by A. S. Green
“Okay, you can open your eyes now.” Bennet touches my elbow and, as a single unit and without any obvious cue, the people stand, then sit, then stand again, only to sit, then lower to their knees. The benches groan with the shifting weight.
Bennet and I follow along. The kneelers are covered in an ineffective cushion, and in a few minutes my legs are tingling and pain is shooting, searing, through my kneecaps.
“It’s a shared pain,” Bennet whispers, but whatever pain we’re feeling is eclipsed by the agony played out on the crucifix at the front of the church.
Standing behind the altar, the priest raises a white circle. High-pitched bells ring out. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound reverberates in my head even after the altar server had laid them down.
It is clearly an important moment. The solemnity of the people is so intense it is palpable. It raises the hair on my arms. The people rise and slowly file to the front. I know there is only one of my five senses that will go unsatisfied.
“The body of Christ,” announces the young man, over and over.
“Amen.” The response repeats. Bennet takes my hand, and we slip out of the pew and exit the back of the church. The door is propped open with the wooden statue of a saint. Its paint is chipped. Outside, the sun is painfully bright, and I blink.
“So what did you think?” Bennet asks, watching my face.
“It was…beautiful. Very…sensory. I totally see what you mean.” I close my eyes, letting the last strains of the music sift out the door and right through my body.
“Yeah, I know.” He exhales. “This priest says Mass like it’s a full-contact sport.”
“Do you come every Sunday?” I ask.
“No. But I like to have new experiences, and thought you might, too.” He looks at me with an expression of pure satisfaction. “I’ve got to work this afternoon, but don’t worry. I’ve got more lessons in store for you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
He smiles, his grin stretching across his whole face, his teeth white in the mid-morning light. He cups my jaw with his hand and strokes his thumb across my lips. “I suspect you still haven’t opened the paints you bought.”
“I was waiting for—”
“The perfect moment,” he says, finishing my thought. “Yeah. I figured. Which is why I’m going to take you to Turtle Island tomorrow.”
My stomach muscles clench as his fingers skim the sides of my ribs. His eyes lock on mine, and I’m trapped by his stare. I can’t move. I can barely breathe.
“Turtle Island?” I ask through dry lips. My tongue darts out to wet them. The tendon in his jaw flexes as his gaze drops to my mouth.
“Turtle Island,” he says. “It’s time to put those senses to more work.”
And then he kisses me right there in the church parking lot.
Bennet ends the kiss with a nip at my bottom lip, and I sigh. I don’t know what’s happening between us. The heated swell of emotion in my chest is nothing like I’ve ever felt before. I can’t put a label on it. I can’t figure out where to file it away in the catalog of my heart. A for affection? I for infatuation? L for lust? The only thing I know for sure: nothing about this feels like an F for fling.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Katherine
The next day, Bennet picks me up in his truck, and we head down the dirt road. His strategy for navigating the potholes is to drive so far on the edge that he’s more at risk of gouging the side of his truck on tree branches than hitting a rut. After less than a minute, he pulls into a lakeside driveway.
“Sully O’Hare’s cottage,” he says as he throws the truck in park. My stomach does a lurch when I realize how close his house is to the lighthouse.
He grabs my art supplies from the back of the truck and walks so quickly toward the water’s edge that I have to struggle to keep up.
There’s a medium-sized boat with a covered seating area tied to the dock behind the cottage. The cottage itself is storybook perfect, covered in ivy and wild roses, with a small deck off the back. Before I have a chance to truly admire it, Bennet is already on the dock.
“Whose boat is that?” I yell ahead of me.
“Doyle’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes.” He throws my things into the back of the boat and takes my hand to steady me as I step off the dock and down into the tiny hull. It rocks a little, and I stagger, losing my balance. Bennet catches me by the hand and is kind enough not to laugh.
