We Will Always Have the Closet

by Natalina Reis

  Sam took her to her house, which he claimed was so much nicer than his, since a loft in the center of Seattle was too noisy for a convalescent. She suspected he just liked her house better. Like a good mystery, a romance should take its time to develop, one delicious layer at a time—she didn’t want to mess it up. So it was a little nerve-racking having him stay with her so soon after they first met, but the idea of being alone at a time like this dispelled whatever concerns she had. Her house was tidy, as usual. She had never been a messy person, and living alone afforded her the opportunity to live in the type of environment she had always enjoyed. Sam carried her in his strong arms to lay her gently on the couch in the living room. He had gone into her bedroom and she heard him opening and closing doors as if looking for something. Finally he came out with a couple pillows and a blanket in his hands. Like a true mother hen, he fussed over her, making her comfortable. Petra started clucking like a chicken.

  “Are you clucking at me?” he exclaimed, surprised. “First you growl at me, now you cluck? I don’t know whether to laugh or be offended.” She patted a spot on the couch by her feet and he sat down. “I am glad you’re okay,” he said seriously. “I was worried.”

  Petra smiled at him. “I’m glad you are here,” she confessed. “Can you sit closer?”

  Sam stood up and came to squeeze himself between her head and the end of the couch. Her ailing head was now on his lap and the warmth of his legs against her sore neck was heavenly. She realized how tired she was as her eyes began to slowly close in spite of her efforts to keep them open. “I am so tired,” she whispered, feeling herself fading away into slumber.

  “Then sleep,” he said simply, placing a hand around her shoulders, cradling her like a child. “Sweet dreams, Sleeping Beauty.” A smile lit up her lips and then her mind and body welcomed the oblivion of sleep.

  ***

  Sam

  Sleep was fraught with dreams—not quite nightmares, but anxiety causing, nevertheless. It was hard to grasp the true essence of the dream or any of the details, but from the corner of his consciousness, he could guess fear all wrapped up around the prone figure of Petra. Blood tinted his vision and the muffled sound of her cries mixed with the sound of his own galloping heart. Their sensual dance ended in a mist of terror, Sam reaching out hands to hold a slowly falling Petra. Eyes closed, heart stopped, she kept falling and his hands seemed immaterial, slipping through her cold body on her way down. His mouth silently voiced the pain that seared his heart, and her still body kept dropping, lower and lower…before she reached the floor, he woke up drenched in cold sweat and gasping for air.

  These dreams had plagued his sleep for the past few days, camped out in Petra’s living room as she recuperated from her injuries. She was doing well; cranky, for sure, especially when he prevented her from doing anything or going anywhere, but healing quickly and regaining her strength back. It had been an accident, nothing more. It could have happened to anyone anytime. Yet he carried this weight in his heart. Had he unwittingly involved her in something that would prove too dangerous? She was so certain her ex-husband was innocent, but Sam was not so sure. All evidence pointed in another direction, and whether he liked it or not, Petra was along for the ride. Taking no for an answer was not in her genetic makeup, and only a crazy man would dare forbid her to get involved in something she believed to have every right to be part of. Crazy, he was not. In love—well, that was another thing altogether. Out loud he probably would violently deny it, but in private, in the corners of his mind and his heart, he knew there was no denying it; he was falling irreversibly in love with that little spitfire of a woman.

  Still soaked in sweat, Sam sat up slowly from his perch on the sofa, a foot or so too short for his full height, and stretched. Another day of feeling like a zombie. Was that what love did to everyone? Steal their peace of mind and sleep? Not sure he liked that feeling too much, he stood up and tip-toed to the bathroom. Minimally refreshed, he peeked in Petra’s room to check on her and was shocked into paralysis. Where was she? Her bed was empty, blankets crumpled on top. The glass door that opened up onto the patio was wide open and the curtains floated freely in the cool breeze. Running rather than walking, Sam followed the track outside with panic rising in his chest. Down the hill, still as a statue, Petra sat on the frigid grass staring out at the glittering waters of the Puget Sound as if she had not a care in the world. He let out a loud sigh of relief and she turned her head to him. “Sam,” she exclaimed. “You’re awake.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” he mumbled under his breath as he walked down toward her. Sporting her pink striped pajamas and a mop of messy hair, Petra looked lovely under the light of the wintry morning sun. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “I am high on life, Mr. P.I.,” she said, laughing. “How can you not feel refreshed and warm all over faced with this?” She accompanied her words with a grand gesture in front of her. The scenery was indeed breathtaking and life affirming with the sparkling waters snaking into the horizon, the snow crested mountain tops in the distance, and the azure sky sprinkled with a few lonely cotton ball clouds. Sam inhaled the chill of the crisp air and smiled. His heart was singing inside his chest now that he knew her to be safe. He had never been an anxious person until this little brunette insinuated her way into his life.

  “Hungry?” he asked, feeling a hunger of another kind invade his body.

  Petra got up and raced him to the house, where she prepared a massive amount of scrambled eggs and cheese. “For such a tiny person, you sure eat like a giant,” he commented, watching her shoveling forkfuls into her mouth.

