by Katy Regnery
I chuckle. “If anyone could pull them off, it’s you.”
“Speaking of what we wear,” he says, his voice severe, “I sent that hat to the dry cleaner’s after handling it with latex gloves.”
My shoulders slump. “Gus! You didn’t!”
“I did wrong?” he asks, placing long, tapered fingers on his chest in surprise.
“It’s Father Joseph’s,” I mourn, “not mine.”
“Well, Father Joe can thank you for cleaning it.”
“You’ll get it back for me?”
“Only if I must.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love me,” says Gus.
“Yes, I do.”
“You trust me?”
I nod.
“Then listen up, because my ex-military, all-manly man has a plan.”
“Okay,” I say, sitting up straighter, remembering what Gus said last night about my needing to hide somewhere.
“Jock inherited a house from his daddy. It’s about fifteen miles from here, out in the sticks, and he has a tenant there, Julian. Julian is ex-police or military or ex-something, I don’t know, but he’s an artist now. There’s a barn on the property, and Julian uses it for glassblowing.”
“Glassblowing?”
“Mm-hm. Real high-end stuff. Remember the private dining room at Lala’s? Over the table? It had that—”
“Oh, my God! Yes! That, like, um, Medusa chandelier?”
“—with the orange and red glass dangling down?”
“I would stare at it for hours while Tig talked to people.”
“That’s the sort of stuff Julian does, but on a smaller scale. Sculptures. Vases. He’ll take commissions for glassware. Beautiful stuff.”
“Hmm,” I hum, feeling impressed. “That chandelier was amazing.”
“So is his work.”
“And he lives out there? At Jock’s country house?”
“He does,” says Gus. His eyes flick away from mine, and I wonder what he’s not telling me.
“What else?”
Gus sighs. “Our Julian is talented and hella hot, sweet thing, but he is not the friendliest boy toy Jesus ever made.”
“What are you saying?”
“We’ll have to massage this situation a little bit.”
“Massage it?”
Gus nods. “Make it . . . palatable.”
I finally get his meaning, and my shoulders slump again, even though being unwanted is a familiar theme in my life. “He won’t want me there.”
“No, he won’t.”
“Then I’m not going,” I say. “I’ll . . . I’ll figure out something else. I’m not going to—”
“Pipe down, li’l Ash,” says Gus, putting just a bit of umph into his tone to make me listen. “You’ll stay out there because it’s Jock’s place, not Julian’s. Julian can just pretend you aren’t there, baby doll, but it’s not his call who lives there and who don’t. As long as Julian has his bedroom to himself and exclusive access to the barn, Jock can rent out the top floor of the farmhouse to anyone he wants.” Gus taps the tip of my nose with his finger. “Boop. And we want you. We want you safe, sweet girl.”
Safe. That word again. Oh, how I hate and love it at once.
“Staying with a man who doesn’t want me there.”
“Oh, he might stomp around and give you all sorts of frowny faces, but, like I said, he’s some sorta ex-law enforcement. He won’t touch a hair on your head . . .” Gus half grins, looking saucy. “Unless you ask him to.”
I roll my eyes. “You know I’m not like that.”
“Everybody’s like that,” Gus says. “You just haven’t had a chance, what with Sisters Mary and Margaret breathing down your sweet neck for the past five years.”
“I’m not like her,” I insist, lifting my chin a little. “I’ll never be like her.”
Gus’s brows furrow momentarily, and it looks like he’s about to say something, but then I watch him think better of it. He takes a deep breath and nods. “That’s up to you.”
I want to change the subject. I don’t want to think about Tig, let alone chat about her. “So the plan is for me to go live out at this farmhouse in the middle of nowhere with a man who doesn’t want me there? Fabulous. Then what?”
“You said that your Father Joe is going to talk to the stepmonster, right?”
“He said he would. It’s a sin for Mosier to even consider marrying me.”
“His dead wife’s sister?”
“I’m not her sister. I mean . . . I wasn’t.”
