Abby searched his face before lying back down, her face turned toward the side of the boat. “Because that makes it more real, Matt. Because I’ve never felt like this. Because I’m leaving in less than three weeks, and if this falls apart after that, those words will echo in my head forever, and I’ll start to doubt this really happened, and that will kill me.” She took a shuddering breath. “I know. You know. That will have to be good enough.”
“You don’t have to go,” Matt murmured, curling himself even more closely around her.
“Yeah, I do. I have a life in Boston. Maybe I’ll figure something out by Christmas, I don’t know…” She trailed off, clutching Matt’s hand to her chest.
They listened to the sounds of gulls and surf until Abby chuckled. “This would be so much easier if I just wanted your body.” She turned in his arms and ran her hand up his back, tracing the muscles between his spine and his side. “It’s a nice body.”
Matt laughed. “The feeling’s mutual.” He drew back until he could look into her eyes. “I wish I could wish that I’d never met you. But I can’t.” His eyes softened and crinkled at the corners as he smiled. “You’re my muse, pretty Abby.” She smiled back, and then she snuggled against him, her head below his chin.
“Fair enough.” Abby rose lithely to her feet, stretching before she reached for her bathing suit. Matt lounged unselfconsciously, hands behind his head and feet crossed at the ankles as he watched her dress; she nudged his thigh with her toes.
“Get dressed, goofy. It’s getting late, and we need to get this beast back.”
Matt smiled and stretched. “Tell the truth. You like me all nekkid.”
“Too much. Charles probably thinks I wrecked his boat.” Her gaze traveled over his form. And then she chuckled and turned to locate her shirt. “Besides, I can’t imagine something more painful than a sunburned willie, and you’re already turning pink.”
Matt got to his feet and reluctantly pulled on his shorts after a quick and satisfactory check of the maligned part. “Lies. All white and all right. But we’ll do this your way, cap’n. Are we returning under sail or engine power?”
“Sail, I think, unless I can’t get us in that way.” Abby smiled at him. “It will take longer.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Claire met them at the edge of the patio after their uneventful trip home, apologizing again for leaving them alone before pressing them to stay for dinner. Charles stepped out the door, drink in hand, and added his invitation.
They exchanged a glance before declining, citing the long day and a desire to get to sleep in order to get an early start the next day.
Claire smiled knowingly before kissing Abby on the cheek and handing her over to Charles for a quick boat debriefing. She drew Matt into a quick hug, whispering, “See? I got you time alone on the boat—and away from work—with your sailor girl.”
Matt appraised Claire’s twinkling eyes. “No grandmother?”
“Nope. It was Mary asking what Charles wanted for dinner.”
“Crafty of him to improvise.”
“Taught him everything I know,” Claire said proudly, stepping away as Charles and Abby joined them.
Chapter Eighteen
“WELL, THAT WAS RELATIVELY PAINLESS,” Claire said in satisfaction, stepping into Matt’s studio and heading for the canvases drying along one baseboard. “I expected at least a sulk, and a hissy fit wasn’t out of the question.”
Abby laughed, starting the process of putting Matt’s clay away for the day. “Oh, he’s not as bad as that.”
Claire snorted. “You wish. He’d be going with me to this lunch no matter what, but you made it infinitely easier by backing me up.” She stopped, putting a hand on Abby’s sketchpad. “Do you mind?” She flipped through the pages. “I have to give you props. I think the hand on his forearm and the soft voice carried the day. ‘It’s just a couple of hours, right? I’ll stay up with you late tonight to make up the time you lose,’” Claire repeated Abby’s words in a whisper and then laughed. “What man’s going to turn down an offer to make it worth his while?”
“I didn’t even think of it that way. Of course, now I can’t stop.” They both chuckled. “Really, though, I do understand the magnitude of his good fortune. You can’t predict the breaks that are falling into his lap right now. A lunch with the money boys won’t kill either of us.” Abby repressed the tiny voice that cried out at the unfairness of the timing of fortune. With less than two weeks left until she went home, every minute was starting to feel precious.
