Spencer's Cove

by Missouri Vaun

  This was not at all how Abby imagined they’d meet. In fact, several hours earlier even the idea of meeting Foster had caused such anxiety that it had probably contributed to the migraine. But now here they were, facing each other in the dimly lit kitchen.

  Foster watched Abby glide across the room. She held the steaming cup out for Foster to take it. Had Foster said she wanted tea? She didn’t think so. Unlike almost every lesbian on the planet, she rarely drank tea, but she had the distinct feeling that whatever Abby offered she would gladly take, even herbal tea.

  “Thank you.” Foster accepted the mug, and when she did, their fingers overlapped. Neither of them moved. Foster looked down at their joined hands. Her arm tingled as a warm vibration traveled up her forearm, inside the sleeve of her T-shirt, past her shoulder, and then nested in the small hairs at the back of her neck. This whole encounter felt so…strange.

  Abby blinked, as if in slow motion, and Foster was struck by her long lashes and how blue her eyes were.

  Foster realized she was still touching Abby’s hand and pulled the mug away, breaking contact. The release almost caused her to sway on her feet. Instinctively, she reached for the nearest solid object, a chair.

  “Well, good night then.” Abby seemed suddenly uncomfortable, as if she couldn’t leave the room quickly enough.

  “Good night.” She rotated to watch Abby’s retreat and then slumped into the chair she’d been holding on to. The entire encounter was surreal. She wondered if in the morning she’d wake to realize it had all just been a lovely dream.

  The midnight snack she’d been in search of now forgotten, she watched the low flame of the fire, and sipped the tea.

  ***

  Abby’s heart still raced when she finally made it back to her room and closed the door. She leaned against it for a moment and took a few deep breaths, cradling the warm cup of tea against her chest.

  She was not prepared to see Foster. She certainly was not prepared for Foster to see her, especially in her pajamas. The kitchen was such an intimate place in the middle of the night. Abby couldn’t even shake Foster’s hand. But their fingers had touched despite her efforts to avoid physical contact. She held her hand up and examined it as if she expected to find some mark or scar from their connection.

  Foster absolutely had to leave.

  She would find Cora first thing in the morning and ask her to deliver the news. Abby was certain that Foster had lots of other things she’d rather be doing. Ending the project would give Foster the opportunity to do something else, anything else.

  Abby shimmied under the covers, careful not to slosh her tea. She sank back against the deep feather pillow, held the mug with both hands, and sipped. Since she’d slept all afternoon she wasn’t feeling tired. She reached for a book among the haphazard stack on her bedside table. She wanted to read something familiar, something that wouldn’t engage her mind too completely because she already knew how the story ended. Rereading a favorite novel would quiet her mind and help her relax, but not so much that she’d sleep, or dream.

  As she opened the book, she visualized Foster, somewhere in the house. Had she returned to the guest room or remained in the kitchen? Abby now realized she wouldn’t be able to relax until she knew where Foster was. The thought of a stranger roaming the house at night was too unsettling. She tugged a light dressing gown over her T-shirt and pajama pants. The hallway was dark as she walked in the direction of the guest room at the top of the stairs.

  When she arrived the door was closed, but a golden glow was visible along the bottom edge of the door where it didn’t quite meet the floor. She saw a shadow beneath the door. Foster was in the room. For a second, Abby considered knocking; she wasn’t sure why. She hugged herself and looked back through the darkness toward her room. When she again faced forward Foster was standing in the open doorway looking at her.

  “Hi.” Foster held onto the door’s edge with one hand as she casually leaned against the doorframe with her opposite shoulder.

  “Hi. How did you know…”

  “I heard you knock.”

  Only Abby was sure she hadn’t. She’d only thought of knocking.

  “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

  “You didn’t, I mean, you aren’t.” Foster released the door and sank her hand in the pocket of her jeans. “I guess you can’t sleep either? I’m sort of a homebody, and when I travel I have a hard time settling down.”

