by Mindy Klasky
“Right,” Lexi said. “We could have done the Walk of Shame down the center of Main Street. And you just know Anne would have served up omelets for both of us, without a single editorial comment.”
“It sounds like you two deserved a few editorial comments,” her best friend retorted, to the amusement of the crowd.
“I didn’t hear anyone complaining,” Lexi said, looking up to heaven with mock innocence. “Not in the privacy of my own little bedroom. Not all day Saturday. Or Sunday either.” She held up her plastic cup, saluting her girlfriends’ good-natured cheers before she tilted her wrist toward the box of white wine on the card table at the front of the room.
She wasn’t going to tell them about Finn’s nightmare on Friday night. And there was no reason to mention she’d spent all day Monday waiting for him to come work in the store. He’d told her he was stopping by the Dawsons first thing, dropping off the Harmony Town gift and paying his respects. He’d drive down to Winchester after that, pick up supplies for the tabletop display of Cedar Creek. It was her own crazy brain that had made her perk up every single time the damn bell rang over the front door.
Megan obligingly filled Lexi’s cup before topping off her own. When the lawyer sat back in her folding chair, she worried at her wedding band. Rumor had it that Megan and Ethan were going through a rough spot. If that’s what you called it when Ethan had been caught literally with his pants down last month, attending his twentieth high school reunion, banging the woman who’d been his senior year prom date. The yoga class offered a respectful minute of silence in case Megan wanted to talk about it.
Rule One of Tammy Yeager’s Yoga Night on Mondays: No one had to talk about anything she didn’t want to talk about.
Okay, that was actually Rule Two. Rule One was: There is no yoga at Yoga Night.
Between appointments at Namastyle, Harmony Springs’ most popular hair salon and yoga studio, Tammy taught classes during the week—yoga and pilates in the back room while old-fashioned hair dryers hummed in the front room. But Monday nights at eight p.m. were sacred: A box of mediocre wine, a sleeve of plastic cups, and chocolate. Always lots of chocolate.
And all the gossip Harmony Springs cared to share.
Olivia Park leaned forward abruptly, her stick-straight black hair swaying like a curtain. The elementary school teacher sounded like she was reading a book out loud when she said, “I heard your soldier boy was part of some special unit in Iraq, training elite assassins or something.”
Her soldier boy. Lexi pursed her lips. “His name’s Finn. And he was in Afghanistan. They were shutting down American bases, turning them over to the Afghan government.”
Anne’s older sister Emily, distracted them all, setting aside her knitting to remove the foil from a particularly stubborn Hershey’s Kiss. Emily was a Yoga Night regular, using the time to catch up on knitting samples for her yarn store, Harmony Skeins. Lately, she’d eschewed romantic gossip for updates on her pitched battle with the guy who owned the American Dollar down the street. Emily was leading the charge for stores like The Christmas Cat to survive for the long haul.
Now, Emily enunciated around her morsel of sweet chocolate, saying, “I heard your guy’s from one of those super-rich Boston families. You know—pahk the cah in Hahvahd yahd. He has season tickets to Red Sox games. Patriots, too.”
Lexi sighed. “He’s from Boston. But I don’t think he’s heir to any fortune. Not if he’s staying at the Hyland Motel.”
Heather March took a slow sip of wine before she said, “Hank and Marge are thinking about closing up early this year. Your Finn might have to find another place to stay.”
It didn’t occur to Lexi to question the librarian. Hank and Marge Emerson closed the Hyland Motel on January 1 every year, so they could spent the most brutal part of the winter in Tampa. There wasn’t exactly a booming demand for run-down motel rooms on a two-lane county road in the middle of a Shenandoah Valley winter.
Where would Finn go if the Emersons kicked him out? He didn’t seem like the type to take over a suite at the General Washington Inn.
As Lexi silently fretted, Tammy gave her a sympathetic glance. “My first husband would say you’re holding stress in your second chakra.”