I stand at the wheel while he unties the rope that tethers the boat to a metal cleat on the dock, then jumps in. He stands behind me, his hard chest pressed against my back, and reaches under my arm to start the ignition. We both look over his shoulder as we back away from the dock. Seagulls spring off the rocks.
Then Bennet, his hands on mine, turns the wheel, sweeping the boat into a slowly curving arc. He thrusts the handle upward now. The boat hesitates, seeming to question, then takes off, beating a path for Turtle Island. The change in momentum makes me lurch back against Bennet’s chest, but he keeps me steady, his warm hands over mine on the wheel.
I should probably sit down so he can take over without me in the way, but he has me pinned. His breath is warm across the back of my neck and down my bare shoulder. It has to be intentional; it’s almost cruel. I can imagine the amused expression on his face.
“So…painting,” he says in my ear, his voice raised over the roar of the engine. “Do you think you’ll be any good?”
“Maybe,” I say. I have to turn my head so he can hear me. “I’m feeling inspired.”
“Good. I’ve been feeling that way, too.” He reaches around my side, letting his arm graze my waist as he adjusts some gauge on the dashboard. My skin tingles at his touch, and I’m sure he can sense the tremor that runs through me.
“I like that,” he says, and I close my eyes in mortification. He definitely knows what he’s doing to me.
Bennet pushes the boat to go faster, but not so fast that the waves are jarring. We pass a fishing boat and two sailboats. Children on board kneel on cushions, waving at us as we cross paths. Bennet sounds a horn in response. The sun is bright on the water, creating silver lines at the crests.
Turtle Island is close enough now to distinguish the branches on the trees. It’s the island I can see from my kitchen window, but up close it looks much different than it does from afar.
Unlike Little Bear’s thick pine trees, this island is dense with leafy trees that break off in a gracefully thinning line along a strip of sandy beach.
A flock of noisy cormorants sun themselves on the boulders that pepper the sand. A couple of boys charge across the beach, whooping at the unimpressed birds.
There are nearly ten other boats anchored off the beach with their families wading or sunbathing nearby. Bennet searches up and down the strip of sand, and I get a little flutter of nerves when I realize he’s looking for a private spot to land.
“You didn’t expect it to be crowded?” I glance back at him, and the frown disappears from his face.
“That obvious?” he asks, at first sheepish, but then he smiles when I say, “Just a little.”
He follows the shore around the bend, and his body presses into my back when he finds the beach empty. He turns perpendicularly into shore and brings the boat in as close as he can, then throws down the anchor. He jumps out, holding my paint supplies high over his head and soaking the bottom of his cargo shorts. Once my things are deposited on shore, he comes back for me.
I dangle my legs over the side of the boat, preparing to jump. Before I can get up the courage to endure what I know from experience to be bone-biting cold, he reaches up and throws me over his shoulder so that my chest is flush with his back. The wind lifts my short, lightweight skirt, and I curse my decision to wear the Squidward thong. Thank God Bennet found a private piece of beach because right now I am bare-assed to the world.
“Put me down,” I say in protest. “I’m perfectly capable of walking in.”
He laughs, and the
vibration in his chest rumbles against my thighs. I reach behind me and try to hold my skirt down.
“Oh, no you don’t, D’Arcy. Consider this an unexpected lesson in the senses.”
God.
When we reach the shore, he sets me on my feet and smooths down my skirt. “Now come on. I know a path over here. There’s a great spot up on the hill; you’ll like it for painting.” I scoop some water into my jar as we leave the lakeshore and head up the beach toward the trees.
We don’t climb far, and I set up a painting station near a cluster of rocks where a patch of red and yellow flowers is growing. It seems like appropriate subject matter. Plus, there’s good light and a large mossy mound to sit on like a chair.
Bennet climbs a little bit farther up the hill, then sits on the ground and leans against a fallen tree.
“Why are you going up there?” I ask.
“Giving us a little space. I couldn’t write if I thought you were reading over my shoulder, and I don’t want to interfere with your process, either.”
