by Jo Macgregor
Inside, the store was modern and brightly lit with a specialty section dedicated to quilting. I waited beside Ryan, resisting the urge to step back and check out his butt, while a delivery man in a uniform and cap branded with the same cherubs as the van completed some paperwork and asked if he could leave a stack of pamphlets on the counter. When he left, the manager — Maria, according to her nametag — asked us how she could help. Looking for something to purchase in the hope that this would buy me time and a little goodwill while I asked my questions, I chose the first thing that caught my eye — an embroidery kit with a design of interlinked Gemini twins stamped on the fabric.
Ryan and I chatted to the manager about her store and slid in a few questions about Larry and Derek Kehoe, but while we learned that her business was doing well and that she ran quilting classes and had an online store which promised forty-eight hour delivery to anywhere in New England, we learned nothing about our suspects. The store was new; she’d started it from scratch in 2015.
“I wish we’d found out more today,” I said as we went back to the car. “A full name and forwarding address would’ve been nice.”
“A lot of the process of investigating is ruling out what isn’t,” Ryan said.
“I guess so. At least we know Larry came to this area, that he drove a Thunderbird like the one I saw in my vision, and that he had another violent altercation — a homophobic one at that. It’s really looking like he’s our guy.”
As for Derek Kehoe, we’d found no trail of him and I couldn’t resist the growing belief that he was gone, as dead as his poor mother.
The day’s investigations were done, so we followed Google’s directions to the B&B where I’d made a reservation for us to stay overnight. Our plan was to check out the last store on our list the following morning because it was the only one open on a Sunday and it lay on the route back to Pitchford.
Swallows’ Rest was a mid-sized bed-and-breakfast decorated in modern country style. The receptionist welcomed us with a smile and a teeny glass of sherry, and while we checked in, she asked if we’d be going out for supper or if we wanted her to pack us a picnic basket.
“There’s a lovely spot a little way into the woods out back, and the ephemerals are beautiful this time of the year,” she said.
Ryan and I agreed that the picnic option sounded good. After a day spent mostly driving, neither of us felt like getting back into the car to find a restaurant in town.
“I’ll have the basket ready by six o’clock. Okay, so here are your keys.” She handed us each a set, and to me, she said, “You requested rooms seven and nine?”
Ryan stared glumly at his keys, then directed a disappointed gaze my way. “You booked two rooms?”
“Seven and nine are adjoining rooms,” the receptionist said in a bright and breezy voice. “Now, the big key on each ring is for your room, and the little one, here” — she tapped a smaller key on each ring — “is for the interleading door between them.” She gave us a knowing smile and said, “We hope you enjoy your stay here at Swallows’ Rest!”
– 36 –
That evening, we walked down the path into the woods, Ryan carrying the food basket and me carrying the wine, glasses and picnic blanket. It was a fine evening, warm without being hot. The ground was dry, but there must have been a stream or a pond somewhere nearby because spring peepers were in full chorus, their high-pitched calls sounding like the ringing of distant sleigh bells. The trees wore a haze of fresh green leaves and buds, and wild leeks as sharp as green blades in the brown soil added sweet oniony notes to the earthy smell of the forest.
Above, birds trilled and chattered, but my gaze was drawn to the ground. I was mesmerized by the exquisite ephemerals. Every year in early spring, the delicate spring wildflowers bloomed in a riot of color from the forest floor, luxuriating in the days of full sunlight before the ash, oak, maple, and birch trees got their full canopies of leaves and covered the ground in deep shade. We pointed out the blooms we recognized: blue cohosh and delicate Dutchman’s breeches, the virgin white of bloodroot and starflowers, and the bright yellow of trout lilies and marsh marigolds. Ryan, who recognized more species than I did, showed me the elusive Jack-in-the-pulpit, a hooded and striped tubular flower of blood red and deep green, and insisted I smell red trillium. I drew my nose back sharply from the heart of the flower, where a longhorn beetle rubbed its feet together.
