“It wasn’t impossible. I should have—”
“What happened to them was not your fault.”
Gwynne’s legs tensed with an acute desire to stomp away, but Megan would just follow her with offers of help.
Megan meant well. But she didn’t know what the hell she was saying.
* * *
In the crap acoustics of the basement of a guy she’d never met before, along with his two guy friends and one other woman, Abby improvised on her harp to the rhythm of the group’s four guitars, at times reinforcing the beat, at other times weaving in and out of gaps between notes, becoming part of the bluesey, ever-changing soundscape.
“You’re good. You could pick up guitar if you tried,” said Bruce, the guy whose basement it was. “Once you try guitar, you’ll never look back.”
“I like the harp,” Abby said.
“It doesn’t sound right with our group. The harmonies are off.”
It didn’t sound right? It sounded great. No wonder they were all guitar players, if guitar was the only instrument the group’s leader approved of.
“Do a solo instead,” Bruce suggested. “Eight bars for an intro and then the rest of us take it from there while you sit it out.” He fingered a chord. “Sixteen bars,” he added with a smarmy smile that shone with self-congratulatory confidence that he was a good guy doing her a favor.
But playing a solo intro defeated the purpose of jamming with other musicians, of experiencing the joy of improvising and responding to what the others were doing and creating music that had a life of its own, an out-of-control momentum it didn’t have when she played solo. She played solo all the time. This was supposed to be different.
“Her harp sounds okay,” said one of the other guys.
“As a solo,” Bruce corrected.
“Isn’t it just about having fun?” Abby suggested.
Bruce’s gaze lingered too long on her chest. Abby’s hands tightened on the frame of her harp, which rested against her shoulder and partially blocked his view. Her chest was a healthy size, but aside from a minor hint of cleavage, it was completely covered by the bodice of her awesome dress. She glanced down to confirm that yes, the laces crisscrossing up the front through leather eyelets were securely tied. The dress was figure-hugging, yes, but not an eyeball invitational. It was true she might have been better off wearing jeans and a T-shirt, which were good for not attracting attention, but after twelve years of school uniforms, she’d found her own style, and she’d be damned if she’d conform to somebody else’s ideas about what she should wear.
She liked this dress. All her favorite dresses accentuated her figure because she’d decided before she hit puberty that the way to spot a lesbian was to look for a girl who was off-the-scale feminine. They didn’t care about boys, right? So it made sense that the way to attract one was to dress as differently from a boy as possible.
Never mind that the girl in her class she found herself fantasizing about was a rugged-looking tomboy.
Okay, so her theory was flawed. Slight change in plan.
But at this point it was too late to change what kind of clothes she felt comfortable in. It was probably too late even back then.
Bruce’s gaze continued to linger. Maybe he didn’t realize he was doing it. Abby narrowed her eyes at him and tried to relax her grip on her harp.
“If you’re gonna dress like a wench,” he said, “you might as well show some cleavage.”
“Seriously?” Granted, they’d met only an hour ago, and maybe the women he was used to hanging out with didn’t mind his brand of conversation, but she was here to make music with other musicians, not listen to this guy make an ass out of himself.
One of the other guys snickered.
“Come on, Bruce, don’t be a Neanderthal,” said the lone woman in the group. She clasped the hand of her boyfriend, the one who had shown his approval for Bruce’s commentary by laughing.
Caught by his girlfriend’s opposing view, he coughed up a “Seriously, Bruce.”
Bruce shook his head in disgust. “She’s got you whipped, man.”
“Women don’t like it when you call them wenches,” said the snickerer.
“Women?” said Bruce. “Since when did you start calling them women?”
He shrugged. “Gertie educated me,” he said, clearly wise enough to toe the party line as long as his girlfriend was in the room. It was actually kind of sweet.
“Whipped,” Bruce said.
“Can we all shut up and play?” Gertie said.
Bruce sprawled on the sofa with his guitar in his lap. “Whenever loverboy’s ready.”
“Shut up,” said Gertie’s boyfriend.
“Abby plays the intro,” Bruce reminded them.
Abby sighed. This was not going to work out.
* * *
Gwynne squinted into the sun from her perch on the Sea Salt Hotel’s rooftop. She’d picked a good day to return—it was one of those freakishly spring-like days in February that reminded her the tourist hordes were on their way, and she and Megan and Megan’s partner Kira were taking advantage of it by flirting with winter sunburns—something she’d be doing a lot more of now that she’d decided to take a job working for Kira in the newly opened spa located on the ground floor four stories below.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Megan asked.
“She’s sure,” Kira said.
“I’m sure.” Gwynne leaned back, balancing her patio chair on its two back legs, maintaining traction with the toes of her canvas boat shoes. Supervising massage therapists and managing a spa wasn’t the clean break from her old life that she had hoped for, but it was certainly something she was qualified to do, and Kira was desperate for someone to replace Trish, her current manager, who was moving to Minneapolis. Megan was qualified too, of course, but Megan’s clients came first, and she wasn’t going to give up her thriving massage practice for anyone, not even for the love of her life and the spa they’d designed together. Unlike Gwynne, who had just given Megan her entire client list.