“Oh my.” Gus looks grave. “He didn’t know you were Tig’s kid.”
I shake my head. “Father Joseph’s going to tell him.”
Gus’s eyes are deeply troubled. “How you think that’s going to go down?”
I hold my breath and shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Me neither, baby. But if it doesn’t go well, that demon beast will start looking for you.”
“I know.”
Gus sighs. “Jock still has some friends in the Marines. He thinks we should start looking into Mosier. Try to find something to give to the police.”
Never, not once in all the time I lived with Mosier, was he approached by the local police, and there was plenty of cause. They steered clear of him. Whether out of fear or in response to bribery, they left him alone.
“He has the local police in his pocket,” I say.
“Then the FBI,” says Gus. “You know he’s into all sorts of sordid shit, Ash. A guy like him has got to be on their radar.”
I think about his men with guns, about the times my mother and I were banished to the basement apartment for unknown reasons, about the bloody noses and split lips, about the time he unleashed his dogs on one of his own guards.
Huh. I’d forgotten about that. Come to think of it, I never saw that man again.
“There was a guard,” I say. “I think his name was . . .” I rack my brain. The names of Mosier’s guards are all foreign, and though my brain is good at storage and recall, it’s hard for me to remember words that I only learn phonetically. “Dragon. I think his name was Dragon. He, um, he worked for Mosier. He was a perimeter guard. One day he was there, the next day . . . he was gone.”
“Dragon, huh?” Gus rubs his lower lip. “Nickname?”
“I don’t think so. I think that was his name.”
“What happened to him?”
I sigh. “You know? I think my brain filed this as a dream, but it wasn’t.”
“What wasn’t?”
“I was in bed, but the dogs woke me up. Barking. Loud, you know? Snarling. I looked down at the courtyard in front of the house, and two guys were holding Dragon. He was limp, and his face was bloody. Mosier punches him in the face while they hold him, and then they release him. He falls on the ground but tries to get up. Like, he was in so much pain, he almost couldn’t move, but he somehow manages to get up, holding his ribs, and Mosier yells something at him. He turns and tries to run toward the gates, but he’s slow and clumsy. Just as he gets to the edge of the light, close to the gates, the dogs . . . the dogs were on metal chains, but Mosier walked over to their handler and unclipped them. I watched them race into the darkness, following the man.” I gulp, hating that I have gruesome memories like this one stuck in my head. “I jumped back in bed. I don’t remember anything else. In fact, I think I tried to convince myself it was just a dream. But . . . but, Gus . . . I never saw that guard again.”
“When was this, Ash?”
I purse my lips, trying to remember. “Maybe, um, two or three years ago? There was still some snow on the ground. I remember because Dragon was barefoot. I thought his feet must have been freezing.”
Gus nods. “Okay. I’ll tell Jock. I don’t know if it’ll lead anywhere, but at least it’s a start.”
“You’re going to try to get him arrested? Mosier?”
“If he’s behind bars, he can’t get to you, li’l Ash.”
I stare at Gus, t
hinking that he has no idea how strong Mosier is, how far his reach extends, how brutally he will retaliate if he discovers that Gus and Jock are poking around in his affairs.
“Don’t do anything dangerous, Gus. Please. Promise me.”
Gus cups my face, a gentle smile on his lips. “Life is dangerous, baby doll. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.”
“I can’t lose you too,” I whisper.
Gus drops his hands and stands up. “Then get dressed. The sooner we get you over to Julian’s place, the sooner I can breathe easy again.”
***
The drive to Jock’s farmhouse takes a little under half an hour over quiet roads dotted with farms both well-kept and dilapidated—quiet Americana in the middle of nowhere. Gus was right: it’ll be the perfect place to hide for a while.
We turn down a nondescript road with farms on both sides, and then down another with woods on both sides. The woods thin to a clearing, and up ahead I see a house, barn, and meadow, with a circular gravel driveway in front. We pull in, and Jock cuts the engine as I look out the window.
The house and barn are pristine.
