“Neither can I. Hopefully, I can make the changes I need to.”
She wanted to ask what Sid meant but decided to let her share when she was ready and popped an olive in her mouth. It was salty and oily, but Sid had tossed it with finely grated lemon rind and fresh chopped rosemary. She had a gift for elevating what was naturally delicious.
She has a lot of gifts. “You’re great in the kitchen,” Mia said, tugging one of Sid’s socks off.
Sid pulled her bare foot back. “What are you up to?”
Mia grabbed the remaining foot before Sid could retreat. “I’m curious about whether your talents extend to the living room.” The second sock was tugged free and tossed beside its mate on the floor by the fireplace.
Before she knew what was happening, Mia found herself beneath Sid on the couch, watching the discard pile grow. First, a pair of cream-colored underwear. Her own. Then a pair of jeans. Sid’s. A flannel shirt. Also Sid’s. By the time Sid’s cotton boxer briefs landed, Mia was wholly occupied by much more interesting things to watch. And do.
Chapter Twenty-nine
One of Mia’s hands was beneath the pillow under her head. With the other, she twisted the hot white bedsheet. That was where Sid’s naked body had been for most of the night. Now the early morning light crashing through the drapes was keeping the spot warm while Sid ignited another spot. Mia’s.
“Whoa, cowboy. That’s enough. Are you trying to kill me?”
“But I’m still hungry.”
Mia unwrapped her legs from around Sid’s shoulders as another tremor passed through her body. Sid rested her head on the inside of Mia’s splayed thighs, running her fingers through the small tuft of hair.
“Do you think there’s any more spaghetti?” Mia asked, realizing that they’d not managed to get much beyond a forkful and a few olives before feasting on each other. No wonder her thoughts were muddled; blood sugar could do that.
“For breakfast? I can think of better things to nibble on.”
Mia cuffed Sid’s head, then pulled Sid up toward her, propping up pillows against the headboard so they could semi-recline. Sid kissed her on the way by, and Mia could taste herself on Sid’s luscious lips. Her juices begin to surge.
God, not again.
Twenty minutes later, Sid pulled her from under the covers and up in the bed. Mia must’ve fallen asleep after that because Sid seemed to materialize in the doorway with a tray loaded with two bowls of spaghetti, a stack of buttered toast, and two cups of coffee. She was naked except for the ragged Etheridge tee, and Mia wondered how it was possible she could look so effortlessly gorgeous.
“I wasn’t sure what would whet your appetite, so I brought options.” She set the tray down on the bed.
Whet. Wet. “That is the biggest lie you’ve ever told! You’ve been whetting my appetite for the past…” Mia looked at the clock on the night table. “Oh my God…twelve hours. The dogs!”
“I fed them, don’t worry. There was still some of their food in the fridge from when you were here recuperating. And I let them out.”
“Mmm. I like that. My own personal lackey.”
“Hardly.” Sid handed her a cup of coffee and held out a piece of toast until she bit into it. “Flynn seems much better. Milo tried to get at his bowl, but your boy stood his ground. Tough bugger.”
“That’s for sure. Thank you. Did you check your messages?”
Sid was back in bed, her phone beside her “I did. I’m thinking I may need to take a trip.” Sid tucked her hair, then, catching Mia watching her, untucked it.
“To see the person who bought the sketch?”
“Yes. I want to make sure that I’ve done everything, and I mean everything, in my power to make sure this deal goes through.”
“And the personal touch can make a difference. Is that what you’re thinking?” Mia twirled a fork of spaghetti, already missing her.
“Exactly. I only need a couple of days. If I can find a flight, I can leave today and return mid-week.”
Mia handed her the fork of pasta and slipped out of bed, went to the desk, picked up Sid’s computer, and brought it to her.
“Find that flight, Cassidy Harris.”
Sid smiled, flipped open the laptop, and started searching. Mia slipped back under the covers and surveyed the room as she nibbled another piece of toast. Her energy was good. Maybe the erratic swings had finally levelled out. Her gaze was drawn to the red canoe in the painting; a sunbeam now streamed across the canvas.
