Before I Melt Away

by Isabel Sharpe

  Easier said than done.

  He drove down Elm, past the corner where he and John and Annabel had waited for the bus to school every morning; past the empty lot where Annabel had caught John and him smoking and drinking beer and threatened to tattle unless they did her chores for a month; past the Larsons’ yard, with the treetop clubhouse where he and John and the Larson kid—Larry—spent so much time and Annabel spent so much time pestering to be allowed in; and finally slowing to a stop outside her childhood home, where he switched off the engine.

  The sight of the rambling two-story stone house brought on a swell of emotion. He glanced at Annabel, staring out the window, hand clutching her armrest, spine stiff.

  He reached, touched her hair and was gratified when she leaned back into his hand. “When was the last time you were here?”

  She lifted her head away. “After Dad died. John and I helped Mom move to her condo downtown.”

  “Would you like to get out and look?”

  He saw the no forming on her lips, the same way he saw it forming when he’d asked if she wanted to go into Tanya’s shop, and immediately he opened his door and stepped out into the snowy chill, sure she’d be unable to stay in the car once he’d made the move. More manipulation, yes. No one had ever accused him of not trying to get what he wanted. But if he could help Annabel get past whatever she was afraid of, make her more aware of how she’d shut out most of her life, his theory was that she’d come willingly to him, and make the underhanded tactics unnecessary.

  Until then, he needed some kind of control, not only over her, but over himself, to keep from rushing her.

  Behind him, he heard her door open, saw her in his peripheral vision emerge from the car, come to stand next to him on the sidewalk, ankle deep in snow, and heard her take a long, deep breath.

  He joined her, staring at the house, actually seeing it this time instead of scanning for her, staring at the bedroom window that had belonged to him, then at the one that had belonged to her. A vision came to him suddenly, transporting him back to seeing her face in that window when he and John had come home from some errand, seeing her smile and disappear and come downstairs, eager to find out where they’d been, what they’d done.

  And suddenly and unexpectedly, other memories flooded him. Annabel crying in her room over some adolescent tragedy, how her tears had cut him, reminded him of his mom, made him want to protect her from everything that could hurt her. Annabel coming to his room in the dark while he was in bed, whispering about a plot she’d hatched to get John back for teasing her about some crush, begging him to help, giggling so hard she could barely get the words out. Annabel livid with her father when he took John and Quinn to his office for the day and left her home with her mom baking cookies. Annabel whooping it up outside with Archibald, the family’s golden retriever, breathless and flushed; with Quinn indoors, all but pressing his nose to the window-pane, unused to witnessing or experiencing that kind of huge physical joy, wanting it for himself even knowing it wasn’t possible for him.

  “Good memories.” She spoke softly next to him, low in her throat.

  “Yes.” He kept himself from turning to her, knowing he’d do something idiotic like take her in his arms and kiss her with everything he was feeling, in the process scaring the hell out of her and nullifying every chance he’d taken and every success he’d won so far. “What were you remembering?”

  “Oh.” She stiffened beside him, shifted her position and jammed her hands in her pockets. “Various things. What about you?”

  Annoyance flared in him at her cowardice. He kept his eyes on the house, on her old bedroom window, and without thinking, he told her. All of them, leaving out only his wistful reaction to her giddy romp in the backyard. Maybe sharing them was a bad move, but right then he didn’t care about the game, didn’t care about control or whether it was smart.

  He just wanted her to know.

  When he was finished, he did look at her, unable to keep himself from her reaction, and found her wide-eyed, troubled, hand to her chest.

  “They’re all about me.”

  He gave a brief nod. “All about you.”

  Her eyes widened further; she licked her lips. Quinn turned back to the car. He recognized panic when he saw it. Yes, it had been a bad move, and congratulations. Now it was up to him to become as detached from the scene and from her as he’d just been immersed in it. He’d make no more progress with Annabel this morning. She needed to get home as fast as possible, back to her monochrome office and endless duties, so she could try to lose herself again in the familiar pressure of her daily routine. If he’d done his job right, she’d find it harder to concentrate, harder to disappear totally into her work. If not, he’d have another chance soon.

