Calico

by Callie Hart

  The day is bright and fresh. The stifling humidity that’s had Port Royal in its chokehold has eased, and a gentle, cool breeze teases at the boughs of the huge live oak that presides over the cemetery at St. Regis of Martyr’s Catholic Church. It sounds like the wind is whispering to us as we gather by the tiny graveside, heads bowed, sad but light at the same time.

  Friday, Tina and Shane were the only people we asked to attend. No one else really mattered. The only other person I would have wanted here is Jo. Callan’s sad that his mother isn’t with us now, too. I can read it all over him. In a way she is, though. The tiny grave we’ve had prepared for our son is right on top of hers. I know wherever she is, she’s watching over our baby in the same way that she watches over us every day.

  Sam the Priest was a literal godsend when we told him what we wanted to do. He didn’t ask questions when we told him we had no paperwork. He didn’t say a word when we told him he couldn’t inspect the body.

  He and Callan went out at first light and dug the hole on top of Jo’s grave, shallower, closer to the surface, but still right there with her. In time we’ll have a stonemason come and engrave our son’s name on the headstone beneath hers, but for now Callan asked me to paint a series of birds onto the polished marble. They’ll wash away. In a short space of time, the wind and the sun will wear at them until they disappear, but for now it’s a fitting tribute.

  Tina sobs uncontrollably as Sam stands over the narrow maw of earth at his feet and speaks. Callan and I are one, his arms wrapped around me, my head resting on his chest. We take comfort in one another as we listen.

  “I know none of you are churchgoers, so don’t even bother pretending,” Sam says, sending a bemused glance around our small group. “But I am a man of God, and I believe in his infinite mercy. Children are one of his most sublime gifts. There are many quotes that I could read right now, some that are directly relevant to the passing of the innocent, but I thought this particular piece of scripture was fitting. It’s from the Song of Solomon.” He clears his throat softly and continues in hushed tones. “My beloved speaks and says to me: "Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.” Sam turns to us, then, and smiles sadly.

  “Callan, Coralie, your son was called away a long time ago but he remains with you still. When two souls come together to create life, they each dedicate a small part of themselves to their child. Once this is done, death can’t sever the ties between you. You don’t need to believe in God to believe that. This might not be a theory that my superiors would necessarily smile upon, but no matter what we are or who created us, we’re all energy. And energy that becomes bound together by love cannot be torn apart. Not by time. Not by grief and pain. Not even the veil of death.”

  Callan grips me tighter, standing still as a statue as Sam finishes his sermon. He speaks eloquently, gently, and makes Friday turn and wander off, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of a handkerchief. Eventually, he says, “We inter the spirit of this child unto you, oh Lord. We entrust him into your care that you might watch over him into the eternities. May you bless him and keep him always. We name him…?” Sam gives Callan and me a questioning look. We both answer at the same time.

  “We name him Joseph.”

  *****

  “So what now?” Shane slams back a shot of Jamison’s and grimaces. Tina hands him another one, which is surprising but I think she wants to get drunk. Since she can’t, she’s enabling her husband by pouring hard liquor down his throat. Shane points a finger at Callan and then swings it at me like it’s an offensive weapon. “Los Angeles? Or New York? And don’t tell me you guys aren’t gonna fucking sort this out once and for all and finally be together, ‘cause I will literally stab you.”

  Three stools down, Sheriff Mason’s beer halts halfway to her mouth; she turns to look at Shane, frowning.

  “Not literally, of course, Amanda. More figuratively,” Shane says.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  When he turns back around, third shot in his hand, he has a fierce scowl on his face, though. “I’ll do it,” he hisses. “I know all the best places to bury a body around here. Mmm. Speaking of which, does this mean you’re not sticking around for your father’s funeral now?”

  “No fucking way she is,” Callan says. “She’s going back to LA in the morning and I’m going back to New York. We both have some…things to sort out. After that, we’re moving to Colorado.”

