“Maybe you should be my someone.”
Diane looked at her. Her mouth dried the longer their eyes held.
Michelle broke their contact first, glancing out the front window with a shrug. “If you wanted to.”
“You really want me to show you how to make a pie?”
“It’s only fair,” Michelle said. “I showed you how to make glass. Why don’t you show me how to make a pie?”
“I’d like that.”
“I could come over after we close shop tomorrow.”
“Sounds perfect,” Diane said, feeling a pop of excitement at spending more time with Michelle again so soon. “But only if we can have dinner beforehand. I can’t sustain on pie for dinner two nights in a row.”
Michelle laughed. “Deal.”
“So, pie and dinner.”
“But not in that order.”
“No. Not in that order,” Diane chuckled and spun around, opening the front door. She stepped outside, the porch light basking her in yellow light. She shrugged off Michelle’s jacket, shivering when her bare arms hit the cold again, missing more than just the jacket’s warmth. “I appreciate you not letting me freeze tonight.”
“You’re welcome.” Michelle threw the jacket over her shoulder and leaned on the doorjamb. “Anytime.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“This is stupid,” Diane said, shaking off her fourth blouse she put on in the last five minutes. She chucked it over her shoulder, tossing it on the mountain of rejected tops strewn across the bed. “What on earth am I doing?”
“I don’t know,” Maureen chuckled from Diane’s laptop, resting on the large oak dresser, “giving your best friend an eye full of cleavage right now for one thing.”
“Sorry,” Diane laughed.
Exhaling an exasperated breath, Diane threw on a white camisole and parked herself at the dresser mirror, tucking the garment neatly into her jeans. All that rapid dressing and undressing created a squirrel’s nest of gray hair on her head, and Diane yanked her hair tie out, fixing her bun again. Maybe she should’ve left it down until the whirlwind of wardrobe malfunctions ended.
“Why are you getting so worked up about what you’re wearing tonight?” Maureen asked. “Isn’t Michelle coming over to make pie?”
“Yes. She is.” Reluctantly, Diane threw her hair up and perused the open closet again, sorting through the hangers. “I want to be comfortable, is all. There’s nothing worse than fiddling with an outfit when I’m trying to bake. Besides, looking presentable for a guest is the proper thing to do.”
“Especially one you’re horny for.”
Diane leaned and scowled at the computer screen. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re just in denial.”
“Am I?” Diane snickered. Settling on a blue flannel button-down to go with her skinny jeans, Diane snatched the shirt off the hanger and threw it on herself. She glowered at Maureen as she settled in front of the mirror again and slid her arms in the sleeves.
“You don’t see what’s going on, but it’s clear to me,” Maureen said. “The hots you had for this woman has manifested into a full-blown, major crush.”
“A major—” Diane paused with her fingers on a shirt button and shook her head. “I most certainly do not—”
“You most certainly do.” Maureen smirked. “How much have you stalked her Facebook page in your free time?”
Diane cringed guiltily, growing even more impatient with their conversation. “I’m simply excited Michelle’s turning out to be a halfway decent person, that’s all,” she said. “I didn’t like having such unwarranted animosity between us.”
“Uh-huh.”
There was no sense in arguing with Maureen. She’d simply let her believe what she wanted. Diane buttoned her shirt and tucked it in nicely, adjusting her fashionable belt along with it. She studied herself in the mirror. She looked good. Confident. Grabbing her favorite, long and lightweight black cardigan to top her outfit off, Diane thought she looked quite beautiful all put together—and admittedly, she hoped her guest would too.
Okay, maybe Diane was stretching the truth into an outright lie. Maybe her attraction to Michelle was now a silly crush. But so what? How else was Diane supposed to react when the person she knew to be a rude social anomaly, turned out to be pleasant and charming company? Company, Diane couldn’t stop thinking about since the night before—unable to shake the image of the firelight striking the copper tones in Michelle’s brown eyes and her stunning profile, the strong angle of her jawline which begged Diane for a slow, appreciative touch.
