Such Happiness as This

by Laina Villeneuve

  “How long have you lived in Arcata?” Megan laughed. “Those are the hot tubs.”

  “Public hot tubs?”

  Megan squeezed her hand. “You don’t get out enough. They’re made of redwood and are really nice.” She stopped and tipped her head back. “There’s nothing like the feel of the cool mist while sitting in a tub.”

  For a moment, Grace wondered if Megan would suggest they get a tub, and a wave of heat rushed through her at the thought of being naked together.

  “We could try it sometime,” she said, her eyes returning to Grace. She took both her hands and stepped closer.

  Grace felt suspended in time, the trees and lanterns around her, music drifting out of the café. When Megan slipped her arms around her, pulling Grace into her warmth, the recipe for romance was complete.

  Except the glaring absence of sparks when Megan’s lips touched hers. Grace closed her eyes and went through the list of how right the moment was, click click clicking like the lighter on a stove’s range, but minus the sparks. Instinctively, Grace took a step back, just as one would to avoid the cloud of gas that accumulates when the flame takes too long to ignite.

  For all that she was thinking about how nice it would be to end her dry spell in bed, their kiss did nothing to pull her in that direction.

  Megan slipped her hand into Grace’s again, and it was nice. It felt comfortable, but she noticed how attuned she was to these small details rather than being lost in the moment. “Is something wrong?” Megan asked.

  Feeling guilty for her distracted thoughts, Grace realized that the evening had grown quiet. Relieved that she had an excuse, she explained how she had hoped to talk to the violinist between their sets.

  “Good idea, just in case we don’t make it all the way through the next set,” Megan said suggestively, pulling Grace in for another kiss.

  But Grace’s thoughts were already on her conversation about music and where that, not this kiss, would lead.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thrill

  Muscles aching from a long day turning a platter on her lathe, spinning her blocks of wood while she shaped them with a variety of gouges and chisels, Robyn sat limply at the kitchen table eating cereal, too tired to throw anything else together. Low, dark clouds made it feel much later than it was, and listening to the rain, she wanted nothing more than to crawl up to her loft and into bed.

  The doorbell prompted no response from anyone else in the house, so she reluctantly roused herself to open the door to the chilly evening. Her body flashed hot and excited with false recognition. The figure standing on the porch transported her back to before Barb had moved in, back to when Barb had rung the doorbell, to a time when Barb couldn’t shut the door fast enough to get her hands on her.

  Her body remembered this even though her brain quickly provided that Kristine’s friend from the barn, not Barb, stood dripping wet on the porch. Analytically, there wasn’t much this woman and her ex had in common. She puzzled over what had given her body the temporary flashback. The clothes she wore, she realized. Back when she and Barb were dating, Barb would arrive in a skirt suit. Once she’d moved in, she usually changed before finding Robyn, if she sought her out at all.

  “You have another horse that needs feeding?” she asked, coming to her senses.

  A series of emotions—recognition, surprise and confusion—passed over the woman’s face. “No. I’m looking for Jen?” She bent to pick up a large case she’d set on the porch.

  “Ah.” Robyn stepped back, making room for the visitor to enter. “Up the stairs and straight back to the studio. She’s already practicing. Must be why she didn’t hear the door.”

  Grace took a few steps toward the stairs but turned before she took the first one. “Still riding?”

  “Yep.” She turned to shut the door, steadying herself. Even after she’d turned the lock, Grace stood there as if waiting for her to say more, but her heart pounded too much for her to think clearly.

  The guest finally climbed the stairs, leaving Robyn by herself again. She returned to the kitchen, telling herself that it was the threat of soggy cereal that propelled her past the staircase when in reality she needed to sit, her head still spinning from the visceral memory of Barb’s early attentions. How long had it been since anything had sent a zing like that through her body, she wondered. Her thumb instinctively traveled to her naked ring finger as if the surge of desire was something to feel guilty about.