  Shane nearly spits his whiskey out. “What now?”

  “It’s kind of in the middle, Shane. And we’ll both be closer to Port Royal, too, so quit complaining.”

  I never thought being closer to Port Royal would be a consideration, but now that my father is gone, well, I guess it is. My mother is buried here. Jo is buried here. And now Joseph has had a proper burial here too. It feels right that we might come back here once in a while and visit them.

  “You’re both lucky, I suppose,” Tina says. “You’re creative types. You can work anywhere in the world.”

  “Exactly.” I hold up my own shot of whiskey and the other guys clink their glasses against mine. “And there are plenty of things to paint and take pictures of in Colorado, too.”

  Callan gives me a secret smile. He kisses me lightly, brushing a stray wisp of hair out of my face as he peppers my cheek with soft touches from his lips.

  My heart feels so full. When Ezra called and told me I needed to come back here, it felt like the hardest thing in the world. I didn’t think I was going to make it. The darkness that I associated with this place, the darkness that fueled my demons threatened to drag me under once and for all. I never imagined that coming back here would instead fix anything. Lay some of those demons to rest. I’m not foolish enough to think that I’m free and clear of the baggage I’ve been dragging around with me since I left twelve years ago, but now I don’t know. Somehow, that baggage seems more manageable. At some point in the future, I get the feeling that the weight of my burdens might even become barely noticeable.

  Callan peppers me with kisses again. “Come outside with me,” he whispers. “I have something I want to give to you.” I think my panic must show on my face. He laughs. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing scary.”

  In front of the bar, Callan reaches into his pocket and pulls out something that makes my eyes prick: it’s a disposable camera, exactly the same as the ones he used to give me when we were together before. He looks pained, almost embarrassed even. “I thought about just getting you a point and shoot camera. Would have been much easier for you to use and much smaller, too. But…I don’t know.” He shrugs with one shoulder as he holds it out to me. “I was hoping that you’d restart our little challenge. This time fuck ten years, though. We should develop these pictures after a year. And we should do it together.”

  He told me how he’d developed my pictures and found my painting of the three birds. At some point we’ll go through the remainder of the cameras and develop them all. There are countless stories, jokes and secrets stored on those rolls of film. It would be a shame not to revisit them, even if they do bring up painful memories from the past. I take the disposable camera from him, grinning down at it. “Sure. I think that would be fun. I’m looking forward to it.” Looking down at the body of the camera, I see that the small window displaying how many shots have been taken is already set to thirty-one again, just like it was when Callan gave me that very first camera on my birthday.

  “You cheated again?” I ask, pointing at the small white number through the plastic. “Is this another I love you message? Because if it is, you’re a little behind the curve ball on that one, Callan Cross. I figured that out a long time ago.”

  Callan bites back a smile, taking me into his arms. I have to cra
ne my neck to look up at him, squinting a little like I don’t trust him. Callan may be doing a fantastic job of pretending that he doesn’t want to grin like an idiot right now, but he can’t hide what’s in his eyes. “It’s not that, I promise,” he says.

  “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  Slowly, he shakes his head from side to side. “You’ll just have to stick with me long enough to find out, won’t you?”

  “Looks that way.” I hold the camera up to my face, taking a huge step back so I can get him all in. He laughs as I take a picture of him, head kicked back, his throat exposed to the lens. He looks perfect in that moment—peaceful, somehow. Relaxed, like everything is finally falling into place. And I suppose it really is.

  Callan takes the camera from me and winds on the film, flashing me his teeth. Meanwhile, his eyes flash with mischief and desire. We haven’t slept together since the night he burned down Malcolm’s house. We’ve spent every waking moment together, kissing and holding one another, caressing and loving, but he hasn’t been inside me. I can tell tonight that’s going to change, though.

  “Are you worried about seeing Paul again?” Callan asks. “D’you think there’s a chance you’re gonna walk through that door again and you’re going to fall madly in love with him again and forget all about me?”