Tammy had been married at least five times. When she wanted to offer spiritual advice—with a healthy dose of sexual therapy—she’d quote her first husband, a guru she’d met when she was only seventeen. Her second husband was an auditor for the IRS; he let Tammy proclaim financial truths. Her third husband had been a real estate broker, and her fourth was a gynecologist. Tammy never mentioned her fifth husband. Something about him was responsible for her being single these days.
Tammy went on in a matter-of-fact tone: “Your pleasure center needs to relax for you to receive new sensations.”
Anne pursed her lips. “I think Lexi’s pleasure center received plenty of new sensations over the weekend.”
As Lexi spluttered a protest, Tammy’s hands carved out a sacred space in the air in front of her. Her voice took on a dreamy yoga-instructor tone. “If your black lotus was truly receptive to Finn, you should have orgasmed at least six times.”
Lexi felt her cheeks flame crimson. Glancing at Megan for lawyerly support, she said, “I think I’ll take the fifth on that.”
Tammy pushed on, overly eager to clarify. “Orgasm doesn’t have to come from penetration. Your second chakra opens from oral stimulation as well, and from manual—”
Lexi thought she might melt into the center of the hair salon floor. Megan finally seemed to understand the desperate message Lexi was sending her way, because the attorney looked at her watch and said, “Whoops, ladies. That’s enough yoga for me. I promised Ava I’d check her math homework before she goes to bed.”
The other women made their own departure noises. Olivia picked up the box of wine; this week had been her treat. Heather made quick work of returning the folding chairs to their place in the corner. Tammy double-checked that no one had left anything behind before she turned off the lights in the mirrored studio. She locked the door, testing the knob twice before she gave out a round of quick hugs. “See you next week,” she said. “Unless anyone wants to attend a real class before then.”
They offered their usual lousy excuses. Tammy walked down the street toward her home on Washington. Megan hopped behind the wheel of her brand new Mercedes, a peace offering from Ethan. Olivia and Heather headed toward the little Cape Cod they shared, holding hands against the December chill. Anne gave her sister a hug, waiting until Emily headed toward her own place before Anne turned back to Lexi. Her eyes were dark and appraising.
“What?” Lexi asked.
“Don’t listen to Tammy. Six orgasms or not, you are not asking Finn to move in when Hank and Margie leave town.”
“Of course not! What type of slut do you think I am?”
“Lexi…”
“I won’t ask him to move in. I promise.” And she wouldn’t. Because it was one thing to feed a man Pop-Tarts, to shriek when he tugged at the belt on your flannel robe, to tumble back into tangled sheets not one hour after they’d finally made their way out of bed…
It was another to keep a secret, day in and day out, with that same man living two feet away. And there was no way she was going to let Finn see her scars.
Anne still didn’t believe her. Lexi held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“You dropped out of Girl Scouts.”
Yeah, she had, because she’d rather eat cookies than sell them. Lexi put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you have to be in bed soon, so you can get up and bake fresh bread for the breakfast crowd?”
Anne nodded. But she didn’t step away as she said, “Be careful, Lex.”
“I’m always careful.”
Anne opened her mouth like she was going to say something else. Closed it. Opened it again, but shook her head. “Just remember,” she finally said. “I’m here if you need me.”
Lexi laughed, and they turned
to walk in opposite directions, toward their respective homes. But Lexi wasn’t laughing when she found Finn sitting on her front porch glider.
Finn watched Lexi climb the three steps to her porch. “How long have you been waiting here?” she asked.
“Long enough to get cold. And hungry.” He reached out and pulled her onto his lap, drinking away the sound of her little shriek.
She leaned back enough to say, “I don’t have anything in the kitchen.”
“I’m not asking you to cook.” He worked his hands under the hem of her jacket.
“Hey, Finn,” she said, covering his fingers with her own. Her voice was so low he had to lean close to hear what she said. “How’d it go with the Dawsons?”