My process. I like the sound of it. It makes me feel legit. He takes out his notebook and closes his eyes. Okay. So, I guess we’re getting straight to work, then.
I secure my paper to the portable easel with long strips of masking tape and take a big, cleansing breath. If I’m being honest, it’s kind of exciting. It’s time to unleash the artiste that I know lies dormant inside me. Macie would totally love this. I wish she could see me now. What would she think about her straight-laced friend? I’m practically going bohemian.
I slide a pencil out of my bag and seize upon my subject. I give the flowers a good study. They’re red. And…um…flowerlike. I absorb the color into my mind then begin to sketch.
And…it takes longer than I thought it would. I can’t get the perspective right and the pencil doesn’t have an eraser. I squint at the flowers, which on paper look more like lollipops, then sit back, then lean forward, studying them again. Ruefully, I decide I’ve got the sketch as good as it’s going to get, and I wet my brush.
I take another deep breath and touch some red paint to the center of one of the flowers I’ve drawn. Okay, this is much better. It’s just a small dab of color, but my confidence returns. It looks good. I start to think about the matting I’ll buy once it’s ready for framing.
I look at the flower again and choose the next color, a golden yellow. Perfect. I touch my brush to the paper as precisely as I had before, but as soon as I make contact the two colors run together creating a muddy orange. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I add more water, and the blight bleeds into the paper like a spreading cancer. Ah, crap.
I look over my shoulder. Bennet doesn’t seem to have noticed. Thank God. He’s consumed in whatever he’s writing. Probably something beautiful and perfect. I peel the paper off my board, crumple it up, and bury it beneath a pile of last year’s leaves. I don’t feel too bad about that. It’s biodegradable.
I secure a new piece of paper to my easel.
“There,” I say, convincing myself that things will now go smoothly. The first attempt was just for practice anyway. A warm-up. This time, I draw the flowers bigger so it’ll be easier to stay in the lines. I wet the paper, cautiously touch the brush to the center, and…
“Gah!” I frantically dab at the excess water with the hem of my skirt, but it’s too late. The pristine paper now looks like iced tea. I check my bag to see how many pieces I’ve brought. Not enough.
And then the realization hits. There is no way to avoid the awful truth. It creeps over me like a noxious gas until I have no choice but to succumb to it. It’s like before, in music class.
I suck at this.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bennet
It’s official. Katherine D’Arcy is the worst painter ever born. I chuckle low, under my breath. She’s so beautiful, I assumed it would translate into beauty at the end of her brush. Hardly.
Fuck, if she doesn’t look adorable trying to make something of the muddy puddle of paint. Annnd…now it’s dripping off the edge of her paper. So funny. So damn irresistible.
Why am I sitting so far away from her again? Oh, right. Because if I were any closer I’d have her on her back and neither of us would be getting anything done. This day is for her. Keep yourself in check.
Katherine frowns at her work, but I’ve got to give her credit. She doesn’t give up. I can admire that more than any painting. I wish for the same perseverance because the song I’m working on is seriously kicking my ass.
This is not because I’m distracted by Katherine. Far from it. I wouldn’t have the words I do have if not for her. She gives me so much to work with I don’t know where to start. She’s like a fairy princess sitting there on that mound. Her dark hair is set off against the lush green of the woods. Tiny red flowers lie like confetti in a circle around her. She leans in close to get a better look…
If I could paint a word-picture to capture this moment, and find exactly the right chords, this would be something to show Jordan. For now, there are only a few lyrics in my notebook:
Traveling girl, sets my heart in a whirl
Eyes so bright in a face so fair, painted flowers in her hair
Traveling girl, pack my bags and go
To a place I’ve never known
It’s close to something good. Not quite right, but there’s promise.
I glance down the hill at her again. She’s dabbing tentatively at the paint. If she asks how I’m faring, I’ll say I’m struggling, too. Don’t want her to feel bad about…
Oh, lord, she’s ruined another piece of paper. I smother another laugh and bend over my page so she doesn’t know I’m watching.