But if it was a crush, Diane couldn’t get lost in it. The purpose of her sabbatical wasn’t only for her novel. Adjusting to the solitude of her situation, and continuing to adapt to this new phase of her life as a fifty-year-old, independent woman was equally important. She needed Vermont to nurture her self-sufficiency, not hinder it. Since her separation last year, Diane was proud of the strides she made living on her own. Honestly, there were times Diane missed having a wife. A partner. Someone to come home to. To share an evening with. A glass of wine. Diane couldn’t deny she wanted more company like she shared with Michelle. More connection and closeness. Conversations.
Intimacy.
Perching herself on the edge of the bed, Diane slid a pair gold of hoop earrings into her ears and watched Maureen on her laptop, looking back and forth between her two computer screens, catching up on work in her home office, as they chatted. Diane looked over Maureen’s shoulder. Michelle’s turquoise and white suncatcher hung in the window behind her, the colors of surf and sand sparkling in the late evening sun. The glass was beautiful and detailed, and it didn’t take long before Diane’s mind wandered to the hands that created it, recalling Michelle’s strong fingers, and their elegant and mesmerizing movements.
Diane sucked in a sharp breath as a swell of heat rushed over her.
“I am glad everything went well yesterday.”
“I’m sorry?” Diane shook her head and turned to her friend, her heart racing. “What?”
“Between you and Michelle,” Maureen said, glancing back at Diane as she typed. “With how our last conversation went regarding her, I almost called and canceled the commission. I’m glad I didn’t. It sounds like you came up with something spectacular.”
“We did,” Diane said. “Didn’t you see it?”
“No. How would have I seen it?”
“Michelle said she’d have the final sketch done and emailed to you this morning.”
“Hm.” Maureen shook her head. “I didn’t see anything. Let me check again. Maybe it ended up in spam.”
Diane walked over to the end table. She wasn’t one to wear perfume, finding the majority of scents more overwhelming than not. But landing in an organic skin care shop with Maureen last weekend in the marketplace, she stumbled upon a grapefruit and lavender body spray she enjoyed, and she gave herself a delicate spritz.
“You find it?” Diane asked.
“No,” Maureen sighed.
“That’s strange.” Diane’s face twisted and she plunked down on the bed again.
“She probably had other projects and things to get to today, and it fell to the back burner,” Maureen said. She relaxed in her leather chair, grabbing her glass of red wine. “I’m not worried about it. I’m sure she’ll send it soon.”
Diane thought it was odd, but agreed with Maureen. Michelle was a professional, and she knew this project was in good hands. As she witnessed firsthand, creating glass was a complicated and delicate process, and maybe Michelle had to make a few, unforeseen adjustments to their design to make it work. Diane shrugged it off.
“Whenever it arrives, I am excited to see it,” Maureen said, sipping her wine. “Now that the interior work started this week and momentum is picking up at the restaurant, I can’t wait to see how this piece will bring everything together.”
“Me, too.” Diane smiled. “Will you text or call me when you get the design? I want to know what
you think. Hopefully you won’t hate it.”
“I’m not going to hate it,” Maureen said. “If I didn’t trust your tastes, I wouldn’t have asked you to do this.”
“You mean besides setting me up with Michelle for ‘shits and giggles,’ as you so kindly phrased it?”
Maureen laughed. “It seems to be working out well though, from the looks of you.”
Diane pursed her lips and checked her attire. “Do I look okay?”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Diane said. She turned her wrist and checked the time on her watch. “She’s going to be here in twenty, and I’ve got some last-minute meal and pie prep to do.”
“Yes,” Maureen said, shooing her with her hand. “Feed that halfway decent neighbor of yours.”
Diane rolled her eyes and leaned closer towards the computer screen. “I’m going now.”
“Have a good night, babe,” Maureen said. “I love you.”
“I love you more,” Diane said, blowing her best friend a goodbye kiss before closing the computer and scampering down the stairs.