  But one more push now would mean certain failure. And Annabel was rapidly becoming too important to risk losing.

  ANNABEL RESTED her elbow on her desk, phone to her ear. Ring-ring-ring, was no one at work this afternoon? She was trying to follow up on a few queries for her Dinner and a Show events. So far things were going well for that program—though, as always, they could be going better. But honestly, a few snowflakes fell and people ran scurrying for home? She hung up in disgust. The stuff had still been falling when Quinn dropped her back here; piled up beside people’s driveways, kids home for a snow day from school building a snowman across the street.

  He’d dropped her off, with a peck on her cheek, a kiss that, in her still-agitated state, hadn’t been a disappointment as much as a blessing. Too many memories, too many emotions, it had been a relief to get away from him and come inside to her own territory. Her own space, her own office, her headquarters. Never mind that the house seemed a little chilly today, and a scent memory of Tanya’s chocolate and cinnamon compared unfavorably to something left in her kitchen trash too long. She was back. This morning had been an aberration and she was back in the groove. Or trying to be.

  The phone rang; she squelched the idiotic girlish hope and picked it up.

  Not Quinn. Her cousin Linda. Was everything on track for her husband’s annual holiday business dinner at her house? Annabel rolled her eyes. Um, yes, Linda, exactly as prepared as the last time you called, ten minutes ago, or however long ago it was. Exactly as prepared as it was last year. Was Annabel still sure she couldn’t join them on Christmas Day? Yes, Annabel was still sure.

  She hung up the phone and it rang again almost immediately. This time she didn’t allow the hope to manifest itself at all.

  It was Mrs. Craven, cancelling her dinner party the following Sunday, Stu had the flu. Annabel expressed her sympathy for Stu and hung up, hating herself for immediately picturing an entire evening free to spend with Quinn. That was not the way to think. She could and should schedule in another Dinner and a Show that night.

  She dialed another prospect number. Ring-ring, voice mail picked up and she left a brief message, giving available dates—she was nearly booked through New Year’s. Next year she’d start earlier, give more options, hire more staff, maybe see if the symphony or the rep or the ballet might be willing to advertise for her. And she still needed to do something about attracting more traffic to her Web site.

  A glance at the clock—four forty-five. Why did the afternoon seem to be crawling? Usually there weren’t enough hours in the day, and she’d already lost a good many spending the morning with Quinn.

  Not that she regretted it. Like eating a huge piece of chocolate mousse cake when you had pounds you could be losing—you might feel you shouldn’t have, but you couldn’t really regret it. Not totally. She’d had a good time with him, despite the hollow, strange moments at J. L. Clarke’s without Dad, and at Tanya’s homey, cheerful shop. And standing with Quinn in front of their old house.

  She’d been totally unprepared for him to acknowledge so many memories. Even more unprepared for all of them to be of her. Not to mention the recitation had come out low, halting and intense, like a declaration he didn’t want to be making. But a de
claration of what? In seemingly typical fashion, he hadn’t hung around to clarify. Had turned on his heel and gotten back into the car, driven her home in near-silence. Dropped her off as if he couldn’t wait to get rid of her. Bewildering. As if he had an on-off switch or a circuit breaker that had tripped from some kind of overload.

  More strange, listening to his memories had been like seeing herself as a different person, someone she wasn’t anymore, someone she was surprised to find herself missing. That young exuberant girl who believed life was a set of open doors you could wander endlessly through.

  Annabel roused herself. Come on. No one was the same person they were at thirteen. She shouldn’t be mooning after the past; that was a sure way to remain dissatisfied forever.

  She got up to get herself a glass of water from the kitchen and on the way back stopped by Stefanie’s office, strangely reluctant to return to her own just yet.

  “Hey. What’s going on?”

