“So? Hit me with the gory details,” Sarah said, pushing her wet hair back from her forehead and smirking at Abby’s red face. “It can’t have been that bad.”
“You wanna bet?” Abby said.
Sarah sipped at her coffee and looked at Abby through narrowed eyes. “You know I’ll get it out of you eventually, right? And here—” she looked around at the almost empty shop “—is far better than Macy’s during a sale.”
“Fine,” Abby grumbled. She launched into her dream, finding that her embarrassment and horror mellowed into a wry humor and snorts of laughter as she talked.
“Good God,” Sarah snickered. “You don’t do these things by half, do you?” She broke into a belly laugh. “That was like a misguided mixture of a bodice ripper and a horror novel. What did you eat last night?”
Abby groaned. “My brain hates me.” They chuffed laughter into their cups until the barista looked at them curiously. “Everything about that was just wrong. It wasn’t Matt, for fuck’s sake. Not the sudden appearance, not the hokey words, not the rush to sex…”
“Not the Hawaiian shirt,” Sarah offered. “No, really. I’ve seen him in plain button-down shirts and plaid button-down shirts and T-shirts and, best of all, no shirt.” She laughed again when Abby threw a napkin at her. “But never a Hawaiian shirt. That would be too cliché for him. That’s the first thing that would have tipped me off that something was wrong.” She drained her cup and looked at Abby out of the corner of her eye. “Of course, you were sort of occupied…”
“Ha ha. Very funny.” Abby emptied her own cup and caught the barista’s eye, indicating that they needed refills. After the girl warmed their cups and stepped back behind the counter, Abby sighed. “This situation is a mess.”
“It sure is,” Sarah said. “You dreamed about Conor, Abby. This disturbs me on so many levels.”
Abby kicked Sarah’s chair. “I don’t see why it should. You’ve thrown us together at every chance. I’m not worried about him being in my dream at all—he was the anti-Matt for the most part. You’ve got to stop the matchmaking, Sarah. He’s a nice guy, but nowhere near what I want.”
Sarah threw her hands in the air and crowed, “She sees daylight!”
Abby grabbed her friend’s arm, jerking it down. “Would you hold it down, jackass?” she hissed. “What are you talking about?”
“Jeez, you can be dense.” Sarah lowered her voice for emphasis. “I haven’t seen anything as pitiful as the way you looked when you got home from Santa Cruz, but you refused to acknowledge that you’d made a mistake. You said you wanted things to go back to normal, so I thought, ‘Fine. If she wants normal, I’ll give it to her.’ Conor is exactly what was normal for you before we left for the summer: pleasant-looking, easy-going, and most of all, not interested in commitment.” She waited for Abby’s mouth to close before she continued. “I thought you’d see through me and hop the next plane to sunny California. It totally freaked me out when you let me keep throwing you together.”
Abby slumped in her seat. “That was a dirty trick.”
“Then why did you let me do it?” Sarah shot back. “You don’t want Conor, Abby. You just said it yourself.”
“Maybe I’m hedging my bets.” Abby looked down at her hands. “I’m beginning to hate everything about the museum. I have to work later and later, and all I can think of is getting home to paint or going back to Matt. But lately, all he talks about is his work. So maybe it’s a hint that I’m bothering him. I hate this.”
“Here’s a novel idea: talk to him. You’ll never know until you ask.” Sarah tweaked Abby’s cheek. “Buck up, lusty wench. All is not a loss.”
A laugh burst from Abby’s unwilling throat. “You really are a shit, you know? You will never let me live down that dream, will you?”
“Never.” Sarah rose from her seat and grabbed her coat. “And I’m your shit, and you love me.” She paused a moment and processed her last sentence. “Good lord, that sounded awful.” She stared at Abby expectantly. “Well? Don’t you have a call to make?”
Abby’s heart dropped when she heard the weariness in Matt’s voice. After asking about Sarah and David, he questioned her about how she was weathering the increasing cold and wet and seemed truly pleased to hear that she was painting again. Inevitably, though, the statues dominated his conversation. He seemed anxious that she understand how hard he was working. Hearing about new potential commissions terrified her—though it was great for his career, if he followed through with half of them, he wouldn’t have a free moment for over a year.