  “Is there something you need?” Abby wasn’t sure what to offer, but until tomorrow Foster was her guest and she should at least try to be a gracious host.

  “I should have brought a book with me. Reading helps quiet my brain.”

  “We have a library. You could select something from our collection.”

  “Our collection?”

  “Well, not all of the volumes are mine. The library spans several generations…books collected by my grandfather and parents…” Why was she sharing personal details with Foster? It was as if she couldn’t stop herself.

  “If it wouldn’t be an imposition I’d love to borrow a book for the night.”

  “It’s this way.” Abby descended the stairs to the first floor without really waiting to see if Foster was keeping up.

  After traveling halfway through the hallway to the right of the staircase, she checked over her shoulder. Foster was trailing her, but was moving much slower, sightseeing along the way. Abby reached for the lightswitch closest to where she was standing. Foster blinked at the sudden overhead glare.

  “Sorry, there’s just so much to look at here.” Foster smiled and quickened her pace.

  The library was at the far end of the first floor. Abby stood in the center of the room and watched Foster slowly peruse the shelves. Abby lifted a book she’d left on the chaise earlier and flipped through the pages, just to have a distraction.

  “I have to confess that you aren’t who I expected you to be.” Foster was across the room watching her.

  There it was again, that whiskey smooth drawl. The soothing cadence was such a pleasant surprise. She took a deep breath and tried to settle. When she didn’t respond, Foster continued.

  “I thought you’d be older.” A slow smile spread across her face.

  “Really?”

  “I also pictured lots of cats.”

  “There’s one tabby cat living in the barn.”

  “Only one, huh?”

  They stood silently for a moment looking at each other. Foster’s gaze was direct but not invasive.

  “I suppose I had an unfair advantage because I’ve seen your photo on the jackets of your books.” She looked away, feeling exposed. She hadn’t meant to blurt out that she’d read Foster’s books. Foster would no doubt think she was a silly fan girl.

  “I never liked that photo the publisher used. The marketing people thought it made me look serious…like a serious writer. But I think it just makes it look like someone stomped on my foot and I’m trying not to cry about it.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “See? You said not that bad…which means you noticed it too.”

  Abby couldn’t help smiling. Foster had graciously shifted the conversation away from her fandom and put Abby at ease.

  “The photographer was trying to make me look sophisticated, and in the end, I kinda just look like an elitist ass.” Foster ran her fingertip over the spines of the books nearest her. “I mean, I write mystery novels. That’s not exactly Pulitzer material.”

  “I like your books. That’s why Gertie hired you.”

  “So, this whole thing was Gertie’s idea, not yours?”

  Abby nodded. Did acknowledging the truth make Foster wish she hadn’t come? She was rethinking her impulse to send Foster away immediately. There was something magnetic about Foster. Maybe Gertie was right. Maybe she should get out of her comfort zone a little. She could always call the project off if she became uncomfortable with the situation.

  “How do you write such convincing stories?” Abby hugge
d the book she’d been holding against her chest.

  “I find actual crime stories and then embellish. Truth always makes the most convincing fiction.” Foster smiled. “There I go, giving away trade secrets.”

  “Your secrets are safe with me.” That sounded far more flirtatious than she’d meant for it to, and she was fairly sure she’d made both of them blush. Foster was definitely blushing.

  “Well, I should choose something to read and let you get back to sleep.” Foster turned abruptly and pulled a couple of books from the shelf.

  They didn’t talk as they climbed the stairs back to the second level.

  “This is my stop.” Foster smiled shyly as she tipped her head in the direction of the guest room.

  “Good night.”

  “Good night.” Foster gave a little wave as she closed the bedroom door.

  Abby fairly glided back to her room, feeling uncharacteristically lightened by her second late-night encounter with Foster. She pulled the comforter up to her chin and sank into the soft, down-filled pillow. The room was dark except for the soft moonlight from the partially open drapes. Sleep crept up on her and she let it come. Knowing Foster was just down the hall awake and reading filled her with an unusual sense of calm.