***
Twenty minutes was no time at all, and Diane scrambled making everything perfect, her nerves providing more than enough energy to bounce frantically around the kitchen. Why she was so anxious, Diane had no idea. They were only two women eating dinner together, maybe sharing a glass of wine or two, and making pie. There was nothing fancy about it—aside from her great-grandmother’s oven-baked, brown sugar brisket, sizzling slowly in the oven all afternoon. The smell of warm sweetness and tangy spices filled the house. Indulging in a long, savory whiff of her efforts, Diane lit the row of votives, scattered among the festive gourdes she bought to decorate the dining table. She stepped back and admired the autumn ambiance along the table runner. Her face fell into a frown. Okay, dinner was a little fancy.
“You know what?” Diane coddled herself, sliding the miniature white pumpkins slightly left, “fancy is fine.”
Diane deserved an indulgent meal with decorations, and as she wandered around her neighbor’s barren and uninspiring home last night, she had a feeling Michelle desperately deserved one too. It was satisfying preparing the house for company. Since moving to her townhome in Tampa, Diane rarely had guests over, hardly ever cooked meals for herself that didn’t come from her Instapot. When she wanted company, Diane was always the one making the painful and tedious trip back to Gulfport. This was nice. Diane loved playing hostess, and it soothed her spirit having someone over for dinner.
Until that certain someone rang the doorbell.
The gleeful chime sent Diane’s heart into a frenzy. She spun around the room, checking the table setting, her hair, clothes, before finally speeding towards the door when the bell rang again. Placing her hand on the handle, Diane closed her eyes. She took a breath, and opened the door.
When Michelle requested time to polish herself up after closing the studio, this was not what Diane had in mind. Diane gripped onto the door and ogled Michelle standing outside on the steps: hair twisted in a tight braid, artsy browline glasses on her face, and a crimson, off-the-shoulder sweater, slanting seductively on her bare skin. Now conscious of her crush, Diane was hyperaware of how Michelle made her heart beat faster and her insides burn. And good, sweet Lord, those lips. Diane was positive Michelle’s mouth never looked so soft and inviting—coated in a lusciously rosy gloss—even as she lifted it into that cocky smile of hers that drove Diane insane.
This was going to be a long night.
“Are we going to eat out here?” Michelle asked, holding her grin, “or can I come inside?”
“Right. I’m sorry. Yes. Please do.” Diane snapped out of it and opened the door wider, gesturing Michelle in. The gentle aroma of her guest tickled Diane’s nose as she walked past—that tantalizing rush of peppermint and rosemary—blending with the cool, evening air. She took in a long, indulgent smell. When she finally found the friendly, in-control smile she was looking for, Diane shut the door and faced Michelle, welcoming her properly.
“It’s nice to have you here,” Diane said, eyeing Michelle as she scanned the living room. “Dinner’s nearly ready. I hope you’re hungry. I think I made way too much food for us.”
“Sounds good to me,” Michelle said, glancing at Diane’s stack of notes and writing style guides on the coffee table. “I saved my appetite for you.”
“Glad to hear.” Diane walked through the room and gestured to the dining table. “I just need to fix up the plates. You can have a seat, if you want.”
“I’d like to help,” Michelle said, following Diane into the kitchen. “If that’s all right?”
“Sure, yes,” Diane said. She pulled the warming brisket out of the oven and set it on the stove, steam curling around her. “The only thing is, I didn’t know what you’d like to drink. I have a bottle of zin I thought would pair well with dinner.”
“I don’t drink.” Michelle replied softly, studying the kitchen and small knickknacks as she walked around.
Diane’s face fell. “Oh.”
“The taste of alcohol never appealed to me,” Michelle said. “But don’t let me stop you though. Have a glass if you want one.”
“I’m so sorry, I should have asked,” Diane said, frantically scooping mashed potatoes onto their plates. “I don’t know why I assumed—”
“I’m completely offended,” Michelle said sarcastically. She smiled and placed a reassuring hand on Diane’s lower back. She leaned closer and whispered, “If you tell me where the glasses are, I’ll try to contain my thirsty rage with a glass of water.”
“Oh, yes, they’re to the right of the fridge,” Diane said, steadying her breathing.