“Matt, are we okay?” Abby blurted. She expected him to ask what she’d meant, but when he didn’t speak, her heart began to pound. Nothing couldn’t be good. Nothing could mean he was gearing up to let her down easy.
“You have a great position at your museum, Abby. We spent so much time worrying about whether I’d be able to finish some stupid pool statues, you never thought to tell me you’d be giving up a job that some people only dream of?”
“Because…it’s no big thing?” His snort of disbelief strengthened her hesitant response. “I have a great title, yeah, but it’s in a small museum. I make a nickel an hour in one of the most expensive cities in the US, and I work sixty hours a week on a good week. Now I’m in the middle of planning an exhibit, and coordinating the different factions is adding at least ten more to that. My bank account regularly hovers around empty, no matter how many degrees I have. Dream life, right?” She ran out of steam and curled into the corner of the couch. She pulled her talisman from beneath her pillow and buried her face in its folds, mourning the loss of Matt’s scent. “Worst of all, I’m thousands of miles away from the one thing that feels real anymore.” She leaned her head against the back of the couch. “I miss you so much, Matt. What brought this on?”
“Claire. Not that she expected me to go nuts,” he added hastily. “She pointed out a picture of you on the Internet, at that party in New York.” There was wistfulness in his voice that Abby hadn’t heard before. “After I saw you in your element and your name all over the museum website, I guess I have to wonder what you’d want with a surf bum like me.” He hesitated before continuing, and the pain in his voice had brought tears to Abby’s eyes. “Maybe this isn’t going to work, Pretty.”
“No.” Abby clutched the phone like a lifeline. “I refuse to hear this. That woman in the picture is me, except she’s not. She’s who I used to be.” She thought of the sleek haircut and pallor she saw in the mirror each morning before she slipped into her city disguise and stalked out to cut the feet out from under her competitors and colleagues. “Who I am again, I guess. But she’s not all of me—the best part is who I am with you.”
“Abby—”
“All I want with you is love, Matt.” She burst into tears. “Just that.”
“Pretty…don’t cry, Abby. I know you do. I know it.” He made comforting noises until her sobs tapered off. When she finally drew a clear breath, he sounded more normal, like something within him had relaxed. “Abby, this is making me crazy. Christmas is too long to wait.”
“Agreed. This stupid exhibit opens right before Thanksgiving…” She left her sentence dangle, hoping he’d bite.
He did. “Good, because I’m ahead on Baker’s silliness. If I push, I can be done by the end of November. Just a little over a month, and then I’m getting on the first plane to Boston.” Abby could imagine him in much the same position as she was now holding: slumped into his couch, exhausted, eyes closed. “I never want to have to hear you cry on the phone again. It kills me.”
After a long while of sharing the sweet and silly thoughts that only lovers understand, Abby hung up her phone with a smile. Thanksgiving couldn’t come soon enough.
Or maybe it wouldn’t come at all.
Abby glared up from her notes, irritated at being interrupted by throat clearing just beyond her desk. She rearranged her expression for the museum’s director. “Sorry, Gretchen.” She tossed her glasses on the d
esk and rubbed her eyes. “Just going over the agreement with the French government again. They’re damn picky about loaning their treasures, and I want to be sure everything is copasetic before Thanksgiving.”
Gretchen Dahl smiled in commiseration. “Just what I wanted to talk to you about. Would you come into my office when you’re finished here? I think you’ll be glad you did.” Her heels click-clacked as she marched back down the hall.
“I’ll bet I won’t,” Abby muttered, a hard knot of anxiety forming in her stomach. She finished her task and posted her final notes via courier to her compatriot at the French embassy. Tidying her desk helped Abby clear her mind, as did a quick check of her makeup and hair in the mirror. When she couldn’t put the visit off any longer, she pushed her chair under her desk, smiled at Clint, whose expression was sympathetic, and headed out the door.