  “I am convalescing and my body needs food to heal properly,” she said between chews. “What’s your excuse?”

  “I am a six foot four adult male who works out for at least an hour every day and has to put up with a five foot three Tasmanian devil,” he replied, taking a big bite of the cheesy eggs. She was making a poor attempt at hiding her laughter behind her toast. He laughed too. “I have to leave you for a little while today,” he told her suddenly. “Work.” That was partly true. He did have to go back to his investigation sooner rather than later, but what was really driving him away from her was his need to put some physical distance between them. Around her it was hard to think straight, his body constantly ravaged by irrational desire and his mind assailed by an equally irrational fear. He needed a break from the turmoil that raged inside of him, and work might very well be just what the doctor ordered.

  “I’ll be okay,” she assured him, yet she looked slightly disappointed. “You could use my help, you know?” she added without much conviction.

  A small piece of egg had gathered in a corner of her mouth and he stretched his finger to flick it off absentmindedly. “You still have a little to go before you can go out in the world,” he said, distracted by her moist lips.

  “You make it sound like I’m a newborn bird about to fall from the nest,” she protested. “But okay, I guess I need a few more days, but then…” There was a poorly concealed threat in that pause. Sam glanced at her sideways and grinned. He had no doubts she would be flying out of her so-called nest as soon as she felt her legs could carry her. “While you are out maybe you would like to pick up some new clothes? Those are smelling a little ripe by now,” she said with a malicious smirk and a twist of her tiny button nose.

  Sam wanted to hold her and let her help him get rid of the offensive clothes, but he knew that if he took even one step closer to her at that moment, he would never be able to leave. Now or ever. So, he took a step back, smiled at her, wiggled his fingers in the air in a funny goodbye wave and turned to leave. “Bring me something good,” she yelled after him.

  “Why? I’m not enough anymore?” he yelled back, grabbing his coat on the way to the door. “I am deeply hurt.”

  “Chocolate,” she yelled as he closed the door behind him. He shook his head half amused, half annoyed, and left.

  Alone in his car, he felt as if a weight had been
lifted from his chest. His lungs were working better and his heart was beating at a normal pace. Being around Petra was like being high, living in a constant haze, sometimes feeling ten feet high, other times like a bug about to be crushed under someone’s thumb. It was both stifling and exhilarating. Vexing little vixen had him under a powerful spell. Now, his head was clearing as he approached the city and he could focus on more mundane things, nothing that involved setting his body on fire or feeling like he could explode at any time.

  On his way back from the city later, Sam felt refreshed and renewed, the way he imagined—since he hadn’t ever actually done it—he would have felt after a hatha yoga practice. All the hours without once having thought of Petra had certainly done the trick better than a day at the spa. Driving the winding roads toward her house, he even whistled a tune along with the music on the radio. It was early afternoon and he planned to cook Petra the best macaroni and cheese she had ever tasted and then spend the rest of the day walking along the waters of the Sound, talking and relaxing. They both shared a love for art and reading. Their tastes in literature didn’t always necessarily match, but the discussion was always invigorating. He hadn’t met many women who could discuss the intricacies of the male-dominated mystery literature of the 60s and 70s. Petra could, and would, enthusiastically embark in discussions of Miss Marple versus horrible Mike Hammer or suave Perry Mason or Philip Marlowe. Beautiful she was, but there were several more layers to her that he couldn’t wait to uncover.

  The red sports car in the driveway gave Sam a start. Who was here? He didn’t recognize the car, and in the week that Petra had been healing only a couple friends had made their way to visit her. None of them drove expensive sporty cars, he was sure. In fact, the only people in her life who had that kind of cash were from her “married” side. That was a muscle car, a car driven by a male. Hell, was her husband visiting? He flew out of the car and crossed the few remaining yards at top speed. The door was unlocked. Were those palpitations he was feeling? He crossed the small hallway into the living room where he could hear a male voice mingling with Petra’s. Standing by the small fireplace, there was a stranger. He was just as tall as Sam was, but, he admitted to himself, much more handsome. A blond mop of hair artistically disheveled, with perfect skin and a body frame that would make any Chippendale stripper feel inadequate. At his clumsy entrance, both the god-like male and Petra turned their attention to him. Self-conscious now of his looks, Sam hastily combed his dark hair with his fingers and hoped he was not still sporting the bread crumbs from the sandwich he had eaten on the way there.

  “Hey, Sam,” Petra exclaimed, getting up from her perch on the sofa’s arm. “This is my friend, Liam,” she introduced with a big grin. “Liam, this is Sam, my savior.” Liam took a prompt step toward him with his right hand outstretched in front of him.

  His handshake was strong and genuine, and in spite of himself, Sam found himself drawn to him. “Nice to meet you, Sam,” the demi-god said in a deep British-accented voice. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Meanwhile, Sam knew nothing about the smooth Brit who seemed on very friendly terms with Petra.