Listening to the gentle clinks of ice into Michelle’s glass from the dispenser, Diane focused on filling their plates with slices of beef and glazed carrots. The warmth of Michelle’s comforting touch lasted a long time on her body, but it certainly didn’t assuage her anxiety. She still felt foolish. She should have asked, but luckily Michelle didn’t seem too offended by her assumptions. Diane wanted everything to go perfectly—too perfectly perhaps. Michelle wasn’t indulging in wine, but Diane needed a glass urgently to relax.
“Can I carry my plate over?” Michelle asked.
“Of course.” Diane handed her dinner over. “Do you want any seasoning? Salt? Pepper?”
Michelle shook her head. “It’s perfect the way it is.”
After pouring herself a large glass of wine, Diane grabbed her plate and joined Michelle across from her at the table.
“I wasn’t expecting to be having dinner with Martha Stewart,” Michelle said, admiring the fall embellishments in front of her. She leaned in and smelled the cranberry scented candles.
Diane froze. “Is it too much?”
“Not at all.” Michelle shook her head with a smile. “It’s nice.”
Michelle’s compliment didn’t ease her nerves any, however, and Diane took a generous gulp of wine.
“I should’ve been closer friends to the Frosts. This view is incredible,” Michelle said, turning her attention towards the back windows. The sky was overcast and gray, but with the pops of golds and garnets blossoming in the nearby trees and faraway mountains, it gave the lake scene a cozy sense of autumn creeping upon them. “Have you known them long?”
“Five, six years,” Diane said, draping a cloth napkin on her lap. “We used to be neighbors.”
“Used to be?”
“Not since I separated from my ex, and moved into my own place.”
“You don’t sound happy about moving.” Michelle sliced into the brisket and took her first bite, complimenting the meal with a lengthy moan.
“Moving out of that neighborhood, yes, I was happy with that,” Diane admitted. “Separating and living on my own? That’s taken a while to accommodate.”
Michelle nodded. “Understandable.”
“Now that we’ve touched upon my romantic failures,” Diane cut into her food, “what about yours
elf?”
Michelle laughed. “What about my romantic failures?”
“Yes.” Diane smiled as she took another hearty sip of wine, eyeing Michelle. “We touched upon your lack of social life last night.”
“Yes. We did.”
“But you mentioned girlfriends.”
“Shawn wasn’t wrong. I do date my work, but I’m not embarrassed by that. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with putting work ahead of romance.”
“No.” Diane shook her head. “There’s not. I wasn’t suggesting there was.”
“I know it’s not only about that,” Michelle said, her head dropped as a heavy expression made its way onto her face. Chewing her lip, she collected herself for a several beats before continuing. “When I have been in relationships, it was difficult shaking the paranoia of being judged.”
Diane tilted her head. “Judged how?”
Michelle set her fork down. Leaning back against her chair, she crossed her arms and stared across the gray landscape.
“Being broken. Because I’m not,” Michelle said sharply. “I’m not. I think my work and my art and what I’ve built for myself is evidence of that.”
“Absolutely.”
Michelle looked down and shook her head. “When my parents died,” she said, her voice low and coarse, “I wasn’t myself anymore. Who I used to be died right along with them. It’s not bad enough losing the two people who are supposed to be there all the time, but everyone started looking at me differently. Suddenly, I’m not Michelle. I’m the girl with dead parents. I’m the sad girl. The quiet girl. The angry girl. The one people whisper about. The orphan. God, I can’t tell you how much I fucking hate that word.”
Diane winced, watching Michelle’s face, the wetness building in her eyes.
Removing her glasses, Michelle wiped her tears and sniffled. “I’m sorry,” she said and put her glasses back on. “I didn’t mean to bring this up.”
“It’s part of your story,” Diane said delicately. “You don’t need to hide anything with me.”
“There’ve been girlfriends. Not a lot. But some,” Michelle said, returning to her meal. “It always starts out fun and easy, but when it comes time to be more intimate and mention the whole dead parents thing…”
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