  “You know perfectly well that his name is Ben. And no, I’m not worried about seeing him. We haven’t been right for each other for years. And I’m a much stronger person now than I was when I left California. I’m going to pack up my things and drive on out of there without even looking back. What about you, though? What was yours called? Stevie?” I poke my tongue out at him.

  “Rae. And Rae and I were never dating. We were just friends.”

  “With benefits.”

  The camera goes back into his pocket. He steps forward, cupping my face in both of his hands. “But I never saw her, Coralie. I never saw anyone but you. The first time we ever spoke, when you were buried under all of those books, sprawled out on the floor, I only saw you. You were everything. You still are. It took me a day or two to get over the hurt of what you told me, bluebird. But when I locked myself in my bedroom and developed those pictures you took, there was no hurt left. No room for anger. Just sadness for the things we went through, and a steel determination that neither of us should have to go through anything like that again. Do you promise me that, Coralie? God, promise to share everything with me now, no matter what?”

  I try to dip my head, my eyes burning as I try to stave off tears, but Callan won’t let me look away. He ducks down so that we’re at eye level with one another, and I can see how much he needs me to give him this. Not because he doesn’t trust me. Not because he’s not being honest with me and he is still angry. He needs me to give this to him because he loves me, and when I hurt he hurts. He needs to know I’ll give him the opportunity to save me, even if my pride doesn’t want me to.

  I nod, swallowing hard. “I promise. I swear.” He kisses me again, and this time it’s not the gentle butterfly kisses he was landing on me inside the bar. It’s deep and penetrating. He claims me with his mouth, our lips pressed together hard, his hands in my hair, his breath warm and labored. When he pulls back, he leans his forehead against mine, smiling softly.

  “The present and the future can’t change the past,” he whispers. “But the passing of time makes the pain at our backs less severe. All we have to do is face forward and look into the light. Behind us may be dark, bluebird, but I know it in my bones. There are great things up ahead.”

  EPILOGUE

  CORALIE

  Colorado

  I rarely think about my time in Los Angeles. It seems so surreal now, to imagine that I spent so long there, living such a strange, muted life. I told Tina when I was back in Port Royal that I preferred working alone in my studio, never really seeing anyone from day to day, and at the time I believed that. That changed when Callan and I moved to Colorado, though. The house we bought overlooks the North Platte River, over an endless sea of forest and mountains, and I’ve started hosting artist retreats. People come from all over the country to stay in the tiny cabins we’ve had built on our land, and I teach them how to paint and draw. It’s far more rewarding than the solitary existence I used to live.

  Callan still has to travel for shoots, but he’s home more often than he’s not these days. He’s stopped doing fashion photography altogether. He almost solely works for wildlife and nature magazines, which he seems to enjoy way more than the lifestyle and studio stuff.

  We climb. We hike. We swim. We make love. We make love a lot. Being with Callan again seems to have awoken me sexually. I was a kid when I lost my virginity to him. Sex was so new and kind of overwhelming. I was always scared that I was going to do something wrong, that I wasn’t going to satisfy him. That isn’t a problem anymore, though. I know how to drive him crazy, and he knows how to tip me over the edge. We’ve spent hour upon hour exploring each other’s bodies, telling each other what feels good. We’ve spent so much time in bed over the past ten months that there technically shouldn’t be anything left for us to discover about each other, and yet whenever he lays his hands on me it feels new. Fresh. Exciting.

  I’m sorting through my materials, reliving the last time Callan went down on me, shivering slightly, when I hear the front door slam downstairs. I jump, dropping a plastic container full of paintbrushes onto the floor, and they spill from the box, rolling across the bare floorboards.

  “Bluebird!” Downstairs, Callan hollers out for me. I hear a loud thud and then two more thuds as he kicks off his shoes. It’s a habit of his—the wall in the entrance way is scuffed and marked from where he kicks his Chucks off and they hit the paintwork every time he comes home. “Bluebird, where are you?”