No flecks of peeling paint dot the shingles of the house, and the barn is a soothing maroon in the late-morning sun. The garden around the house blooms with sunflowers turning their cheerful faces to the sky, and a weather vane caps the roof’s peak. It feels more like a top-rated bed-and-breakfast than a private home, and as I leave the car, I breathe deeply, feeling hopeful that this place will welcome me, even if its tenant does not.
“What do you think?” asks Gus.
“It’s lovely.”
“Yes, it is. P.C. renovated it when he came back from Afghanistan. It’s how he dealt with everything.”
“Hey,” I ask Gus as Jock walks over to the barn and knocks on a maroon door with bright white trim, “how did you two meet anyway?”
“The Cape,” says Gus. “He was browsing in an art gallery. I saw him through the window. I took one look and I died. I had to have him.”
I nod, remembering that Gus had always loved his P-town getaways.
“Just like that?
“Oh, honey,” says Gus. “When you know, you know. And with Jock? I knew. I knew the second I looked at him. He was mine, and that was that.”
My eyes skitter to the barn, where I can hear voices raised in increasing anger. Suddenly a man comes stalking out of the door, wearing a T-shirt, jeans, and black leather gloves that cover his forearms. He takes them off and tucks them under his arm as he approaches me.
“Are you kidding me, Jock?” he asks over his shoulder, practically spitting the words. “Goddamnit.”
Jock calls to the man from the barn door, and that’s when I see a reddish-brown hound escape from behind Jock, rushing across the driveway toward me.
A dog!
I feel my face split into a grin. I love dogs. With the exception of Mosier’s attack animals, I have always loved dogs, but Tig never let me have one. There’s a dog here? Oh, God, please let this work out.
I squat down, holding out my hand to the animal as he approaches. He sniffs my hands before letting me pet him behind pendulous, curtainlike, velvet-soft ears. “Hello, baby. You’re so beautiful, you sweet, sweet girl.”
“He’s male,” spits a voice over my head.
I look up, rising slowly, unable to look away from the man yelling at me.
Eyes.
Bright green and heavily lashed, they widen in surprise, staring into mine for a long and life-changing moment before they narrow with anger, sliding away from me and back to Jock.
I don’t hear anything as his voice lowers to a point of fury, likely telling Jock all the reasons I am unwanted here. Usually it would sting a little to watch someone reject me summarily on first meeting, but I am so mesmerized by his face, by his body, by his rugged and innate beauty, I can barely breathe, let alone force my ears to function in any sort of meaningful way.
He is tall. Taller than me, six two or six three, with a clearly defined, muscled body under a gray T-shirt and beat-up jeans slung low on his hips. He wears boots that, in the sunlight, appear to be flecked with a million pieces of diamond dust—they twinkle every time he moves them. With his hands on his hips, the cords of sinew in his forearms pop just enough to create a map of trails that lead to his wrists and hands. The backs of his hands, like his boots, are dusted with diamonds, and when he raises one to reinforce one of the many reasons I absolutely may not stay here, it catches the sunlight and sparkles.
As I stare at his hand, I realize it’s quiet—really quiet—and the silence startles me back to reality.
I look at Gus, who darts a quick and disappointed glance at Julian.
“Happy now?”
I slide my eyes—slowly, bracing myself for impact all the while—to Julian, watching him flinch, his jaw tight and his pink lips pursed as he regards me.
“I’m not trying to offend you,” he huffs.
“I’m . . . not offended,” I answer, my voice lower than usual. I’m being honest. I haven’t heard a single word he’s said.
“Of course she’s fucking offended,” says Jock, the expletive almost comical when delivered in his British accent.
But Gus knows better, and the expression on his face proves it. He knows that I am accustomed to being rejected and it doesn’t bother me in the way it would shock and distress another woman.
“She has nowhere else to go,” he says quietly.
“And this is my land,” Jock adds with quiet steel, his gentility back in check.
“So you’re going to force me to have this . . . this . . . this girl stay here.”