“Smart woman.” Claire went back to the canvasses. “These are good, Abby. Clean lines…emotive…” She hummed to herself as she studied them.
Abby drew out some watercolor paper, hoping to catch the right light on the wild, sun-dappled wisteria that draped across the pergola outside the window. “Thanks.”
Claire watched her for a minute. “Charles’s grandmonster would like her own copy of my picture, by the way. She intends to come to our little street festival and offer you a mint to paint one for her—ask for double whatever she offers.”
Abby kept her eyes on her brush. “We’ll see how much time I have when I get home.” She tried to drum up enthusiasm for the curating work she’d done for years. “The museum is crazy busy with school tours in the fall, and we have a new exhibit of cubists.”
“Abby, what would you say if I offered you a job in my gallery?”
Trying to catch her heart’s headlong leap into her throat while keeping a cool head wasn’t easy. Abby had been working hard in her field for too damn long to devalue herself or her work. The knowledge that an unnecessary job was created for her to please her boyfriend would eat at her until she resented both Claire and Matt. But having the deepest wish—the absolute yearning—of her heart offered to her…it was hard to question.
She did any way.
Abby drew the brush down the paper. “I’d ask if the job existed before right this minute.”
“Of course.”
Abby leveled a look at Claire. “Really?”
“No.” Claire blew out a breath and slumped against a table. “But it could. Look how much help you’ve been to me this summer. I could have never dealt with the freaks coming out of the woodwork lately by myself. You didn’t even bat an eye when that woman brought in the stuffed woodchucks and called them art.” Claire shuddered. “And now Charles has decided to add musical talent to the mix, and that all has to be organized. I need you, Abby. Someone has to deal with Tyler Oda and his band of weirdoes.”
Abby let out a guffaw. “Tell you what. If you still find that you need me after this—and I mean it, you have to really need the help—I’ll be happy to apply for the position in December.”
“No kept woman, huh?”
“Nope.”
“You take the fun out of being rich.” Claire sighed. “I’m supposed to be able to get whatever I want with my magic checkbook.”
“Tough.” Abby stood. “Shall we see if that man of mine is ready to go hobnob?”
“If we must.” Claire looked around the studio. “Where’s Matt’s Pretty?”
“He’s having a bronze made. Horrible?”
“Smart. Best thing he’s ever done. Now, about our homegrown talent or lack thereof…”
They walked out of the studio discussing stage placement and how to best display the variety of arts and crafts that had been submitted. At the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, Claire, who was in the lead, came up short and sighed, leaning to the side so Abby could look around her.
Matt stood at the ironing board in his boxers, long muscles in his back stretching and contracting as he ran an iron over the mostly smooth shirt.
“Some men should not be allowed to wear clothes,” Claire whispered. “They should just walk around butt nekkid for my viewing pleasure.”
“I heard that, and I’m telling Charles,” Matt said, his shoulders shaking with laugher. He carefully set the iron on its butt and swu
ng the shirt around to put it on.
“Go ahead. I wasn’t stricken blind or stupid just because I got married.” Claire grinned and tossed him the pants that lay across the chair nearest her. “Besides, Charles reaps all the benefits of my contemplating pretty surfers, so he’s not complaining. You have five minutes to meet me in the car.” She kissed Abby on the cheek, slid her large sunglasses over her eyes, and stepped out onto the porch.
Matt laid his slacks over the end of the ironing board and walked over to envelop Abby in his warm shirt, wrapping it around her to pull her against his warmer skin. “Are you sure you’re okay with this, Abby? ’Cause I can stay right here. I’m not afraid of Claire.”
“Three minutes, Clarke.”
The sharp voice coming from the porch made him jump, and Abby laughed. “Liar.”
“Maybe a little,” he qualified, “but not too scared to say no to her if you ask me to stay.”
Abby closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest, listening to the thrum of his heart and attempting to marshal her rebellious tongue. She’d been flippant with Claire earlier, but she respected the opportunities that Matt was being offered, opportunities for which some artists worked a lifetime. If what was between them had any chance of working, it couldn’t start with his sacrifice of this chance.