  I grin, running out of the studio and onto the landing. Looking over the handrail of the bannister, I find him leaning against kitchen doorframe, looking up at me with a huge, cheesy grin plastered across his own face, too. “There she is,” he says. “What are you up to, bluebird?”

  “Tidying. What are you up to? You’re not meant to get back until tomorrow.” I run down the stairs and throw my arms around his next, laughing as he kisses my face, all over my cheeks, my forehead and my temples.

  “I got an earlier flight. I wanted to see you,” he tells me. “I missed you. And I know you missed me. Your vibrator’s probably got steam coming off it from all the over-use.”

  “Hey! So cheeky.” I slap his arm, but he’s kind of right. I’m so used to having regular, twice-daily sex with him now that going without it for a week is pretty damn tough. “Why didn’t you call me? I could have come and picked you up at the airport.”

  “Because I wanted to surprise you.” He kisses the end of my nose. “Today’s our anniversary.”

  I panic for a moment, wondering how the hell I could have forgotten, but then I realize he’s wrong. We’ve only been together ten months. Ten months since my father died. Ten months since I ended things with Ben, and Callan ended things with Rae. Ten months of pure bliss together. “I’m afraid you’re a little premature,” I tell him, tugging his bottom lip between my teeth.

  Callan’s eyes sparkle in the most dangerous way. “When have you ever known me to be premature, bluebird,” he whispers. Sliding his hand inside my shirt, he traces his fingers up until they hit my bra. He pinches my nipple through the thin fabric, making me shiver.

  “We’ve been together less than a year,” I tell him. “We’ve still got another nine weeks until August. So now. You’re premature now.” I can hardly concentrate on what I’m saying though. Having his hands on me is very distracting, especially when he’s cupping and kneading my breasts. He fixes me in his gaze, staring at me hungrily as he makes me pant.

  “It’s our ten month anniversary,” he says, smiling. “And I can’t wait any longer to give you your gift, I’m afraid. But first…” He claims me with his mouth, pressing his lips over mine, his tongue darting past my teeth t
o lick and taste me. He holds me close to him, his hands strong, one on my lower back, the other cupping the back of my neck as he kisses me. It’s an intense kiss. A Hollywood kiss that leaves me breathless, flustered and turned on in equal parts. Callan eventually stops trying to make me come with his mouth alone and he takes a step back. “Come up to the tank,” he says. “I have something I want to show you.”

  The tank is the name he gave to his permanent dark room on the second floor. I arch an eyebrow at him, sending him a bemused look. “What’s it worth?”

  “It’s worth me not putting you over my knee and spanking you for being insubordinate. That good enough?” He looks like he’s actually thinking about that, though, and from the expression on his face he thinks it would be a great idea. Maybe he wants me to be insubordinate after all.

  “I guess I’d better get moving then, huh?”

  Callan slaps me on the ass as I turn and run up the stairs. He gives me a head start and then comes charging after me, thundering up the stairs. I throw a glance over my shoulder to see if he’s gaining on me and I catch him almost falling over as he hits the top landing and skids in his socks. I can’t help myself; I let out a bark of laughter and Callan swears. “You’ll pay for that, Taylor.”

  I squeal, dashing down the hallway. I reach the door to the tank two seconds before Callan—long enough for me to duck inside the room and try to slam the door on him, but not long enough to be successful. He jams his body in the gap, laughing like a maniac as I try to push him out and close the door.

  “Give in gracefully and I’ll let you keep you panties on when I spank you,” he says.

  “Never.” I’m panting, out of breath, ribs aching from laughing so hard.

  “So be it.” He gives the door an almighty shove and I can’t keep him out any longer. I stagger back and he prowls into the room, staring up at me from under his dark brows, a predator on the hunt for his prey. “You’re in trouble now,” he says.