“Ugh, it smells like a wet dog,” I said.
He chuckled. “That’s why it’s also called stinking Benjamin. The smell is what attracts the insects.”
Palest pink spring beauties and clusters of tiny heart-shaped squirrel’s corn embroidered the clearing where a wooden picnic table and benches sat surrounded by a circle of mossy rocks. In another month or so, after their brief spring splendor, all the flowers would go to seed and die back. Underground, their roots and bulbs would lie dormant and invisible until the next spring, like buried bodies awaiting resurrection.
Ryan unpacked our supper onto the table, while I spread the blanket and poured the wine. When we’d laden our plates with slices of rare roast beef, dill pickles, and tomato-and-basil salad with bocconcini, we sat on the blanket in the softening light of dusk to eat.
“No more talk of killers tonight,” Ryan said.
“Agreed.” I clinked my glass against his.
We spoke instead about ourselves. I told him about how I’d started studying pre-med after high school, then flunked out and spent a year in South Africa, working in wildlife conservation, before returning to Boston to study psychology. I wanted to know more about his family.
“Tell me about them,” I said, spreading whipped butter on a slice of sourdough bread. I took a big bite.
“Well,” he took a sip of wine, “you know my ex-wife is a chef in Austin.”
I nodded, and he brushed a crumb from the edge of my mouth. My skin tingled where he’d touched it.
“My father died when I was eighteen,” he said, and I winced. “But my mother’s still alive and kicking. She lives in Atlanta with her new husband and works as a receptionist in my younger brother’s practice.”
“He’s a lawyer? A doctor?”
“A dentist.”
“Okay. Wow.” I kept my face politely neutral, but I’d never been able to understand why people chose to go into dentistry. I could think of nothing worse than working in a place that smelled of antiseptic, oral rinse, and fear, and greeting reluctant patients to the background sound of whining drills — and the occasional scream, too, probably — unless it was rooting about in people’s rotten mouths. I figured psychopaths might be drawn to a career where they could coolly drill holes into people under the risk of being bitten. “What did your father do?”
Ryan, who’d been swirling a slice of tomato in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, popped it in his mouth. When he swallowed, he said, “It’s my turn to ask.”
Avoiding the question?
“Hit me,” I said.
“What was it like being an only child?”
“Okay, I guess. You get more attention from your parents, though I’m not sure that’s always a good thing.” I took a large sip of wine and held out my glass for more. “I wasn’t meant to be the only kid.”
“No?”
“There were a few miscarriages before me. I get the sense that’s when my mother began to get all superstitious and into metaphysical things. She was desperate to have a baby, and if crystals or affirmations or reiki might help, she was prepared to give them a whirl. Hell, reading between the lines of what my father has told me, she probably would’ve sacrificed a goat on an altar at the full moon if she thought that would do the trick.”
I bit into a tangy pickle while Ryan studied me for a long moment.
“And then you came along,” he said.
“Ta-dah!” I said, flinging my hands out and accidentally sending the pickle flying into the woods. “The miracle baby.”
His lips curved into a smile that melted the last sh
ard of ice protecting my heart. “I’m glad you made it,” he said.
We sat in silence for a while, listening to the night sounds and watching the light fade. Ryan finished his cold beef, and I traded the rest of mine for his pickle. Then while he filled our glasses with the last of the wine, I opened the Tupperware containing dessert. Inside lay five Rice Krispie Treats.
“Oh my.” I lay back on the blanket and bit into one. Salted caramel with the perfect level of chewiness. “I know I died once before, but I think I just now finally made it to heaven.”
Ryan lay down beside me, smiling at the relish with which I devoured my share of the chewy treats.
When only one remained, I attempted a fake out. “Look there. Is that Orion’s belt?” I said, pointing with one hand at a few stars in the darkening sky while I surreptitiously slid my other hand over to the dessert container. I guess a suspicious nature and quick reflexes were part of Ryan’s cop skillset because he made a preemptive strike, snatching the last treat before I could.
