel are in Edmonton with the Millers, gathering supplies for next weekend’s party. They’re staying over at the casino. And Aaron…well, he’s getting a lesson from a friend about drones, so he says. I’m not sure I believe that, but I do know he won’t be coming here tonight. He’s looking after the Millers’ dairy cows so he’s staying at their place. No one is getting hurt.” Sid wondered briefly how she could keep that promise. “Now stop stalling and start cutting.” She leaned further into Mia, caressing her shoulders, lips brushing against her skin.

  * * *

  “I’m not willing to lose a finger over this,” Mia said. “You’re making it hard to focus.”

  “I’d hate for you to lose a finger, too, beautiful, given how adept they are with other tasks.”

  Mia couldn’t help but smile. Sid’s playfulness was charming. Her fingers traced the seam of fabric just above Mia’s breasts, then retraced the route, but this time, they caressed her skin. The touch was erotic, and Mia did her best to focus on chopping. The temporary blindness heightened her other senses. Her skin tingled behind the trail of Sid’s touch. The sound of the celery crisply yielding beneath her blade was almost deafening. The smell and softness of Sid’s hair against her neck and cheek was distracting, and she could feel her knees weaken. She dug her bare feet into the kitchen mat to hold her ground.

  Sid pushed more firmly against her butt, one hand moving down her waist and squeezing between her upper thigh and the counter edge; the other moved around her bodice and up toward her breasts. Mia pushed back against her to allow the hand more space and tipped her head back, leaning to the side, exposing her neck and inviting Sid’s kiss.

  Mia’s knife stopped mid-cut as Sid bent lower, her mouth claiming the skin below Mia’s ear. Her hand cupped her over the fabric between her thighs. The heat and dampness increased as Sid’s finger’s pressed more deeply.

  “Oh, Sid. Your touch. God, I love it.”

  Mia’s breast was captured beneath her bodice, and as Sid moved over the nipple, she convulsed. The knife fell to the board, the celery scattering. She put both hands on the counter to brace herself, conscious of nothing more than Sid’s hands moving across her body and under her dress. Mia reached over her head and entwined her fingers behind Sid’s neck.

  “Kiss me,” she pleaded, but she slurred the words. In spite of her libido having found a second gear, she was exhausted, even after her nap. But her arousal was deep, and she wasn’t about to choose the corporeal over the carnal.

  Sid’s mouth felt hot against hers. Sid’s fingers had slipped beneath her lace underwear and into her wetness. She gasped, breathless as Sid found her clit and began to stroke it expertly, agonizingly slowly. It was so, so easy to melt. As Sid changed pressure or speed or moved a fraction of an inch, Mia’s body relented, telling Sid, without words where to touch her. Where to find her. Once she did, Mia fell back into Sid’s arms, shuddering, her hot flow releasing in Sid’s hand. When her rippling orgasm calmed, Sid lowered them to the kitchen floor, cradling Mia tightly. Mia’s head felt as if it was floating, her body drifting nearby but also far away.

  * * *

  “Well, Sid Harris, that was some appetizer,” Mia mumbled, pulling herself into Sid more tightly. She had awakened, unsure if awakened was the right word. Had she slept?

  “I am a terrible host, aren’t I? Let’s see what we can find for a main course.” She hauled Mia to her feet and kissed her before turning her attention to the pursuit of edibles.

  “If you don’t mind, while you work your kitchen magic, I’m going to let the boys out.” Mia’s legs were wobbly, and she leaned against the porch door, watching as Milo goaded and prodded Flynn, who refused to give ground. The dogs and Sid shared the same headstrong determination, and it made her reflect on her own decisions. Yes, her choice to pack up and immerse herself in canine training a couple of years ago was a good one. The love and companionship of dogs was easy, uncomplicated, and it gave her what she needed at the time, a chance to find the ground beneath her feet again, to exercise control, and to live at a pace she could manage. Her ultimate goal wasn’t to forget her loss, not to forget Riley, but rather to put the hospitals, trials, specialists, and finally the terribly dashed hopes of a future she’d imagined, into a healthy perspective. She had to challenge herself to really live again. As she watched the dogs, she knew that emotionally, if not quite physically, she was ready for more conflict, more tension, than even an unfettered puppy like Milo could provide.