  Chapter Six

  The sound of crickets dragged Foster from sleep. She squinted into the dimly lit room. It took a minute for her foggy brain to realize her cell phone was ringing. But who would call at such an unholy hour? She stumbled toward her laptop bag. The screen lit up with the caller ID and Foster frowned.

  “Hello, Gloria.” Her cat sitter had no working concept of time zones.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d called Foster at an unreasonable hour. Once when she’d been in Amsterdam, Gloria had called in the middle of the night just to let her know that everything was okay.

  “Foster, I’m calling because there’s this wooden board game on your coffee table with marbles and one of them is missing? Have you lost any…marbles?”

  Foster glanced at her phone. One bar. The signal wasn’t great, and Foster wondered if she was catching only part of what Gloria was saying. Every few words the line dropped for a split second.

  “Sorry, I’m not sure I caught that last part…I thought you asked if I’d lost my marbles.” Which was a fair question under normal circumstances.

  “Marbles…are you missing marbles from the game on the coffee table?”

  “Gloria, that game is solitaire. There’s supposed to be one empty spot on the board.”

  “Are you sure? Because I worry that William Faulkner may have swallowed one.”

  There was no way her cat would eat a marble unless it was tuna flavored and even then, it was a long shot.

  “Yes, I’m sure. The point of the game is to jump the marbles until only one is left. That’s why there’s one empty space.”

  “Well, I think I should put this in a cabinet just to be safe.”

  Foster heard a shuffling sound on the other end of the phone.

  “If you’re worried, why not just put the marbles in a Ziploc bag—” Too late. The sound of marbles cascading off metal pots in her kitchen cabinet pinged loudly through the phone.

  “Oh, dear…yes, maybe a Ziploc bag is a good idea.” More shuffling as Gloria no doubt balanced her phone against her shoulder. “I should go deal with this.”

  “Yeah, sounds like it.”

  “Everything is fine here. You just enjoy your trip.”

  “Thank you, Gloria. I’ll try.”

  Gloria clicked off. It wouldn’t do any good to give Gloria a hard time. She was annoying, but harmless. And William Faulkner loved Gloria. A couple of times, Foster had tried to test out other pet sitters, but William Faulkner had practically revolted as only a twenty-pound cat can. He’d scream at her for hours when she returned home and he just looked, for lack of a better description, frazzled.

  Foster rubbed her face with her hands to chase away a bit more sleep. She tugged the heavy drapes apart. It was early and there was no sun to speak of. A dense marine layer hovered at the edge of the grounds where the cliff dropped off. She’d arrived so late the previous evening that a stroll around the estate hadn’t been possible, but she was anxious to explore a little.

  Sleep had been fitful. She’d had the strangest series of dreams. Presently, she couldn’t quite recall them entirely except that they were unsettling. Dark figures just outside the realm of recognition, ominous, but not advancing. And then a dream about drowning. She’d been underwater, the light dancing across the surface in undulating patterns. Maybe the sound of the ocean waves had conjured that one.

  A dark shape moving through the fog caught her eye. She reached for her glasses. There was a rider on a horse ambling from the cliff’s edge toward the barn. Foster decided to investigate. She tugged on jeans and rummaged in her Samsonite for the sweater she’d packed.

  Foster needed coffee, but curiosity about the horse and rider drew her outside. She exited through the door nearest the kitchen rather than the front door. The barn was behind the house, and that seemed to be the direction the rider was headed.

  She sank her hands in her pockets and kept her arms tightly against her sides against the chill in the air. The tall, brownish grass was soaked with dew; the toes of her brown wingtips darkened from the moisture as she crossed the ground between the manor and the barn. A woman dismounted, and as she got closer she saw that the woman was Abby. For some reason it surprised her that Abby rode a horse, but why should it? Everything else about this place was like a scene from a gothic romance novel. In that context, Abby on horseback made total sense.