  She had spent so many years tamping down her desire for Barb that it took little to flood her system, and she sat there feeling her body reawaken. Suddenly ravenous and her cereal finished, she searched for something else in the kitchen. She scanned the contents of the refrigerator and cupboards in vain, wondering when she had let even her staples get so low. She’d have to run to the co-op.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The narrow staircase carried Grace up to a hallway with three doors. Though the doors on either side were open, the closed door directly in front of her drew her so completely that she didn’t even glance into the bedrooms she passed. Instead, she set down her cello and ran her hands over the smooth surface of the door, wondering how the woodworker had created rays that looked like Medusa’s snake hair, bending and spreading out from a center of pieces of amber, a sun. Suspended above its radiance were other cut-outs for planets, some a single stone, others a collection like the sun. Dozens of stars so tiny Grace could not discern their color completed the skyscape. Finally, she turned her hand, rapping her knuckles on the masterpiece.

  “Come in,” Jen called from within. “Sorry to drag you out in the rain.”

  “Comes with the territory, doesn’t it?”

  Jen laughed. “Guess that’s true. I’m just warming up here.” she tucked her violin back under her chin and resumed her scales. Grace set down her case, surveyed the room as she pulled out her instrument, extended the endpin and tightened her bow. The polished hardwood floor would make for great acoustics. Two huge picture windows framed in fire-engine red dominated one wall. Grace’s hands stilled and she sat mesmerized by what Jen must be able to see during the day.

  “You wouldn’t believe the view,” Jen said, breaking her reverie.

  “Sorry.” Grace sat and accepted Jen’s A to begin tuning.

  “Don’t be. It’s such a cool space. Every day, I think about how lucky I am to be able to play in here.”

  “How did you ever find it?”

  “I was already renting a room in the house. My landlady suggested I use this as a studio to try to build up a business.”

  “The one who let me in?” Grace asked.

  “Older woman?” Jen asked and then quickly looked at Grace. “I’m not saying…”

  Grace cut off the coming apology. “Yes, an older woman.”

  Jen nodded. “I moved in here after one year in the dorm. She’s saved me in lots of ways. This is just the most recent example.”

  Her words made Grace curious about the other ways the woman downstairs had saved this vibrant young person. She spent a few minutes fine-tuning her four strings, thinking of the generosity that had been extended, more than just space since a music studio guaranteed a noise disturbance to everyone else. “Where shall I begin my audition?”

  “You’re kidding, right? I can already tell you’re good. I don’t have anything specific for a violin and cello duet, but I love this Handel Partita. I thought you could play the continuo bass.”

  “Usually the harpsichord part?”

  “Exactly.” Jen beamed.

  “Let’s take a look.”

  Jen placed the sheet music on their shared stand. “Sorry, I only have one copy.”

  “Not a problem.” Grace scanned the bass clef and felt her pulse quicken. “You’re not messing around.”

  The young woman raised her eyebrows encouragingly. “Doable?”

  “Yes, and it looks like fun. I’ve been struggling with the bowing in “The Swan” from Saint-Saens’ The Carnival of Animals.”
She tipped her head toward the sheet music. “This tempo and fingering looks intriguing. It’s nice to have a different challenge.”

  “Here we go then!” Jen counted them into shared rhythm. Their instruments’ voices joined, amplifying the joy Grace felt when she played. Her smile grew bigger and bigger, more so when she saw her expression mirrored by the young woman next to her. An hour passed in an instant as they played piece after piece on the stand between them until Grace’s stomach added to the chorus. Embarrassed, Grace held both bow and cello in her right hand, covering her tummy with her left.

  “I don’t blame you,” Jen said, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, she beamed at Grace. “Mom’s cooking again!”

  “Mom?” Grace said, perplexed.

  Jen shrugged as she placed her violin in its case. “Like I said, I’ve been here a long time. Let’s see if she made enough to share.”

  “I don’t want to intrude,” Grace said, snapping her own case shut. As they approached the amazing door from the other side, a bowl perched on the top of the piano caught her eye. She set down the case, reaching out to touch the lip of the piece. “May I?”