  When Mia came back inside, she felt revitalized. The dogs returned to their warmed spots on the sun porch. Sid had scavenged the various containers from the fridge and put together a mosaic of food on a large platter: roasted peppers, olives, a chunk of parmesan cheese, salami, celery and carrot sticks, and a bowl of leftover spaghetti, which she’d set in the middle of the odd assortment, spearing it with two forks.

  Mia grabbed the bottle of wine she’d brought, uncorked it, and carried it and two glasses into the great room. She dimmed the overheads, then set the wine on the side table while she flicked on the stained glass lamps. Waiting on Sid, who was putting final touches on the dinner tray, Mia admired the great room. It was aptly named, the impact of the size elevated by the vaulted ceiling, which was crisscrossed with thick wood beams joined by dark metal braces that looked hand-hammered. The walls were a green she recognized as mountain forest, a hue made famous by Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater palette, the perfect complement to the robust, oak, craftsman-style chairs padded with warm green and rustic red leather cushions. Opposite the fireplace, a wall of large windows ran the length of the side of the house, facing the mountains and a second wall at the front.

  The room’s two sitting areas, one near the fireplace and the other near the windowed wall, were separated by one of the largest harvest tables she had ever seen, the wood worn from use. A beautiful dried flower arrangement, bold bulrushes towering over a base of nettles and puffy hydrangeas, was large enough to act as a divider for the large room, creating intimacy in spite of the tremendous space. In a corner on the fireplace wall, several chairs clustered around what looked to be a well-used game table.

  The tone of the room was strong and masculine but also soft and functional. As she took a spot on the couch, she noticed the large canvas above the timber mantel. The foreground was a collection of earthy mounds topped with a stand of tamaracks that took up at least half of the space. The observer would have to look past or through these trees to see the lake, which was represented by a thin band, maybe one brush-width thick, of light blue paint that crossed the landscape roughly a quarter the way up. On top of that was a darker blue, almost purple mash of paint that evoked a solid wall of indistinguishable trees on the far side of the lake. This took the eye to about halfway up the image where the cloud-spattered sky—still shrouded by trees and painted with the same blue as the lake—completed the depth of the work. Like the room, strong impressionist influences were made soft by the artist’s choice of light and color.

  Sid joined her on the couch, placing the large platter between them and sitting sideways, legs crossed, facing her. “Tamaracks, 1915. Thomson.”

  “Did you pick it out?” Mia asked, picking up an olive and baiting Sid with it.

  “I did. It was a gift for my dad. Not an original, of course, but a good reproduction.” She snagged the olive and smiled as she chewed.

  “Why? I mean, why did you pick this one?” Mia broke off a piece of parmesan and wrapped it in salami, handing it to Sid before making one for herself.

  “This was the piece I fell in love to…with the Group. And Thomson. When I saw this particular work, I noticed fo
r the first time his choices. Where he put paint and where he didn’t. The ochre undertones. The representation of Canadian light. I saw between the brushstrokes. I guess you could say that I heard the artist’s voice. I was wholly and helplessly smitten.” She sat still fondling an olive as she stared up at the canvas.

  Mia saw more than infatuation. She saw love and a bit of sadness. Where is she now? “They seemed like artists who knew how to forge ahead and make new paths.” She leaned forward and put a hand on Sid’s knee. “Are you struggling with something?”

  “What?” Sid looked into her eyes, and Mia could see the striking warmth there.

  “With your path, maybe? Are you still struggling?”

  “Yes, I guess so. With change. I think things will have to change for me.” Sid stopped short of a hair tuck and reached for a forkful of spun spaghetti instead.

  Mia marveled at her ability to self-correct so quickly. Perhaps self-correct wasn’t the right term; after all, there was nothing incorrect about a hair tuck. Except that now, maybe Sid is aware that I’m seeing her.

  “Remember the story of Andek?” Mia said, taking Sid’s hand “According to legend, we can’t find our purpose if we sit on the path. The crow is meant to remind us that work and dedication, step by step, will show the way to the purpose we seek.”

  “I’m not sure I’m on a path, let alone which path it might be.”

  “Look at that picture. That lake was probably hundreds of miles from where the artist lived. He and his friends, they made a new path with their art. Could it be that now is the time for you to surrender?”

  Sid took a moment, her eyes on the Tamaracks. “They did find their purpose.”

  “Exactly. For some, like this one artist, the path was too short. Thomson drowned when he was still a young man.”

  “The path was too short for your Riley, too.” Sid spoke with a genuineness that melted Mia’s heart.

  “So it goes for everyone who loses a love, but I can’t be the rabbit anymore.”