“No fair!” I complained.
He held it out for me to bite but pulled it back just when I came close.
“Playing games, now?” I said in a false huff.
“No games. I just want you to come and get it.” His voice was lower and huskier, and his eyes had darkened.
I inched closer to him, more interested in tasting him, now, than the crispy treat. Pushing myself up on one elbow, I slowly closed the distance between our lips, then gasped when he quickly pulled me close and returned my kiss with interest. He tasted of marshmallow and salt, and he felt solid beneath my hands and warm against my body. I deepened the kiss, then shivered as a pool of cold air surrounded me. Was Colby here again? Did he object to someone else being in his spot? I clambered over Ryan and lay on his other side.
Ryan gave me a puzzled smile. “What?”
“I just feel more comfortable here,” I said, but if I’d thought that switching places would be enough to placate Colby, I was wrong. The smell of cola lip balm permeated the air, though Ryan didn’t seem to notice it, and the cold intensified.
I was growing annoyed. I’d been enjoying the kiss with Ryan, just as I’d enjoyed making out with him on the couch in my loft. It felt like the sexual part of me was finally coming out of its grief- and depression-induced hibernation. Yes, I’d been with a couple of men since Colby died, mostly in an experiment to dull the pain, but I hadn’t been with anyone I cared about. I hadn’t felt particularly present with them. I may have stripped off my clothes, but I’d kept my emotions locked up tight inside, and perhaps because of that, I hadn’t much enjoyed the sex. Now, with Ryan, I did feel fully here and in the moment. I liked and trusted him. I wanted this, and I was going to have it, dammit.
I tugged him closer, and he moved one leg over my hips, pressing himself against me as we kissed. I reveled in the taste of his mouth and the feel of his hands moving over me. My breathing quickened, and an ache pulsed deep in the pit of my belly.
“Ouch!” Ryan sat up, rubbing his head.
“What?”
“A pinecone just hit me on the head.”
Enough, I thought. Time to tackle this.
“Could you just give me a minute?” I asked Ryan.
He stared bemusedly at me, but I got to my feet and stalked off deeper into the forest, enveloped by an invisible cloud of cold and cola.
“Colby,” I said when I was out of earshot of Ryan, “this has to stop.”
I looked around, perhaps hoping for a glimpse of him, golden and glimmering between the trees. But of course, there was nothing.
“I loved you. I still love you, and I always will.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “But that’s in my other heart, the one that belonged to you, the one that stopped. I’m a different person now.” How could I explain this so that he understood I cared deeply about him but that I also wanted to be free to live my life? “We were like ephemerals, you and I. We bloomed, and for a little while, it was so beautiful. It was perfect,” I said, my throat tight and my voice hoarse. “But then it was over, and we were gone. You were gone.”
Not gone.
“Okay, not gone but not fully here either. Oh, Colby, it’s great how you look out for me, but I don’t think this is where and how you’re supposed to be, bound to me in a kind of limbo. I think your … existence … would be better if you, you know, moved on.” I sighed, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. “Just let go of me and move on to where you’re supposed to be.”
No.
Always and forever.
Keep you safe.
“That part of it’s okay, I guess,” I said, wondering if I was being selfish. “But throwing pinecones at Ryan’s head?”
I felt rather than heard his laughter.
“He’s a good man, Colby. And he’s here. You need to let me have this part of my life.”
I listened, but he didn’t respond.
“All I’m asking for is a bit of privacy, okay?”
Silence.
“Come on, Colby. Do you seriously want to spend your existence being an interfering voyeur?”
For a moment, there was nothing, then I felt a gentle stirring of the air, like an intake of breath, and he was gone. I could feel it. I made my way back through the night to Ryan, tripping over roots and rocks, and went straight into his arms to pick up where we’d left off. This time, there was no cold, no cola smell, and no falling missiles.
After a long while, Ryan sat up, batting at the midges that had discovered us. “Should we continue this indoors?”