  “’Course,” said Jen, pausing at the now-open door.

  Grace savored the smooth surface of the bowl, the curve of the sides and flare in its base. She turned it in her hands and was not surprised to see the same Mother of Pearl signature she’d seen at Kristine’s when she had joined them for dinner, suddenly recalling the soup and bread. “Is this a local artist?”

  Jen laughed. “You could say she’s the artist in residence. She made this door too. Come down and meet her.”

  As they descended the stairs, both the warmth and the aroma from the kitchen enveloped them.

  “What’s the occasion?” Jen asked.

  Robyn, her back to them, rinsing her hands in the sink, said, “Just felt like cooking. I hope you’re hungry.” When she turned, her eyes immediately locked with Grace’s, and she flushed red.

  Something about Robyn fascinated Grace. Too rushed at the barn, self-conscious at Café Mokka when she was on a date with Megan and caught off guard at the door earlier, Grace had never fully had the chance to study Robyn. She took the opportunity now, wondering what had caused the color in her cheeks to rise, not expecting such emotion from someone who seemed so grounded. She tried to recall whether she had ever seen anyone else with Asian coloring and blue eyes.

  In the warmth of the kitchen, Robyn had rolled back her long-sleeved T-shirt, revealing muscles along her forearms that rippled even with the simple task of drying her hands. She stood a head taller than Grace, even barefoot, the cuffs of her unshaped jeans loosely rolled.

  “Grace, this is Robyn, landlady, woodworker and chef extraordinaire. Robyn, Grace and I are going to try to get a string quartet together.” Jen reached into the salad bowl, scoring a slice of carrot before Robyn swatted her.

  Robyn leaned forward to shake Grace’s hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”

  Jen looked from one to the other with a puzzled expression on her face.

  “Were you planning on running out of here as fast as you ran out of the barn when I took Bean off your hands, or would you care to join us for dinner?”

  “Stay,” Jen said. “She’s a really good cook.”

  “I know,” Grace said, enjoying the look of confusion on both women’s faces.

  “I stopped by the day you took Kristine’s family dinner. They invited me to stay.”

  “She admired the cherry bowl upstairs too,” Jen provided.

  Admired more than that, Grace thought, remembering Robyn’s generosity in providing Jen with such a wonderful place to practice and give music lessons. She also recalled Kristine and Gloria teasing her for not noticing Robyn’s good looks when they had first met at the barn. She allowed herself another appraisal of the woman, noting hands free of any rings as Robyn moved back to work on supper, her aloofness returning.

  “They’re remarkably crafted,” she said in an attempt to draw the woman out.

  “Thanks.”

  Grace furrowed her brow, wondering what it took to engage her.

  “How long have you been turning?”

  “’Bout six years now.”

  “Tell her about that massive burl you pulled in,” Jen said. “She and a friend of hers spent the whole day winching it into her truck. Didn’t you say you almost had to make Isabel walk home because it was weighing down your truck so much?”

  “Almost.”

  What’s with this woman, Grace wondered, puzzling over the answers that went beyond succinct.

  “But it’s pretty much all downhill, so I chanced it,” Robyn added, surprising Grace. Maybe she could be lured into a conversation.

  “Do you have many pieces?” Grace asked.

  “Enough to stock a booth each year at the North Country Fair.” Robyn didn’t look at her as she spoke.

  “I can’t imagine that you get what they’re worth selling them at a street fair.”

  Robyn regarded her, and when she turned, Grace couldn’t help but feel dismissed. She dug in, stubborn to see her point through. “I’m saying that as a professional. Surely the galleries here would be interested in displaying your work.”

  “And taking a portion of the profits.” She drained some spaghetti and poured it into a pan with a creamy sauce and clams. “Jen, if there’s anything left of the salad, would you put it on the table?”

  “But at least they’re sold for what they’re worth,” Grace prodded.

  “I make enough.” Robyn paused between the stove and table with the steaming pan of pasta in her hands, her cool blue eyes hard on Grace.