The canoe sat atop a tangled mass of grey, brown, and greenish branches stretching diagonally from foreground to back. Small indistinguishable red splotches of paint caught by the debris suggested maple leaves traceable to the small tree on the far shore beyond the dark, almost black, pool above the dam.
Several large boulders garrisoned by a solid wall of pines took up the entire upper half of the space, each tree standing like slightly swaying sentries, shoulder to shoulder, unyielding even in motion to what might lurk beyond.
Below the dam, in the bottom right corner, was a black pool reflecting the twisted and trapped flotsam below the dam. The diagonal lines of the barricade and the unapproachable background seemed intended to draw the viewer’s eye to the canoe. It struck her as odd, this single object in a landscape otherwise devoid of human presence. Because it was empty, it elicited an immediate question: Where is the canoeist?
“Mia? You okay?”
“Yes, great. Really great.” Sort of. “Tell me about that painting?” she said, taking Sid’s hand. “If you’ve finished booking?”
“I’m leaving later this afternoon, so there’s plenty of time to set Aaron up with a list of to-dos. I’ll call him from the truck.” Sid fell back into the pillows and nodded toward the canvas. “What do you see? How does it make you feel?”
“Moody. A little dark. And curious. I know you didn’t choose it for the aesthetic.”
“That is true. But maybe the story will shift your perspective a bit. The Beaver Dam was painted by J.E.H. MacDonald—a friend and contemporary of both Lawren Harris and Tom Thomson—shortly after Thomson drowned in Canoe Lake.”
“I can understand why he might have been inspired to memorialize his friend. But why is Harris important to the story? You’re not going to tell me you’re related, are you?”
Sid laughed. “I wish. No such luck. You know he was obscenely wealthy, right? His family manufactured farm equipment. In fact, my dad has an old Massey-Harris tractor rusting out in the back forty.”
“Okay, so what’s his significance to this painting?”
“Well, with all his money came privilege, and with privilege came exposure to a popular Eastern theosophy centered on the three highest levels of being. Consider him the John Lennon of the early 1900s. He shared those somewhat transcendental concepts with his friend MacDonald.”
“And those ideas influenced The Beaver Dam?”
“Do you see how MacDonald created three levels in this work: the pool below, the dam itself, and the upper pool? That structural aspect mimics the highest spiritual aspects. That’s why I don’t see the work as moody and dark. I see it as ascendant, celebratory. I see the intent. The story.”
Mia was captivated by the way Sid’s mind worked and how deliberately she explained her perspective. “I think you just won me over. Is the canoe meant to be Thomson’s?”
“Actually, Thomson’s canoe was grey. We can’t always interpret art precisely or literally. If we did, this piece could be seen quite differently, in that we neither ascend or descend; we just stay…well…damned.”
“But that’s not how you see it?” Mia asked.
“Not at all. I think the solemnity of the tribute was intentional, but see the red leaves on the surface of the higher pool? How they appear to be moving? I’ve always interpreted this as MacDonald’s attempt to draw attention to the importance of ‘place.’ The canoe is a quintessential Canadian symbol, a part of the history of its people. So it’s front and center. And red
. The red maple leaves are another symbol. There are many stories in this work, but it reminds me of where we are and how important it is to move in life. Like the water moves. Like canoes move. Like a country moves. Spatially. Spiritually. Through time.”
“God, Sid, I love that notion. It’s beautiful. I’ve always felt that when people are comfortable in their own space, they become more grounded, more resilient. And being aware and comfortable with the here and now helps people withstand even terrible circumstances.” She ran her fingers through Sid’s hair, pushing the tresses behind her shoulders and settling it behind her ears.
“Sometimes, I think it reminds me that being stuck is a human affliction. I think that’s why I like it so much. The painting, not being stuck.” She laughed. “I have the same canvas in my living room in Toronto. It reminds me of here. Of the lake. And the lake reminds me of my mom. I feel her love there like nowhere else. I think that’s why I stayed far away because here reminded me of how much I missed her. Now I hate the thought of leaving.”
I hate the thought of you leaving, too.
“When will Milo be ready for Jack?” Sid’s voice was unsteady.
Mia knew what she was asking. So much for the here and now. “I’ll be here when you get back, cowboy. In case you haven’t noticed, I like being in your space.”