  An older fellow took the reins from Abby. He was round in the middle and his face was weathered like he’d spent years at sea, or maybe years by the sea. He nodded to Abby. She turned toward the house without looking up. Abby studied the ground. She seemed to be intently thinking of something and practically bumped into Foster, who spoke just before they made contact.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you.” Foster sidestepped.

  Abby looked up with one leather glove off and the other only partially removed.

  “I saw the horse coming out of the fog, and curiosity got the better of me.” It was clear that Abby wasn’t happy to see her, or possibly she was bothered by something else that had nothing to do with Foster. Either way, the easiness between them from the previous night was gone.

  Abby held both gloves in one hand and tugged the knit cap off. Loose strands of hair blew across her face, and she swept her fingers over her hair to smooth it. She was wearing form-fitting riding pants and knee-high black boots along with a jacket and scarf. Foster wondered if Abby had any idea how gorgeous she was. Abby had an easy grace that defied her age. She made casual riding togs look elegant.

  Abby was wearing what would pass for winter gear in the Deep South, but it was June. Shouldn’t it be a lot warmer? This Pacific climate was a puzzle. Foster knew she was staring and reminded herself this arrangement between them was purely professional. She’d been hired by Gertie to write a memoir and nothing more. She looked away as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and then, despite every effort to appear impervious to the chill in the air, she shivered.

  “You’re cold.”

  “I suppose I should have packed a heavier sweater.” Foster hugged herself, tucking her hands under her armpits for warmth.

  “Let’s go inside. Cora will have breakfast ready soon.” Abby started walking and Foster had to take quick steps to catch up. “Do you drink coffee?”

  Does the earth circle the sun?

  “Yes, I drink coffee.” Foster quickly stepped past Abby and held the door for her.

  The sound of clinking dishware came from the kitchen. Foster waited in the entryway while Abby shrugged out of her jacket and hung it, along with the scarf, on a peg near the door. Abby seemed to prefer a bubble of open personal space at all times and Foster tried to honor that. She’d noticed it the previous night in the libra
ry. At all times, even climbing the stairs, Abby kept her just beyond arm’s reach, a cushion of air between them. Foster wasn’t sure exactly how she knew that Abby needed space, but she did.

  “Good morning,” Cora cheerfully greeted them from the stove. “I’ve made some biscuits. And I have coffee in case Ms. Owen prefers it. Abby and I are tea drinkers you see.”

  “Please, call me Foster.” Cora would likely provide a wealth of random facts if Foster got a chance to sit down and interview her properly. Her tale about the shipwreck the previous evening had been intriguing.

  Her glasses had fogged up the second they’d stepped into the warmth of the cozy kitchen. She wiped at them with her sweater and held them away from her face as she waited for the glass to adjust to the room temperature.

  “You two sit and eat. I’m going to run a cup of tea out to Iain in the barn.” Cora set a plate of biscuits on the table next to a serving tray of butter, fruit jam, and honey. “Oh, maybe I should take him one of these as well.” She reached over and scooped up a biscuit with a cloth napkin.

  Abby smiled, as if there was some inside joke afoot.

  “What’s funny?”

  Abby waited until Cora was out the door before responding. “I think Cora has designs on Mr. Green.”

  “Was he the man who took your horse just now?”

  “Yes, Iain Green. He’s a local farrier and he’s been helping me with the horses.”

  “How many horses do you have?” Foster added cream to her coffee and stirred slowly. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off Abby, whose cheeks were pink from the chilly morning air.

  “At the moment, five, including Boots. Boots is really the only one I ride regularly. The others are in recovery.”

  “Recovery?”

  “We take in horses that have suffered trauma, neglect, or abuse.” Abby put butter on a biscuit and allowed it to melt. “I have the acreage and the time, and…”