  Grace blinked, aware that she had hit a nerve. “Even so, a shop is more likely to widen your audience.”

  “Do you get a cut when you bring in a new artist?”

  “Excuse me?” Grace said, taken aback.

  “Can’t see why else you’d be so interested in where I show my bowls.”

  “C’mon, Robyn. She’s just saying you’re talented. People want to share talent, not keep it locked up.”

  Grace gestured to Jen as if she were exhibit A. “Thank you.”

  “Three plates or two?” Robyn said, dismissing the topic altogether.

  Her stomach rumbled, urging her to stay, but Robyn’s attitude frustrated her. “Thank you for the offer, but I have other plans. Nice to meet you Robyn. Jen, this was so great. I hope we can get together again soon.”

  “I’ll work on finding our other two. It’ll be even more fun when we round out the quartet.”

  “Until then, I’ve always wanted to try the Ravel Sonata but never knew anyone who could play the other part. I could track it down if you’re interested.”

  “That sounds great,” Jen said enthusiastically.

  Jen swung open the heavy front door, and Grace paused to take in a carving of a ship, lighthouse and birds all intricately carved and then integrated into the door itself, exposed to the elements. She opened the umbrella she’d left on the front porch and hugged her cello case close to her body as she jogged out to her car, trying to put out of her mind why someone would be so stubborn about showing her work. She was used to artists being happy to talk about their creations, grateful for someone to take an interest, not to brush her off.

  Chapter Twenty

  Somber

  “Tell me your pushy friend won’t be there,” Robyn said, looking out to the horizon. Kristine had talked her into accompanying her to Clam Beach for a ride. Robyn had just offered to make supper for the exhausted family, and Kristine had accepted on the condition that Robyn join them this time.

  “I have pushy friends?” Kristine sounded puzzled.

  “The one who attempted to feed Bean,” Robyn said. She could have used her name. She saw it often enough on the card Grace had given Robyn at the barn. Her name and the title that afforded her the audacity to insist that Robyn do more to promote her bowls. “I told her I wasn’t interested in
her showing my bowls at some gallery, and she refused to drop it. Refused to accept that I wasn’t interested.”

  And then refused to stay for dinner for which Robyn was both grateful and disappointed. She had cooked to Grace and Jen’s chorus and would have enjoyed hearing about her experience playing the cello. Then again, she didn’t need to spend time with another woman who thought of who she could be, not who she was. Even if she did make the blood hum through her veins more rapidly.

  Kristine gave a knowing nod. “I don’t know that she has an off switch when it comes to work. She might be getting some help with that now,” she said cryptically. “But I can promise you will be our only guest. Caemon would sure love to see you. He wanted to come today, but…” She paused and looked guilty.

  Her attention shifted to the area ahead, and her shoulders slumped. She sat heavy in the saddle, slowing Bean’s stride. They pulled up their animals at the tributary that flowed into the ocean and Robyn remembered. “This is where she was riding,” Kristine said somberly. “I should have said. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bring Caemon. I don’t want to be reminded about how I can’t always protect him.”

  “So many things can be taken from us,” Robyn agreed. She thought about how her relationship with Barbara was like that too. They had been two people with something, not another little human, but definitely something, growing between them. As hard as she’d fought, she couldn’t keep what they had once had from dying.

  Kristine turned her face away from Robyn.

  “Are they taking her off life support?” Robyn asked.

  Kristine nodded, her shoulders shaking as she raised a hand to her face.

  Robyn tipped her head back, feeling her own tears threaten. She reined Taj toward the sea and scanned the horizon past the waves and the vast ocean in front of her, the hoof prints in the hard-packed sand disappearing under the next wave. She put Taj into a trot and then to a canter, at first thinking that she was giving Kristine some privacy. Taj’s stride opened up something inside her that urged them both forward, and she opened up the reins, letting the mare move into a full gallop, stretched out beneath her in a stride that evened out from the rocking rhythm of a canter into something that felt like full throttle over a calm sea.