He heard the question, and all the others she didn’t ask. What are you doing here? How long are you sticking around? Are we just having a good time, or is this something more? What happens at the end of the month?
“It was hell,” he said. And it would have been, if he’d gone.
He didn’t have answers for the rest of it. So he lowered his head and kissed her slowly, the way he’d been thinking about for the entire drive back and forth to Winchester, for the two hours he’d been sitting on the goddamn porch swing.
And she must have liked something about what he said. Or didn’t say. Because she twisted on his lap, edging her left hand under his leather jacket and slipping her fingers through a loop on his belt.
He shifted his hands, trying to slide his palms from her waist to her back. He wanted to press her body against his, to feel her weight on his chest. She slipped away, though, like a fish on a line, braiding her fingers with his as she stood on her own two feet, as she pulled him onto his.
He wanted to tug her around to face him. He wanted to say that he knew what she was doing, that he knew damn well she was hiding her back, that she was disguising her bum arm.
But he wanted to follow her into the house more. He wanted to watch her kneel in front of that crazy three-legged dog, telling the hound he was the best dog in the world, the bravest, the sweetest, the most perfect dog a girl could want, before she finally got the damn thing shut away in the kitchen with a rawhide bone.
While he watched, he shucked off his coat. That way, he was ready when she came back to him. He could watch her ass sway as she crossed to her bedroom door. He could feel himself get hard as she looked over one shoulder, as she raised a single finger, curling a slow invitation.
And by the time she had his fly unbuttoned, by the time she’d pushed him back on the bed and straddled him, it wasn’t important anymore—what he knew and what he told her and how he let her know he didn’t care about whatever she was hiding. Because his blood was pounding like artillery in his head, and his hands were clutching the sheets, and sex with Lexi was better than Jack, better than anything else at drowning out the memories. For now. And that’s all that mattered.
Now.
7
One week later, Lexi skipped Yoga Night.
I can work out any time, she thought primly, conveniently overlooking the fact that Monday night yoga was never about the exercise. Besides, I have things to celebrate here.
“Can I come in yet?” she called into the back room.
“Patience is a virtue,” came Finn’s teasing voice.
“Found seldom in children, and never in men,” Lexi muttered, completing one of her mother’s favorite sayings. She paced in front of the counter. She’d already turned the sign on the front door to “Closed.” She’d counted out the day’s deposits, zipping them into the leather bag she’d drop off at the bank on her way home. She’d rearranged the gift enclosure cards by the register, making sure every one was teamed with a matching envelope, and she’d straightened the basket of wind-up toys at the end of the counter.
Truth be told, she should do a walk-through of the entire store. There had to be a way to freshen the displays, to make her stock a little more inviting. Maybe it was because of the hard freeze last week—four days where the mercury hadn’t gotten above twenty. Or maybe it was because Lexi had decided to stop dressing like a Victorian lady’s idea of Christmas, trading in her long skirts for cabled sweaters and tights. Or maybe it was the American Dollar store, doing a brisk business at the end of Main Street.
Whatever the reason, the store’s income was down almost twenty-five percent over each of the past three Decembers. And if the month before Christmas was slow, Lexi knew she could never last the three long months before spring. January, February, and March were always devastating to her bottom line; she only made rent by relying on savings.
She thrust down a twinge of nerves and called out, “Finn? Please?”
The smile on his face when he appeared in the doorway turned her knees to water. “I love to hear you beg.”
Her cheeks flamed so hot she couldn’t draw a breath. All of a sudden, they weren’t standing in The Christmas Cat, surrounded by glass windows, visible to any resident of Harmony Springs who happened to walk by. Instead, they were in her bedroom, in her bed, and Finn’s hands had slipped beneath the silk of her bathrobe, gliding between her thighs to…
His low laugh told her he was remembering his own private scene. But he held out his hand to her, inviting her to break the spell, to step into the back room. “Close your eyes,” he said as she reached his side. And she trusted him enough to do just that.
