Fugitives of Love

by Lisa Girolami

  “Coffee, please.”

  “It’s in the back. Cream? Sugar?”

  “Just cream, please.”

  While Sinclair waited by the front desk, Carl and Nina pointed this way and that as if redesigning the walls, until they moved into the farthest room and out of her sight. For a moment, she was alone in the front of the gallery, but then a woman with curly, blond hair rushed in the front door and hurried toward the back. She hadn’t looked up as she passed Sinclair, but at the floor, determined in her movements.

  Maybe she was an assistant, late for work.

  By herself again, Sinclair took in the entire space. She absolutely loved it and marveled at the business Brenna had created. She was really doing well, and by the look of the shops across the street, the gallery was in a pricey neighborhood.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  Two large, uniformed police officers had walked up to her, startling her with their imposing presence.

  Sinclair’s throat suddenly tightened and she couldn’t speak.

  The tallest officer said, “Ma’am? Do you work here?”

  They both stared at her and her heart lurched.

  “Ma’am?” the other one said.

  She took a fleeting glance toward the front door.

  The tall officer looked at the other, then frowned. “Are you going to say anything?”

  Panic rose in her chest, stealing the air from her lungs.

  The other officer raised his voice slightly. “May we see some ID, please?”

  In full fight-or-flight mode, she stepped away from them, unable to tell her legs otherwise.

  “Ma’am. Come back here.”

  She couldn’t. Her ears began to ring and a sickening dizziness overcame her. She focused on the front door. I have to get out. Get away.

  She managed to look back once and the officers followed her. They were three steps behind her. Frantically, she reached out for the front door just as Brenna came into view on the other side.

  Brenna practically caught Sinclair in her arms. She looked terrified.

  “Sinclair! What’s wrong?” Then she saw the officers. “What’s going on?”

  “Who are you?” one of them said.

  “I’m Brenna Wright, the owner. What the hell is happening?” She put her arm around Sinclair and was startled that she shook so badly.

  “Do you know this woman?” The tall officer gestured toward Sinclair.

  “Yes, I do.”

  By then, Lucy had come to the front, holding a cup of coffee. “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “We were following a possible shoplifter.”

  Brenna pushed past Lucy and the officers, taking Sinclair to the front desk. “What the hell were you chasing her for, then?”

  “She wasn’t talking to us and she began to leave the scene so we—”

  “Officers, there was no scene to leave.” It alarmed her how frightened Sinclair had become. She was still shaking and her face had gone pale.

  “She came in here and this woman fits the description.”

  Lucy crooked a thumb over her shoulder. “A woman just walked to the back of the gallery. She has blond hair, too.”

  The police officers glanced toward where she was pointing.

  Brenna held her hand up. “Lucy, show them, please.”

  After they left, she sat Sinclair down in Lucy’s chair and knelt down in front of her. “Are you okay?”

  Sinclair nodded but still seemed terrified. “I’m fine.”

  “What happened?”

  “They just…startled me.” She stood and waved off Brenna’s attempt to hold her. “I’m fine, really.”

  “My God, I didn’t know what was going on. I saw all of you charging out the door and thought the place was on fire.”

  Sinclair nodded again like someone would respond when trying to comfort themselves with a repetitive motion.

  “Would you like something? Some water?”

  “Yes.”

  Brenna looked in her eyes, trying to read them, but saw only a blank stare. “Please sit down. I’ll be right back.”

  Brenna hurried to her office, her mind racing to make sense of the sudden and upsetting occurrence. Was there more to the confrontation than Sinclair and the police were divulging?

  She opened her private refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of Voss.

  Her first instinct had been to punch the officers in the face because it seemed like Sinclair was running from them. What the hell did they do to her? She was glad she hadn’t thrown any punches, but seeing the heart-crushing look on Sinclair’s face made her realize she could have. Easily.

  She just needed to calm her down and then talk to her. She’d take her straight home and she could unwind from whatever had happened.

  When Brenna returned to the front desk with the bottle of water, the seat was empty. Sinclair wasn’t standing by the desk either. Brenna stepped into the side gallery room but only Carl and Nina were there.

  She stopped and turned in a full circle, sweeping across the gallery. “Where’s Sinclair?”

  Carl raised his eyebrows. “She…just left?”

  Brenna’s anxiety rose instantly. “Is that a question?”

  “I thought you knew she was leaving.”