By the time she reached Gretchen’s office, her professional smile felt painted on. Gretchen nodded to the chair in front of her desk. “I have great news for you, Abby.” Her smile matched Abby’s in brightness and veracity. “We think we’ve found a way through the thorny issues we’re having with Paris over these terra-cottas. The Louvre is very willing to discuss the security arrangements and whatnot, but they want to do it in person. Jean said something about not being able to decide if their things would be in good hands without meeting the person who will be tending to them. It might be a Gallic thing.” She smirked. “Or it might be the fact that he spent the whole New York party staring at you.” She sat back in her chair and folded her hands over her stomach. “Either way, Abby, you’re going to be in Paris for Thanksgiving! City of Lights, no family obligations…it’s a great opportunity.”
Abby swallowed past the lump in her throat. “But…I have Thanksgiving scheduled off. I have plans.”
Gretchen’s smile became strained, but her voice remained even. “Yes, you do. In Paris. I don’t have to tell you how important these pieces are to our exhibit. They are essential.”
“Can’t you send Vickie?” Abby asked weakly. “She’d love the chance to travel.”
“Vickie will have her chance with the African masks.” The smile dropped, and Abby saw the steel in Mrs. Gretchen Dahl that had kept her firmly seated in the desk she occupied and the museum profitable in a harsh economy. “Abby, I have to wonder how committed you are to your position. You’ve only seemed to be half-here since you came back from your sabbatical. Though you’ve been better just lately. Your job is one many people in our field would kill for; you do realize that, don’t you? And right now your place is in Paris, dazzling that silly man and getting me my terra-cottas. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Gretchen. Crystal.” Abby rose from her chair as Gretchen put on her professional smile again.
“Glad to hear it.” Gretchen picked up her pen and a piece of paper in clear dismissal.
Unable to stomach resuming work on the contracts, Abby returned to her office only long enough to grab her coat and mutter something about lunch to her startled intern.
Treading angrily through the crunching fall leaves, she thought about the work of the last few weeks—hell, the last couple of months. Gretchen, as big of a bitch as she was being at that moment, had one thing right: Abby hadn’t really been present in her work since she’d returned from Santa Cruz. Each day it became harder to get out the door of her apartment, harder to drag herself through another call or another grant session, harder to resist going home to paint out her frustrations.
Harder still to keep herself on the coast where she’d lived for her entire adult life.
She stopped to look in a storefront window, adjusting her collar and scarf with quick, angry twitches. Checking to see if she’d gotten the look right, she was startled to catch the expression in her eyes. Even in the ghostly reflection of the glass, she could see that they were empty.
“I’m not happy.” She watched her window-self nod in acknowledgment.
Though it would have been easy to lay the credit or blame for her change of heart at Matt’s door, it was bigger than just that. Her trip to California had changed something inside her. She didn’t want to drag herself up the career ladder anymore, rung by painful rung, kicking at whoever happened to be beneath her. Massaging egos, racing from one place to another, fighting the clock to meet deadlines, critiquing and caring for the creations of others…it all made her tired. She wanted to be creating something herself, to feel the drag of paintbrush bristles against canvas and to see the colors and shapes in her mind bloom in front of her eyes.
Even more than that, she wanted to feel strong arms around her and to know she was at home.
And none of that started with her going to Paris.
Abby turned and walked briskly back toward the museum, determined to convince Gretchen that she was not going to France over Thanksgiving. She practiced what she was going to say, imagining herself speaking firmly about fairness and limits to authority.
She marched to Gretchen’s office and opened the door after a perfunctory knock. Gretchen looked up, her mouth hardening into a thin line at Abby’s expression. She waited expectantly as Abby took a deep breath and readied herself to speak. What she said startled them both:
“I quit.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
MATT IGNORED THE PHONE through three calls, but the steady knocking at his door made it too hard to concentrate. Cursing and dropping the carving knife at the foot of his sculpture, he grabbed his T-shirt and stalked toward the glass studio door.