Sid kissed her palm and stroked the faded red line that would be there for a while longer, if not always. “I have a few thoughts about that, if you’re serious. Can we talk about it when I’m back?”
“Of course. Now go pack before I chain you to this bed.”
Sid smiled mischievously, one side of her mouth turned up, an eyebrow raised.
“Go,” Mia said in her most commanding tone. She watched Sid pack with surprising precision given the helter-skelter motif of most of her bedroom. She wondered what Sid’s unspoken thoughts were, but she had her own. She was thinking about tomorrow’s meeting with Jesse McCann and had considered mentioning it but realized it might be better to wait until she knew exactly what the deal might entail. If there was to be a deal. She realized with a heavy heart that she had her own expectations.
Or are they hopes?
Regardless, she filled in the conversation with talk of Leah and Jim and their good news. She told Sid about Milo’s progress and how Jack was learning, too. “Proving yet again that you can teach an old dog new tricks.”
“I can think of a few more,” Sid teased, throwing her computer bag over her uninjured shoulder and grabbing a small carry-on bag. “Tricks, that is.”
On their way to the door, Mia spotted Sid’s phone and grabbed it. As they turned at the bottom of the stairs, Mia stopped dead and surveyed the great room and the kitchen beyond. It could easily have been mistaken for a crime scene. Evidence of the night before might tell a strange story: celery scattered on the kitchen floor, one knife tipped with a speared mushroom, a pile of socks and underwear near a cold fire, unfinished food abandoned on the couch, a white bra dangling from a bulrush on the harvest table, matching white underwear beneath the same table, an empty wine bottle on the third stair leading to the bedroom, a blue satin ribbon on the fourth, and at the end of the trail, a blue dress haphazardly strewn on the landing. As she looked at the individual pieces, Mia had trouble reconciling them. Connections were jumbled. She blinked hard, hoping to create sense of the chaos, hoping to remember exactly what had gone on. Sid had hastened ahead.
Not wanting to alert her to her to what was too difficult to put into words, Mia turned to the practical. “Don’t worry about the mess. I’ll make it look nice before Isabel and Duncan get back.” Mia followed her, shaking her head as she tried to recall the evening’s activities. “I have until tomorrow, right?”
“Yes. And the party is Saturday, don’t forget.”
The irony didn’t escape Mia, but there was no point tipping her hand until she knew exactly the cards she was holding. Maybe her symptoms were side effects. Maybe they were perfectly normal and would fade in time. Sid had plenty of other things to concern herself with. Mia made a mental note to make a doctor’s appointment and hoped she’d find it once Sid was on the road.
Sid threw the suitcase in the passenger seat and turned. The dogs had followed them and worriedly circled Sid’s feet.
“Joni Mitchell looks good on you,” Sid said, her eyes directed at the tee but mostly on Mia’s cleavage. “I’ll teach you those new tricks when I get back.”
After giving each dog a head rub, Sid reached for Mia, who felt an odd vibration as she leaned in for a kiss. Only then did she remember she was carrying Sid’s phone. She looked at the display as Sid settled into the driver’s seat.
A cluster of texts and phones, all from the same contact. Aurora St. G.
“Is this what you mean by tricks?” The words flew from Mia’s mouth on the wings of contempt. She could hear them slap Sid’s face. At the same time, it felt as if her heart was being torn from her chest. She turned the display toward Sid.
Unable to shake the odd perceptions, self-doubt flooded Mia’s mind. How could she have imagined being the only one in Cassidy Harris’s bed? Or heart? The astonished look on Sid’s face told her all she needed to know. Sid wasn’t available.
Impulsively, she filled the silence. “I know I’m not Aurora. I can’t give you the kind of life you have with her.”
“Aurora doesn’t give me anything, but sometimes I think maybe all I deserve is Aurora.” Sid’s voice sounded defeated and anguished. “I’m not really sure where I’m going or even who I am. But I’ll never be Riley.”
Mia felt as though she’d been gut punched. The long silence that followed gave her a moment to think that she’d set up an impossible expectation. No, that’s not it. She didn’t feel that way deep inside. She’d never compared Sid with Riley. She took a breath and tried to look at the situation from Sid’s perspective, seeking to understand how things had become so terribly convoluted. Her anger, she knew, was disproportionate to the situation. Wildly.