So, she contented herself with wrapping her arms tightly around him before stepping back. “Shoo. I’m going to putter around here. I have to pretend to be a serious artiste, remember?”
He cupped her face and tipped it upward. “You are an artist.”
Unwilling to look into his eyes for more than a few seconds, afraid that her desire for him to stay was too clear, Abby kissed him hard before lifting the pants he’d set aside. “Yeah, yeah…and you’re over your five-minute limit.”
Claire said from the doorway, “You two are ridiculous.” The amusement in her voice belied her scathing words. “I will take you to this thing pantless, Matt. Who knows, that might appeal to a couple of these gentlemen.”
“On that note…” Matt caught the slacks Abby handed him and slid them on. He yanked her against him and up, bending her back until his mouth was against the shell of her ear. “Think about me all day. I’ll be home before you know it.” He nuzzled under her ear, lips seeking the sensitive spot right below her earlobe and making her shiver. Abby was still frozen to the spot as the screen door slammed and she heard Matt’s laugh drift back to her even as Claire criticized his lack of socks.
Home. Abby looked around, scratching a spot on her right calf with the opposite big toe as she scanned the rooms. Evidence of her life there, however brief it might have been, was everywhere. Her socks and shoes tumbled companionably with Matt’s in the basket next to the door, her shirt dried on the back of a kitchen chair, her beloved copy of The End of the Affair lay open on the arm of the couch, a cheerful mug she’d spotted in the shop of a local potter sat on the kitchen table. The scents of her lavender soap and favorite coffee mixed with leather from Matt’s furniture and the citrusy body wash he favored, all entwined with the scent of the ocean that curled through the perpetually open windows to create a potpourri that whispered home to her heart.
Abby sank to the floor, unable to still the tremors that shook her. She summoned a vision of the small apartment that she’d called home for over a decade. She’d been lucky to find anything near the city that she could afford, and she’d poured all of the art that lingered in her soul into making it bright and lovely, a comfortable haven in a busy world. It made her smile to recall all the hours it had taken her to find the furniture that filled her world, and she had a moment’s wistfulness for the aged chintz-covered club chair that was her comfy spot. She imagined it next to Matt’s bookcases; she should be ensconced there with a book and her grandmother’s afghan, Matt smiling at her over his own book from his favorite corner of the couch. An insistent thought played over and over in her head: What if I took Claire’s offer?
A cheerful Celtic tune from the kitchen counter startled Abby out of a pleasant daydream of pulling a sweater over her head and watching a November storm roll in off the ocean while she stayed safely snuggled against Matt’s chest. The start of the second verse brought her to her feet. She glanced at the caller ID on her phone—she’d stopped taking calls from the museum the day she’d decided to stay with Matt, and she wasn’t about to take one now—and smiled.
“Hello, Sarah,” she said, settling into a kitchen chair and leaning against the wall, ready for a chat.
“How’s my beach bunny?” Abby could hear sloshing and imagined her friend holed up in her darkroom.
“Is it safe to use your phone in the darkroom?”
“I covered the screen with duct tape. Duh. How’s wetsuit man?”
“Perfect in all ways. You dream of that suit, and you know it.”
“Lies. I lost all beach memory when my knight in shining…tie and leather shoes came to rescue me. That’s my story, and I’m sticking with it. I never even think of swim trunks or wet thighs.” They both snorted laughter. “So, what’s up in the land of ease?”
That launched a rambling conversation about the Santa Cruz residents that Sarah knew, an update on the statues and the art camp, and settled on the upcoming Cruz art show. Sarah laughed as Abby regaled her with stories of the beautiful and bizarre things she was responsible for displaying and squealed at the mention of music being included, saying she knew for a fact that there was incredible talent based around Santa Cruz. Abby was about ready to tell her about Claire’s job offer when Sarah interrupted.