“I … um …”
“Hey” — he held up his hands — “zero pressure. But I feel obliged to confess something.”
“What’s that?”
“I am in like with you, Garnet McGee.”
My shoulders relaxed. He was staying true to his promise to go at my pace. So what the hell did I want that to be? I hesitated, feeling like I was standing at a line just as scary as the one around the well house in Crowbury, and then I cleared my throat and spoke.
“Then I guess I should tell you, Ryan Jackson, that I’m in like with you too.”
– 37 –
We walked back to the B&B, holding hands, and after exchanging long looks while standing at our doors, we each went into our own rooms. As I got ready for bed, I snuck repeated glances at the interleading door, hoping it might open. I showered, discovering I had the last crispy treat mashed into my hair, and put on the courtesy robe I found hanging in the bathroom. Then I checked the door to Ryan’s room again. Still closed. I brushed my teeth and hair and glared at the door before flopping onto my bed and trying to make sense of my confused feelings. Eventually, I bounded off the bed with a string of curses, walked over to the interleading door, and wrenched it open.
Ryan, wearing only a fluffy white towel around his waist, was standing next to his bed. I took in his damp, tousled hair and his bare chest. Colby’s build had been lighter and the hair on his chest golden. Ryan had a bigger build, and his hair was black. He wasn’t a perfectly handsome boy like Colby had been. He was a grown man, real and solid and waiting for me. With a tiny sigh, I severed my tether to the past, stepped over the threshold and into the room, and then stood on the spot, feeling vulnerable and exposed, not knowing what to say.
“I … I can’t sleep,” I said, sounding tough, almost belligerent. “My room is …” I glanced back over my shoulder, casting about for an excuse. The room was lovely, decorated in soothing dove gray and white with an elegant orchid of palest pink. My gaze fell on that sole instance of color, and I turned back to Ryan. “My room is too pink. It’s pink all over. It’s like being in the belly of a whale.”
“Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” he said, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
“No,” I said. “No, we can’t. Because it might make me all anxious.”
“Well, we definitely can’t have that.” He ambled over to the main light switch and flicked it off. Now the room was lit only by the mute
d glow of the bedside lamp. Ryan tugged back the bedclothes and looked from the exposed sheet to me, his eyes full of questions.
“But I don’t know if I should be here, either,” I said.
“I see. And why’s that?”
“If I come into your room like this” — I walked over to him, my bare feet moving from the hard wooden floor to the softness of the rug beside his bed — “then we’ll go full throttle — all cylinders, full torque and maximum horsepower.”
“And you don’t want that?” he asked, his brows drawing together.
I help up a finger. “Now, I didn’t say that.”
His expression cleared. “I stand corrected.”
“I’m cool with bedsprings getting broken, just not, you know, hearts.”
“I see,” he said, nodding slowly. “Then I guess it would be okay to do this?” He planted a chaste peck on my cheek.
“Yeah, no, I don’t think any harm could possibly come from that,” I said.
“But I probably shouldn’t do this,” Ryan said, edging my robe off one shoulder and kissing the skin there, which goose-bumped in response. “Or this.” He freed the other shoulder and nuzzled it, too, for long minutes.
I drew in a ragged breath. I’d never imagined that my shoulders were erotic zones. “And I probably would be safe with this?” I said, moving my lips to his dimple, kissing it, and breathing in the fresh soapy scent of him before grazing my lips over the sandpaper stubble of his jaw. “But this might be a little risky?” I murmured against the pulse at the base of his throat while my hands ran down the muscled slopes of his arms and chest.
The moan of complaint he gave when I pulled back turned into a sigh of pleasure when I opened my robe.
He took a step back to take in every inch of me. “My, my, my …” was all he said, but the rasp in his voice and the heat in his glance was enough to make me feel beautiful.
“It’s not at all safe to look at me like that,” I whispered. “And if you were to touch me here and here” — I took his hand and trailed his fingers down my chest, between and over the curves of my breasts — “then that would be downright dangerous.”