“Don’t you want to take a few days to think about it?” Megan said.
“I never think before I act. Why start now?” Gwynne needed to stay as busy as possible so she wouldn’t have time to think, because thinking led to wallowing, and wallowing led to dwelling on things that no amount of avoidance was ever going to let her forget. Maybe quitting her old job wasn’t the best way to do that, but she’d never claimed to be logical.
Megan didn’t look amused.
Gwynne rocked in her chair, testing how far she could take it off-balance. “You know it’s true.”
“But giving up your healing work,” Megan said. “Are you sure?”
“Hey.” Kira leaned forward and scooted her chair closer to Megan’s, scraping it against the roof-deck. “Don’t talk her out of it, honey. I need someone for that job.”
Gwynne lowered her chair legs. “I’m glad I can help out.”
“You’re doing me a huge favor,” Kira said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” Yup, she was desperate.
“Don’t speak too soon.”
“You’re perfect for the job,” Megan protested, generously pretending she’d never been frustrated by Gwynne’s limitations in the keeping-her-life-organized department. It wasn’t the only hole Megan pretended to have in her memory where Gwynne was concerned. Which made it easy to be friends. Especially when they both were more than willing to forget they’d ever briefly dated each other. “I just don’t want you to rush into it.”
“I don’t mind if you rush into it,” Kira said. “Trish is leaving in a week.”
“I don’t feel rushed,” Gwynne said.
“If you’re sure…” Megan dragged the word out so long Gwynne thought she was going to run out of air. It was nice of her to worry, but she had to quit working one-on-one with clients before either her negative energy or her incompetence made someone more ill than they already were.
Megan finally took a br
eath. “If there’s anything we can do for you…”
Like stop second-guessing her? But Gwynne knew how to get her to drop the topic. “Any chance you’d be interested in adopting a super-adorable rabbit?”
“Oh no, another one?” Clearly this was not the return favor Megan had in mind. “When are you going to stop taking in all those strays?”
“I only have two right now.” Right now being the operative phrase. It was only a matter of time before her house filled up again, not that she needed to mention that. “I found homes for all the others.”
“All your other animals,” Megan clarified, “or all your other rabbits?”
“Okay, okay, I also have a kitten. And a guinea pig. But I’m working on it.” Gwynne downed her water, avoiding the slices of cucumber that floated in her glass. Another one of Kira’s experimental drinks to serve at the spa. “Want a kitten?”
Megan rolled her eyes. “At least it’s only two rabbits. I’ll never forget that time you had fifty of them running all over the house and they got into your treatment room while I was giving you a massage.”
“It wasn’t fifty.” The most she’d ever had at one time was seventeen, when a whole litter of mini lops pushed her over her previous record of twelve. And that time that Megan was talking about, it was more like ten. Megan had refused to continue with the massage until Gwynne climbed off the table, naked and exasperated, and chased the rabbits out.
“Okay, less than fifty,” Megan conceded.
“Thank you.”
“At least forty-nine.”
“Geez, Megan, thanks a lot. Kira’s going to think I have a hoarding problem.”
Kira refilled their glasses without comment.
Megan swirled her glass of cucumber slices. “You could have warned me the door didn’t shut all the way.”
“They weren’t trying to scare you,” Gwynne said. “They just wanted to see what we were doing.”
“What were you doing?” Kira said.
“Jealous?” Megan cheered up and patted Kira on the thigh. At least that’s what Gwynne assumed. If something more than that was going on under the table—which, judging from the sudden change in Kira’s expression, it probably was—she didn’t want to know. She was glad Megan was happy, though. Kira was better for her than Gwynne had ever been.
Gwynne emptied her glass in one long gulp. She might not be a massage therapist or an energy healer anymore, but she still believed in staying well-hydrated. Years of pressing glasses of water into her clients’ hands weren’t going to be undone in a single day.
“I think I have a rabbit phobia now,” Megan said. “Remind me never to adopt one.”
“How about a guinea pig?”
Megan’s face softened, as she knew it would. Everyone loved guinea pigs. Until they realized how much cage cleaning was involved. Which Megan was apparently contemplating now, because that smile that said aren’t they the cutest was already fading. She raised her palms with a sigh and slapped them on the table. “They’re rodents.”
“Well, technically…” Gwynne admitted.
“No pets, Gwynnie. I don’t do pets.”
“Okay, okay.” She didn’t want to give up the guinea pig, anyway. She’d named her Apple and she had the cutest tuft of hair that poofed out on the top of her head and hung over her eyes like bangs. It was totally adorable.
“If you think of another favor—a non-pet favor—let us know,” Megan said.
“You don’t have to do anything for me.”
“There must be something…” Absentmindedly, Megan refilled everyone’s glasses, even though only Gwynne’s was empty. “How about music while you work? Kira’s thinking about hiring a musician for the lounge.”
Kira rose from the table and paced. “I haven’t decided.”
“If you’re looking for a harpist, there’s one up at the hospital in Lewes,” Gwynne volunteered.
Megan grinned at Kira. “See, it’s a sign.”