“You’ll never guess who I ran into outside Macy’s yesterday. A2—from your building? She asked if I’d let her in to have a look around your apartment! She wants your view—said the landlord would let her switch apartments as soon as you give notice. Can you believe the brass balls on her?” Sarah didn’t wait for Abby’s answer. “I told her hell no and that you’d be home in two weeks. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“I’m supposed to be home in a little less than that,” Abby answered evasively.
“Exactly. Only a complete dumbass would throw away a place like that and a good job for a summer fling. Now that I’m home with David, that seems so clear.” Sarah laughed, not seeming to notice Abby’s silence. “Everyone knows that no matter how bright things look in summer, real life is a deal breaker. I mean, change is a great mantra, but can you imagine gambling your whole life on a fling? I must have been insane.”
Abby sleepwalked through the rest of the conversation, laughing automatically when Sarah paused and asking the right questions about the friends they shared in Boston. She tried to feign interest in David’s latest work turmoil, barely restraining herself from remarking that an editor at the Boston Globe would always be jumping from one fire to the next. Her mind drifted to Matt’s quiet calm, even as he worked hard and fast to complete Baker’s commission. No amount of tension stayed long in his home or his body. It seemed to float away on the wind and the water, and Abby could no more see him happy in David’s bustling city position than she could imagine him swallowing broken glass. But he’d lived in Philadelphia—was he happy there? She realized that she didn’t know the answer to that question any more than she knew if she could really give up the energy of Boston for a perpetual vacation. The bubble of happy “what ifs” burst, and a swell of sorrow begin to crest in her chest.
“Abby, are you listening to me?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“I thought you’d wandered off there. Anyway, do you think Matt would want it? My aunt is going to throw it out. I guess real shabby isn’t chic enough for her.”
Abby rewound the conversation in her head to find the part where Sarah had asked if Matt wanted the wicker loveseat. “Um…I don’t know. I can ask him when he gets hom—here later. Or I guess I can go pick it up, if she’s antsy, and let him decide later.”
“Excellent! I’ll text her that you’ll be over.” Sarah paused for a second, and her voice was softer when she next sp
oke. “I’ll be so glad to see you. I miss you. Will it be too hard to come home?”
Abby had to try a couple of times before words could get past the lump in her throat. “A bit. I’ll probably survive.” But maybe not.
After a few more minutes of planning and jokes, they said goodbye. The phone hung loosely in Abby’s hand as she stared into space.
What was she thinking to even consider Claire’s offer? She and Matt had a plan, a perfectly workable plan that would bring them back together in December. If they couldn’t keep something together for three months apart, was there really anything there in the first place? Abby moaned, feeling torn inside at the thought that this…thing…this huge, wonderful, warm thing that filled her could be nothing more than a crush. The thought of the feelings they shared trickling away to die a quiet death horrified her. She’d heard too many awkward, post-relationship conversations to think they were rare.
She took a deep breath, putting away the fantasy of relocating her favorite things from home to these quiet rooms. If two weeks was all she had guaranteed…“Enjoy to the fullest and move on,” Abby murmured, getting to her feet.
Getting the loveseat out of the cramped hatchback when she got back to Matt’s wasn’t easy. Abby leaned as far into the back of the car as she could and prayed that her shorts weren’t crawling up her ass. Cursing, she tugged at it. “Come on, you stupid mother—” She ended on a shriek as a snagged nail popped free, and she toppled backward.
Visions of a cracked skull flashed through her mind an instant before strong hands caught her under the arms. Abby looked up and saw Jason’s deep dimples. “If I’d had a camera, I might have let you fall. Hello, YouTube,” he joked. Setting Abby on her feet, Jason easily extracted the loveseat and held it up with one hand. “Where do you want this?” Brushing off her declarations that she could handle it, he headed for the front porch. He set it at one end of the empty porch and sat down. “Got some iced tea for a hard-working man?”
After getting them both a glass and bringing a chair out from inside, Abby sat down. They chatted awkwardly about the weather, dancing around the elephant of what they’d been to each other at the beginning of the summer. Abby was a little sad that the camaraderie they’d shared since the first night in the bar seemed impossible.
The Art of Appreciation Page 24