Then the phone display lit up and another buzz shot up her arm. It felt like an electric shock. She threw the phone across Sid’s lap onto the passenger seat and took a measured step back. Stop reacting. Be calm.
Instead, she exploded. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I was wrong about you. I thought you were struggling with picking a path. Now I wonder if you’re even interested in being on any path.” She held up a hand before Sid could speak. “Don’t say anything. Go catch your plane. And while you’re gone, why don’t you take time to figure out what you want? Think about where you are.” Mia thought about the red canoe, and angry tears began to build. “Then maybe you’ll be able to see where we can be. If we can be. Where we are.”
She turned, walked to her truck, and loaded the dogs without looking back until Sid’s truck had rumbled down the driveway out of earshot. She would keep her meeting with Jesse but wouldn’t make any commitments. If Sid was going back to her life in Toronto, then staying in Alberta wasn’t going to be in her plans either.
* * *
Sid was behind the wheel, but the truck seemed to have a mind of its own. It ran a stop sign. It crossed the painted lines twice. And it found the soft shoulder on several occasions. By the time she was five miles from the ranch, it occurred to her that if she wanted to make it to the airport at all, let alone in time for her flight, she needed to pay attention. Even so, it was difficult not to replay Mia’s words over and over, and it was impossible not to imagine what she could have said if she’d not been so shell-shocked.
If we can be. “If?”
I know I’m not Aurora. “Thank God.”
I don’t know if you’re interested. “I’m very interested. I’m only interested. In you.”
She’d only seen Mia angry twice before: the day they met and the evening she’d rolled the ATV. And now again, Sid hated that she was the reason. She wished she could blame everything on Aurora, but she knew she’d reacted badly. I’ll never be Riley. “But I want to be with you.”
She raced to the gate just in time for her flight, with no time and no words that would begin to resolve things with Mia. She worried she might not be given a chance. Is this it, then? Is it over? The flight was smooth, but with nothing to focus on except her rising panic, she spent the first few hours choking back nausea. Any ending was preventable and sat squarely on Sid’s shoulders. She’d put so much in place so she could build a life with Mia, but she’d failed to share those dreams. How could she be surprised if Mia felt alone? Maybe it was time to surrender because the thought of losing Mia was more than she could bear. Something had to change. She was already having doubts about making this deal and was fearful of failing the people closest to her. Her dad. Martin. And now Mia.
She closed her eyes, and a black crow appeared in her mind, flying over the lake. She thought about swimming and remembered what Mia had said, “When you’re in your element, you stay on the path.”
She realized that her doubts would do nothing but disable her resolve. So in an effort to keep the rabbit from running wild, she opened her eyes and grabbed a magazine from the seat back. She flipped it open to an article promising the secrets to Calgary’s best steakhouses. As she spread the pages apart, something shiny wheeled down the crease of the spine, and landed on her thigh. Sid’s jaw dropped.
It was a dime.
She wasn’t alone. It was time she started acting like it.
* * *
Mia was loading her truck with samples of dog food when Sid’s call came. She felt sick about their earlier exchange. It was hard to think about the incredible twenty-four hours that preceded it, but she’d needed to stand her ground. Even though she had nothing more to say, seeing Sid’s name on her phone tugged at her in ways she couldn’t ignore her. She pressed answer.
“I don’t want you to say anything, Mia. It’s your turn to listen. Please. Aurora started texting me a few days ago. Before that, we hadn’t been in touch for over a month, and even that was gallery business. Clearly, she wants something because that’s the kind of person she is. But I wouldn’t know for sure because I have no interest in reading her texts, let alone replying.” Sid paused as if to let that sink in. Mia let it. “You were right when you said that you’re not Aurora. There are a million ways you’re different. You possess unfathomable kindness. You’re wickedly smart and deceptively strong in spirit. You have patience enough to see me, to truly see me in a way that makes me want to be seen. At least a million ways, Mia. But the one that matters the most is that I don’t love Aurora. I never did, and I never will. I love you.”
Where We Are Page 18