Kira barked out a laugh. “It is not a sign.” Ever since they’d met, Kira had become more and more open-minded about Megan’s pseudoscientific beliefs, but she still had a ways to go.
“It is a sign,” Megan insisted.
“There was that violinist we interviewed last month,” Kira said. “She wasn’t bad.”
“Too screechy,” Megan said.
“She was good,” Kira argued.
“You promised there were going to be perks to knowing the owner,” Megan reminded her partner.
Kira stalked toward her, oozing sensuality. “This is the perk you want? Veto power over the music?”
“Yes.”
“When I made that promise, music was not what I had in mind.”
“I know what you had in mind.” Megan pulled Kira onto her lap. Kira was starting to go gray, but she still had the body of a twenty-year-old marathon runner—a physique that was not Gwynne’s type, but that clearly was Megan’s. “If you’re going to call it a perk, it’s supposed to be for my benefit. You get too much out of it.”
“Oh, you’ll benefit, all right,” Kira murmured, shifting on her lap.
Gwynne squirmed and eyed the exit. Maybe they wouldn’t notice if she left?
“No violin,” Megan said, pressing her lips to the back of her partner’s shoulder.
“I liked her,” Kira said.
“You’ll both like my harpist,” Gwynne said, jumping into the conversation to remind them she was still in the vicinity before things got out of hand.
Megan turned to her politely as Kira slid off her lap. “Is she a hospital employee? Was she good?”
Those were both relevant questions, but admitting she didn’t know precisely what the musician had been doing there, or what her harp sounded like, wasn’t going to help her cause. “Uh…”
Megan looked at her sympathetically, probably assuming she’d triggered painful memories. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s not that.” Gwynne had no idea why she was pushing for this. She was surprised she even remembered the harpist, considering how consumed she’d been by everything else going on, but there was something about her that had cut through the blind despair of those hours and imprinted itself on her memory. Something that made her want to see her again. And not just to apologize, although she wanted to do that too, because the apology she’d grumbled at the hospital had been totally inadequate. The harpist took it in stride, but that was because she was a good person. She had to have a good heart to work in a place full of people who were stressed and scared and not at their best. “You’re going to like her.”
“Uh-oh.” Megan knew her too well.
Kira looked at Megan, then back at Gwynne. “Are you saying you’ve never heard her play?”
“I’m sure she’s good,” Gwynne said.
“Jesus.” Kira paced over to the railing and back. “I can’t believe I’m trusting you to run my spa.”
“Of course you trust me. I have excellent instincts,” Gwynne said.
“It’s your years of experience with clients that I’m counting on.”
“So, yay,” Megan said. “We get music.”
Megan grabbed Kira and kissed her on the cheek. At least Gwynne thought it was her cheek. She was doing her best not to watch. When she figured it was safe to look up, the two had returned to separate seats.
Kira looked a little dazed. “I need to run the numbers first.”
Megan’s voice deepened. “I can help you with that.” From the light twinkling in her eyes, it looked like she was ready to “help” her right here on the table.
Kira riveted her full attention on Megan. “I think that might be a good idea.”
“Go ravish her in another room, please, where I don’t have to watch,” Gwynne said, pushing back from the table before things went any further. “I’ll be back later.”
“No, wait,” Megan said.
Gwynne left. On her way out she heard Kira say, “I thought it was my turn to ravish you.”
* * *
&
nbsp; Abby hesitated at the edge of the softball field and watched a dozen or so women joke with each other while they casually warmed up, twisting and bending at the waist and swinging their arms. It was a rare Saturday afternoon when she didn’t have a wedding to play, and she was determined to take advantage of it—get outside, do something different. She was always glad for the happy brides and grooms, and she appreciated the financial security of having so many paying gigs, but living through weekend after weekend celebrating heterosexual love couldn’t be one hundred percent healthy. It would be nice to spend at least one Saturday feeling like she was with her own kind.
Not that she was a jock—far from it. She’d passed gym class by showing up for class and being a good sport about being picked last whenever they divided into teams, and by ignoring how much she hated feeling uncoordinated, hated the way she jiggled when she ran, and hated wearing sports bras that were too tight and too hot and still didn’t stop her chest from hurting every time she bounced. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t give this a shot. Maybe without prepubescent boys in the mix, sports would be more fun.
Besides, she’d left Baltimore and moved over a hundred miles to the small coastal town of Piper Beach almost four months ago and it was high time she made some friends outside of the hospital staff. This was why she’d moved here, after all—because she was convinced that somewhere out there, if she could only find it, was a place that felt like home.
Bruce’s guitar jam wasn’t it. Maybe softball was.
She approached a pair of African-American women in softball-type outfits as one of them straightened up from tying her laces. Wow, she was tall. Tall and stunningly bald.
“What position do you play?” asked the stockier of the two, who sported a mass of braids.
“Oh, uh, anything. Whatever you need,” Abby bluffed. She figured they wouldn’t assign her to anything important until they saw her play and knew what she could do. Or, more to the point, not do.
“I’m Hank,” said the one with the braids. “We’re short players, so make yourself useful.” She glanced pointedly at Abby’s sneakers. “And next time, wear cleats.”
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