  “Liam is Jonas’ right arm when it comes to art,” Petra revealed with a telling rise of an eyebrow. So, that was her game. She probably had called him so she could unwisely stick her nose where it was dangerous. This was what she called being helpful? He rather thought of it as being stupid and careless.

  “I have known him for a long time,” she continued.

  Sam was positively livid. What kind of game did she think she was playing? These art criminals, as soft and harmless as they may sound, were serious crooks with illegal businesses and millions of dollars at risk. They were dangerous, smart, and they had the almost inexhaustible resources that came with the fortunes available to them. On the other hand, Petra was obviously excited. Her twinkling eyes belied the sling that supported her arm and her smile was…she never smiled at him that way. What was it about this model wanna-be that made her smile like that? Sam narrowed his eyes and clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt.

  Like old friends they all sat, Petra and Liam on the sofa, Sam on the chair, conversing amiably in spite of the private eye’s strong inclination to murder the other man. Petra was positively radiant and that just added fuel to Sam’s growing anger. They had just spent a whole week together in close quarters, keeping each other company, eating, drinking, and even on occasion sleeping together platonically. Never once had he seen her looking so alive, so full of light. Her glow almost blinded him, and half of him wanted to strangle her, the other half wanted to hug her.

  Sam went back to the kitchen several times with the excuse of brewing more coffee, but in reality he was researching the man in the living room. Training had taught him to never underestimate the enemy and always dig up as much intel as possible on your foe. Phone in hand, he navigated his usual sources for information online. Liam was a British-born American citizen who had established himself in Seattle over ten years ago and had earned the accolades of art critics and the respect of his fellow artists. His connection to Linden was a bit more obscure. They had possibly met in college, since they had attended the same school, and forged a friendship that eventually turned into a business partnership, such as it was. Liam didn’t seem to make much out of that partnership other than exposure to the world of art, a fringe benefit at best. Linden, on the other hand, got more out of it for sure. Liam was his art adviser and had often served as a go-between that resulted in either big pay-offs for art he owned or advantageous purchases that made Linden a true maverick in the world of privately owned masterpieces.

  Leaving the phone behind in the kitchen, he joined the other two in the living room. Liam was explaining how his latest work of art had already found a buyer abroad. Sam was a little out of his depth here. Even though he loved art and had taken some classes in college, he lacked the knowledge these two had. Frustrated and angry, he threw himself down on the chair a little harder than required and the two friends stopped their chatter to stare at him. “Something wrong, Sam?” Petra asked with those annoyingly innocent eyes glued on him.

  “I’m fine,” he said in what sounded more like a groan. Then, deciding to take advantage of his own ignorance, he asked, “So, how do you go about selling an unfinished work of art to a buyer abroad?”

  Liam revealed in a long, animated account everything that such a venture entailed from the possibility of a commissioned work to international internet markets. Sam listened attentively. Who knows? He may find this information useful in his investigation. From the corner of his eye, he also watched Petra, who seemed to be transfixed by the conversation, never taking her eyes away from the gorgeous artist sitting next to her. A little too closely, Sam decided. “How did you two meet?” The question came out before he could stop himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

  “We dated for a little while,” Liam confessed with a grin.

  “I wouldn’t call it dating,” Petra protested, looking a little embarrassed. “We went out a couple times, but then we decided that we were better together as friends.”

  Liam laughed loudly at that. “She decided it, not we,” he said, looking at Sam conspiratorially. “The truth is that she had her eye on Jonas already. Who can compete with a good-looking smart guy, with a fortune to boot?” He was now talking directly to Sam, as if he expected him to totally understand his predicament. Which, of course, he kind of did considering that he felt he was losing her to this bright-eyed model of a man.

  “That’s not true,” she protested, but there was no conviction in her voice. Liam was telling the truth, that much was obvious. So, Jonas had won over this? Sam was impressed. Linden must be a lot more charismatic that he had given him credit for. “Anyway, we are better as friends, don’t you agree, Liam?”

  Liam reached out with his arm and grabbed her in a tight hug. “Sorry, honey,” he said with a little chuckle. “I would still love to date you. You are my muse, you know that.”

  Fightin
g the instinct to reach across the room and sit between them, Sam coughed softly. “How do you mean, she’s your muse?” he asked. “In what way?”

  The artist let go of her and Sam sighed in relief. “I created some of my best art inspired by this imp of a girl,” he said, reaching into his pocket and taking out his phone. “Here, I have some pictures of some of the work she inspired.”

  Petra had turned scarlet, which made Sam even more curious about these works of art. He leaned forward to look at the pictures Liam was showing him and almost fell off the chair. They were all pictures of naked women. With Petra’s face! No wonder she was as red as a beet. Had she posed for all of these? Who needed dating when the girl in question posed stark naked for you? “Did you model for these?” he asked, voice betraying his anger.

  Liam replied instead of her. “Oh, no,” he said, pocketing the incriminating photos. “She wouldn’t hear of it. That was all my imagination and lust for her.” He said that as if it was a common thing to do or say. Sam wanted to slap or throw him out the window. “I’m still hoping she’ll do it someday.”