  “Oh!” Stefanie jumped and looked over from her work, dark circles under her eyes even more alarmingly dark than when Annabel had arrived earlier in the afternoon. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry.” Had Stefanie lost weight? She looked unusually frail. “What are you doing?”

  “Finishing confirmation letters for the new Dinner and a Show clients. Did you need me for something else?”

  “Oh, no.” Annabel waved her glass aimlessly. “Just coming over to see how you were doing.”

  Stefanie smiled pleasantly. “Almost done.”

  “No, I meant how you were doing…personally.”

  “Personally.” She searched Annabel’s face, as if looking for signs of psychosis. “Oh. Well. I’m fine.”

  “Good.” Annabel took a sip of her water. “That’s good.”

  “Yes.”

  Stefanie’s heater went on. The chime on her computer indicated an incoming e-mail.

  “Was there anything else?”

  “Uh.” Annabel shook her head. “No, not really.”

  “Okay.” Stefanie sat looking at her warily.

  Annabel forced a smile. Why was this so godawfully awkward? “Why don’t you go home early today?”

  “Oh.” Stefanie glanced at the clock, which showed four fifty-five. “Thank you.”

  Annabel wrinkled her nose. “Okay, not that early.”

  “It’s all right.” Stefanie laughed. “Traffic will be a zoo today with the snow. Five minutes will help. Thanks, Annabel.”

  “You’re welcome.” Annabel smiled tightly, feeling guilty for not thinking of letting Stefanie go home early before this. She lived in Waukesha, she had a half-hour commute even in good weather. “Drive safely. And get some sleep tonight.”

  “Why?” Stefanie paused in the act of shutting down her computer. “Is something big happening tomorrow?”

  “No.” Annabel gestured impatiently. Did Stefanie think she was that one-track? “You just look tired.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks.” Stefanie bent and turned off her space heater. “I mean thanks for the wish to get good sleep.”

  “You’re welcome.” Annabel backed out into the hall and went into her office. Okay, that was weird. Was it that hard for Stefanie to believe Annabel just wanted to chat? Granted, she and Stefanie hadn’t made great strides toward being close, and yes, that was probably mostly Annabel’s fault, but she wasn’t that much of a dragon-lady boss…was she?

  Enough self-doubt. She was who she was; Stefanie seemed to like working here. They didn’t have to be best friends to form an effective team. Annabel sat down at her desk and turned on her computer. The hologram burst over her desk and hummed while the computer booted up. When it was ready, she brought up a blank page on her word-processing program. She’d been wanting to brainstorm her Christmas-tree-cutting party idea since she’d been back today, but hadn’t been able to settle down to it.

  Okay. Now.

  She typed “Christmas Tree Cutting Party” and saved the file.

  So.

  Her fingers drummed on the desk. Her gaze shifted to the flowers Quinn had brought, and immediately her thoughts drifted off in his direction. His rare smiles—was she wrong or were they becoming less rare? His warm, dark eyes. His equally warm and additionally amazing hands, pinning her against the B and B door. His talented tongue making sure she’d agree to spend the morning with him—and then some of the afternoon as well.

  She brought her eyes back into focus on the flowers. Stop and smell the roses. Wasn’t that what she’d done today? And where had it gotten her? To an afternoon where she hadn’t accomplished squat.

  Regroup.

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was exactly why she didn’t allow herself time off. The minute you slowed down, all you wanted was to slow down further. Sneak one chocolate from the box and you wanted to sit down, rip off the lid and devour the entire row. Then another, then another, then a long glorious wallow in box after box until you were utterly bogged down in the stuff. Paralyzed by your desire for indulgence.

  One day with Quinn and she wanted more. She wanted two, she wanted a long weekend, she wanted three weeks in the Caribbean on a private island with nothing but food, condoms and a king bed for them to play on.

  Damn.

  Of course she knew deep down this was only temporary insanity. Her goals and her drive went much too deep to be supplanted in half a day. But the lesson was clear, and she’d learned it well.