He was still pulling the shirt over his head when he flipped the lock. By the time he was situated, Chris was marshaling his mischievous twinkle into an apologetic smile.
“Did I disturb you, cuz? I tried calling a couple of times but got the machine. Claire saw me downtown and told me to just bang until you opened up.” He grinned as he watched irritation war with apology on Matt’s face until he stepped back so Chris could enter.
“Hey.” He grabbed Chris’s duffle bag and hauled it onto his shoulder.
“Hey, no, I can get that,” Chris said, making no move to take his bag from Matt. When he’d made the polite protest and was ignored, he laughed.
Matt walked into the studio, clearly expecting Chris to follow. “I expected you back when Abby left.” He looked around for some safe place to drop the bag and realized that his haven was a mess. Besides the statues he was currently working on, there were various half-finished and abandoned projects. Clothes and discarded towels littered the floor. What little space was left hosted an array of dirty dishes and takeout containers. Only Abby’s corner remained untouched and as neat as she’d left it. His eyes immediately shied away from her easel, and he dropped the heavy bag onto his desk.
Chris leaned against a counter. “Been in Philly, visiting my mom. My grad school application was accepted for UC Santa Cruz—you schooled me good—but they couldn’t fit me into the program until the next cycle begins in January.” His voice trailed off when Matt picked up his knife and began shaving clay from one of Zoe’s ankles.
Chris started wandering around the studio, studying the sculptures on the various tables. A few showed promise, and a few were surprisingly wretched. All had been indifferently abandoned, and the drying clay was cracked and unworkable. He stopped near a half-bust modeled on Abby’s painting of a laughing Charles. “This was a nice one, Matt. Has Claire seen it?”
Matt stared at the bust with a blank look. After a minute, he shrugged. “No idea. I can’t remember the last time she was here.” He returned to his carving.
“It was a week ago,” Chris said. He waited but got no response. Shaking his head, he moved to a cloth-covered figure in the far corner of the room. He tugged at a corner of the fabric, and it slithered to the floor at his feet.
“Hey! Don’t do that!” Matt protested.
Chris raised his eyebrow and let the cover stay where it lay. “Why not?” Revolving the table on which the bronzed sculpture of Abby sat, he whistled. “This is…wow.” He traced the metal arm
with a gentle finger.
Matt winced before sitting on the table behind his sculpture, thus blocking his view of Chris and his bronze. It didn’t stop him from remembering the perfect curves of arm and leg, the delicate toes detailed with as much love as the mass of hair that was held on top of her head with one exquisite hand. “You think so?” Matt asked, his voice low.
“Hell yes! I know human figures aren’t usually your preference, but…damn! It looks like she’s going to step off the pedestal. This is the best thing you’ve done yet.”
“Maybe. Toss that cover over, okay?” As soon as the cloth settled over Abby, Matt rose and picked up his wire loop.
“So I was wondering…” Chris started gathering up food containers and stuffing them into an already half-full garbage bag.
“Of course you can stay. Your room’s just like you left it.” Matt took a breath and let it out. “It’ll be nice to have a voice in the house again.”
“Woo-hoo-hoo! Listen to you, Mr. Fortress of Solitude! How the mighty have fallen, and how your tune has changed.” Chris was rewarded with a genuine laugh and a relaxation of Matt’s shoulders. With the containers disposed of, he began picking up dishes. “I knew you’d miss my sparkling wit. Not to mention my mad Brady Bunch maid skills. You need an Alice.” He balanced a final cup on the top of his pile.
Matt dropped his tools beside Zoe’s foot. He sat on the table behind him and scrubbed his hands over his face while Chris went into the kitchen to deposit the load of dishes. He returned and leaned next to Matt. “Rough fall?” he asked, gathering Matt’s tools in one hand.
“You could say that,” Matt sighed. He started picking clay out from under his nails.
“Plans?”
“Christmas, at first. Then we pushed it up to Thanksgiving.” Matt shrugged. He stood again and held his hand out for his tools. “I need to finish this, I guess—this and the other one. Then maybe I’ll take a few more commissions…” He trailed off, looking unenthused.
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