He put his hands on her shoulders, on the burgundy lambs-wool sweater dress that she’d hitched high with a patent leather belt. She was confident enough in his touch that she didn’t pull away. She barely let herself think about the scars he might feel through the knit fabric, the contours of skin that would never be soft and smooth and perfect.
Instead, she trusted him to pull her forward, to turn her a quarter circle to her right, to guide her forward until her thighs brushed against a solid edge.
“Okay,” he said, his voice so soft by her ear that she shivered. “You can open your eyes.”
And she did.
“Oh, Finn…” she breathed.
It was amazing. He was amazing.
His hands twitched as Lexi edged around the table. He wanted to make adjustments, to move some of the tin soldiers, to straighten a line here, to modify an angle there.
The figures were painted; he’d found them that way in Golden Boy’s boxes. But Finn had only sketched in the barest of landscapes, carving hills and watercourses out of Styrofoam blocks. He’d cut them into graduated shapes, like the topography maps he’d learned to read in the Army. The plain white surfaces exaggerated the elevations, made the stark battle even starker.
But he hadn’t had time to paint them, hadn’t had time to add trees and grass, the details of the landscape. Because he’d spent the better part of the past week laying out the battle of Cedar Creek in painstaking detail. He’d relied on a dozen books from the boxes at his back, reading every description of the battlefield as if it were gospel truth.
He’d run into contradictions, of course. There were variations on where the Union men had stood when the tide turned, on how Sheridan’s forces had swept through Early’s lines. He hadn’t been able to get an accurate account of the number of horses on the field, and placement of the artillery wagons was an approximation based on three competing accounts.
There weren’t any photographs of the battle itself; early cameras could never have captured the speed and impossible feats of soldiers. But he’d come across a dozen scenes of the aftermath, somber still lifes of men stacked like corkwood, limbs stiff, feet bare. He’d studied how those bodies had fallen, and he’d adjusted his depiction accordingly.
He knew too much about how men arrayed themselves to face an enemy. Even men who had never seen an urban moonscape of death, who hadn’t driven an MRAP, who’d never worried about an IED. He’d left the books open on the edges of the table, testimony to what he’d created. To why.
Lexi had walked all the way around the table, but she still hadn’t said anything, after breathing out his n
ame.
“It’s too much, I know,” he said, steeling himself to give her a way out.
“No,” she sighed. “I can’t believe you did all this in just a week.”
She could say that, but she knew he’d been getting to the shop early—she’d given him keys to let himself in. Half the time he’d come back at night, too, after he’d left her bed, instead of going back to his own freezing room at the Hyland Motel. He’d pour himself a double and dive into the history books, reading the battle accounts until a cold sweat broke out down his spine, making his breath come short, pushing him to the edge of the Tunnel. When that happened, he’d down another shot, carve at the model until the Tunnel faded away. And then he’d go back for another pass at the history books.
But it had all been worth it, if only for the look of awe on Lexi’s face. She wasn’t seeing him as the broken man who’d stumbled into her display of Christmas ornaments, the idiot who’d ruined her most valuable stock. She wasn’t even seeing him as the guy who knew exactly where to touch her, how to make her arch against him, even as he let her shield her bent right arm, acting like he never noticed how she turned her back from him.
Because who the fuck was he to make her face the truth? What right did he have to force her to show her scars when he was keeping his own under wraps?
Lexi stopped on the far side of the table. “Seriously, Finn. This is perfect.”
He flinched at the word. “There’s a lot more to do. This is just Cedar Creek. There are the battles fought at Kernstown and Winchester, the one at New Market. Those are only the major ones. I want to frame some of these photographs; they can go on the shelves next to the books. After I make the shelves. And I have to—”
But he didn’t get a chance to remind her about digging the trench outside, about diverting the creek’s overflow so the back room never flooded again. Because Lexi had come around the table and pressed her palms against his cheeks. She’d pulled his head down to hers, kissing him like she was starving and he was the only food she’d seen in weeks, months, years.