  No matter what kind of pressure Quinn applied—tongue, hands, or lips—this morning would be the last time she—

  Her business line rang. She pounced on it like a starving woman on a free meal. Good. A business call. Something she’d need to deal with, something that would launch her back into the place she belonged, stop this silly mooning over—

  “Annabel.”

  The deep voice went into her ear and traveled, electrifying and thrilling, all through her system. What had she just told herself about him? About her reaction to him?

  “Hi, Quinn.” She rolled her eyes. Gooey, breathless, teenybopper-crush voice.

  “I can’t talk long.”

  She lifted her chin. “Me, neither.”

  “Rosebud theater. Tonight.”

  “Well…” Chin higher. “I’ll have to see if—”

  “I’ll be at your house at midnight.”

  Brows down. “Quinn. I’m not sure tonight is—”

  “See you then.”

  The phone clicked off.

  Annabel’s mouth snapped shut from her next intended protest. She slammed down the phone and jumped to her feet.

  She wasn’t going to be one of his crew who jumped every time he said jump. Not only was it inconsiderate and rude, but she couldn’t risk being seduced into spending more time away from work. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be a problem—she didn’t generally work past midnight—but what about tomorrow? Did he have plans to kidnap her again?

  He was dangerous, devious; like a good strong marinade, he threatened to seep in and gradually take over her natural essence.

  Tonight when he showed up, she’d just tell him…she’d tell him…

  Her eyes lit on the stocking cap she’d tossed across the other chair in the room, on the Ho-ho-ho in green letters on the white brim. Her traitor brain again remembered too many details, too many thrills, too much of the warmth and excitement, a certain richness of existence when they were together, that she didn’t have here in this barren room.

  Worse, then a vision of the Rosebud theater, the red velvet couches where patrons sipped drinks and watched the movie.

  Visions of what she and Quinn could do on those couches during the private screening he promised.

  Oh, no.

  Oh, no.

  He’d said jump. And once again, she wanted to. But…

  A slow, evil, thoroughly enjoyable smile spread across her face as the best idea in the world popped into her head.

  She grabbed the phone. She’d need to call the owner of the Rosebud—she’d once done a party f
or him—then she’d need to go upstairs and rummage through a particular box in her storage closet.

  This time she’d jump on her own terms. Yes, she did want to see him again, wanted to spend the evening in his magnetic and exciting and arousing presence. But her days of meekly playing his game were over.

  Tonight was going to be her show.

  7

  ANNABEL PULLED ON a red-and-black flowery skirt that flowed to mid-calf, and a casual white scoop-neck cotton knit top. Underneath, she wore an ivory push-up lace bra. Thigh-high ivory stockings with matching lace garter belt. No panties.

  She glanced at the clock. Eleven fifty-three. Just enough time to put on her makeup and jewelry.

  After she’d made arrangements for the way the evening would go—i.e. her way—she’d finally managed to get some work done, though not much, then cleared the driveway of the finally stopped snow, come upstairs and taken a long, leisurely soak in the tub, buffing and shaving and otherwise making sure every part of her was presentable—and then some. She’d trimmed the curls between her legs to a short, sweet covering, painted her toenails dominatrix-red, and her fingernails to match. Taken extra time with her hair, so it fell in an attractive arrangement around her face and down her shoulders, glinting slightly auburn in the light.

  Now she put on mascara, eyeliner, a touch of brown shadow at the corners of her eyes for a more exotic look. Quinn would be seeing her in dim lighting; she could get away with a heavier cosmetic touch than she usually used. Bright red lipstick next, thoroughly blotted, then blush, not that she needed much—her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the tub and from anticipation.

  Jewelry next. She carefully extracted a pair of silver spiral earrings from the middle drawer of the miniature dresser Quinn had given her. The chest was perfect for earrings, rings and chain necklaces and she couldn’t help smiling every time it caught her eye.