Katherine sighs and looks up at the sky. It exposes her neck, and I imagine traveling my mouth over that graceful column. She kisses better than anyone I’ve ever known—better yet because she seems so unsure, as if she doesn’t know her own power.
At that thought, Doyle’s warning shoots through me. City girl. Young. Pretty. Make you think there’s something there, then she’ll be gone. You let her, she’ll break your heart.
I shut it down. No need to let his age-old bitterness ruin my moment. It’s not that I have romantic ideas about Katherine pulling up stakes and moving to Little Bear forever, but maybe I could convince her to stick around a little longer. I can’t remember the last time I felt so right with any one person.
Again, I hear Doyle grumbling in my head. He’s wrong. When it comes to Katherine, he’s wrong. Whatever happens, I know one thing. Katherine D’Arcy would never hurt me.
Chapter Thirty
Katherine
I get up from my work to walk up the hill toward Bennet. “How’s it going up here?” I ask, hoping he’s struggling, too. Misery loves company.
“Eh,” he says with a defeated shrug. He snaps his notebook shut like he doesn’t want me to see.
“Wait. Are you telling me the arrogant ferry driver is actually as big a mess as the rest of us?” I sit down beside him.
“Surprised?” he asks. He looks so…confused. It makes me want to kiss him. I wonder if he wants me to kiss him.
The sun is wavering above us as if debating whether the day is really over. The thinning sunlight filters through the leafy canopy covering Turtle Island and casts a patchwork of bright and shadow across Bennet’s face, catching the threads of red in his otherwise dark hair. Despite the cooling temperatures, it’s warm here, sitting next to him on a mattress of moss and dry leaves.
“No. Not really surprised,” I confess. “You’ve been this rebel for years. Leaving your family, doing your own thing, not caring what anyone thinks. But I saw the look on your face at the bonfire when Alli used your real name, and again when Bruce asked you to play catch. You glorify independence, but even you want to belong to something.”
“And that makes me a mess?”
“That makes you human. Everyone needs to belong to something.”
“I’m wondering if maybe I might belong with
you.” He says this without any hesitation or hint of embarrassment, sarcasm, or corniness.
I stare at him, blinking, and think, Well, there it is. We’re not just friends. I marvel at how blunt he can be. I’ve never known anybody like that. Not even Andrew, and we’ve known each other forever.
Bennet faces me. My whole body is rigid with anticipation, and maybe even a little bit of terror.
He seems oblivious to the panic on my face, though I’m sure he can see the shiver running through me. He’s so close now it would be easy to kiss him again. I want to. I’m desperate for it. His eyes glance down to my lips. His look full and warm.
“D’Arcy,” he murmurs. “When does school start up for you again? Could you maybe stay for a couple more weeks after Calloway gets back?”
“I—” I don’t know what to say. I’ve never even thought about that being a possibility. My plan was to do the job, get my paycheck, then get my butt back to life as I know it.
“I’m serious,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want to scare you by being overly dramatic, but I think there’s a reason you’re here. I thought maybe we could explore that a little longer.”
“I don’t know. It’s all kind of planned out already.”
“Of course it is. I would expect nothing less of you than a very detailed plan, but this uptight, conservative little girl…is this the real you?” He tugs teasingly on the tight braid that runs down the back of my head.
“Are you referring to my plan, or to my hair?”
“Both. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Your hair looks great like this, and if you like wearing it pulled back all the time, then absolutely you should. But I get the feeling…” He tugs again. “May I?”
Only when I don’t object does he pull my ponytail holder out of my hair and pick apart the braid. He ruffles his hands through my loosened hair, sending the scent of my lavender shampoo into the air and turning my hair into a wild tousle of curl.
He leans closer, stopping an inch from my face. Our noses bump. The air temperature spikes in the thin space between us. I brace for the kiss, but he doesn’t come any closer.