But this does offend me, in fact, because I’ve been waiting to be a woman for a long time, and at eighteen, I’m allowed to wear the title.
“I’m an adult,” I hear myself say.
“Barely,” he shoots back, his eyes changing color to a dark and angry evergreen.
“I’ll stay out of your way. I’m good at that.”
He yanks his gaze away from me, gesturing to a dilapidated, outhouse-looking structure in a field, about a hundred yards away from where we’re standing. “Fine. The cottage is all hers.”
“The . . . cottage?” I grimace, wondering how many species of mouse I’ll be sharing the “cottage” with.
“It’s not habitable,” argues Jock.
“I’ll fix it up.”
“No deal,” says Jock. “She stays in the house.”
“Absolutely not.”
“The second floor,” suggests Gus, looking up at the round window at the peak of the old house. “Give Ash the attic.”
“There’s no kitchen up there.”
“She’ll only use the kitchen when you’re working.”
“Fuck this,” mutters Julian, running a hand through his hair and looking pissed. “Fine! But I stay rent free as long as she’s here.”
“Done,” says Jock, holding out his hand to shake on it.
Julian raises his sparkling hand and shakes with his landlord before putting his gloves back on and leveling an angry gaze at me. “Stay the fuc—” He pauses, his jaw ticking as he struggles for self-control. Finally he manages to grind out: “Stay out of my way.”
“No prob—” I start to say, but he turns on his heel and stalks back to the barn, disappearing into its inky depths. The dog stares up at me for a moment, his hound eyes mournful, as though wishing he could apologize for his owner’s rough behavior. After a beat, he turns forlornly and lumbers after his master.
“That went well,” says Gus.
“Moody bastard,” mutters Jock.
Gus sighs as he flicks a lustful glance toward the barn. “But you must admit, he is sex on a stick, and then some.”
“What?” exclaims Jock. “Keep your eyes in your head, Gigi. That ass is not yours to tap.”
Gus shrugs. “But lovely to look at.”
“He’s straighter than Gisele’s hair after a Brazilian blowout.”
Chuckling a
s he crosses to Jock, Gus cups his partner’s bristly cheeks and pecks him on the lips. “Ain’t no harm in lookin’, P.C. My heart and my ass belong to you.”
Something inside me pinches hard as I watch this genuine display of affection between two humans who endured so much before finding each other . . . especially when they’re about to leave me with someone who so obviously doesn’t want me here.
As though he can hear my thoughts, Gus says, “You okay with this, li’l Ash?”
I force a smile and nod. “It’ll be fine. I’m grateful.”
“You’re a good actress,” says Jock under his breath.
I take a deep breath, glancing at the barn before turning back to the happy couple. “I can handle him. He doesn’t want me here, fine. I have no problem staying out of his way. He’ll barely know I’m around.”
Gus’s eyes are troubled as he stares at me for a second, then nods. “That’s true. You’re good at flying under the radar, Ash. Maybe a little too good.”
“He won’t bother you,” says Jock, gesturing toward the house. Gus links his elbow with mine, and we follow Jock across the gravel driveway and up the steps.
Jock opens a squeaky screen door, and we step inside the coolness of his family’s old house.
Some places hold on to the evil or goodness of the people who have inhabited them, the planes of time helpless against the emotions that have ricocheted off walls and been quietly recorded and contained within a space.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply.
Chocolate chip cookies.
Laughter.
Christmas carols.
Tears.
Cinnamon.
Sweat.
Dried roses.
Good news.
Bad news.
Love.
Life.
This house—this instantly sacred place—reaches into my heart and squeezes, at once sharing its past and inviting me into its present.
Opening my eyes, I sigh with a longing so deep and painful, it makes my vision blurry with tears. Here, I will be safe, I think to myself, wondering how such words dare to bubble up to the top of my consciousness when I barely understand their meaning.
But lives have been loved here and shared here, broken and mended, lived and lost. And now my life, small though it is, will be a part of it too. There is quiet comfort in the idea. Fellowship. Solidarity.