  “No, I didn’t. Which way did she go?”

  Carl pointed south.

  “Like I said, the artists you like,” Nina said, bringing up the same topic she had when Brenna was at her place, “are beautiful, mysterious, and need lots of attention.”

  Brenna could only glare at her before running out of the gallery.

  Outside, Brenna raced around to the back of the building. Her parking spot was empty. Sinclair was gone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Low tide wasn’t due until 1:45 in the afternoon, but Sinclair had been out on the rocks since four a.m. In the darkness of the first hour and a half, she sat on a flat spot about forty feet from her staircase, hoping to erase the thoughts that had pursued her while she lay in bed the night before.

  The sound of the waves and movement from the far-off lights of a lobster trawler helped dull her brain, but nothing could obliterate the ache that permeated her body.

  The sun rose slowly; minutes and hours passed in protracted units that measured nothing but the pain her decisions had caused.

  At least she was back in her secure world. She had been foolish to think that her life could ever be more than it was. Taking such an impulsive risk had almost cost her everything.

  She was worse off now than when she made the decades-old commitment to stay close to Pemaquid Point. Venturing from her sanctuary had been imprudent and unwise. She had followed her heart, wishing she could be like everyone else: free to travel, free to experience life, free to love.

  At once, the cruel reality that she couldn’t do any of those things slapped her in the face and threatened to upend her already dismal state of mind.

  To some degree, it was too late now, but it was up to her to control whatever safety she had left.

  Damn it. You’re a stupid idiot.

  What she had painstakingly built over the last twenty years was as much as she could ever have. She had done it. She had put herself here. And no one, or no love, would be strong enough to help her.

  *

  “What the hell?”

  Beanie had come by the gallery the next day after getting a call from Brenna. “That’s five times I’ve counted you repeating that sentence.”

  “But I just don’t get it.”

  “And that’s the fourth time for that one,” Beanie said as they sat in the break room in back. Carl, Lucy and the rest of the staff worked on the upcoming exhibition but moved slowly about, noticeably bewildered by Sinclair’s sudden departure and Brenna’s darkly growing aggravation.

  “As soon as I realized she was gone, I grabbed my cell phone and remembered that I can’t call her. Damn it, why doesn’t she have a cell or even a la
nd line?” She doubted that calling Donna at the Seaside Stop with a plea to get a message to Sinclair would result in much either. Donna seemed to be a bit protective of her. “She keeps pushing me away and I keep chasing her. She’s like the runaway artist. She just took off. No talking, no warning.”

  “Something must have upset her or pissed her off.”

  “That’s just it, Beanie. I have no idea what did it. I was there. I mean, I stepped out for a few minutes, but I’d been there the rest of the time.” She gripped her mug of coffee, a potion that normally soothed her; however she couldn’t feel anything but confusion and agitation. “Beanie, I really like her. Things were going so well. I mean, she had been quiet a few times, like she had something on her mind or was a little overwhelmed by being in the city, but I really thought she was enjoying her time with me. And then she disappears.”

  “Well, she’s either playing a serious game of hard to get or something’s truly bothering her.”

  “She’s too genuine to play hard to get.”

  “But genuine assumes that she’s being real and authentic.”

  “She is. At least with what I know about her.” Brenna lifted her hand. “She’s an enigma that I can reach out and touch,” she closed her fist, “but can’t quite grasp.”

  “This one’s not an easy one, Brenna. I agree that she’s not doing this to mess with you. But if you care for her, you need to find out what’s going on.”

  “With anyone else, I’d have given up the first time we argued about going to New York.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “I want that exhibition. I’ve already chased her once before. The time this has already taken away from the gallery is adding up, but I really believe it’ll be worth it.”

  “Come on, sis. Is that the whole reason?”

  Brenna shook her head in frustration. “I like her.” Hitting the counter with her fist, she added, “What the hell?”

  Beanie pointed a finger in the air. “And that would be number six.”

  “Okay, here’s a new sentence. Why?”

  “That’s a new sentence. But that’s also the question. And you’re not going to get any answers sitting here repeating yourself.”

  *

  Sinclair walked into the Seaside Stop at nine a.m. Two fishermen, who were leaving with Styrofoam cups of coffee, held the door open for her, nodding as she entered. The place was void of bar patrons, and Donna, who unhurriedly wiped the back counter, had her back to the door.

  “Have any strong coffee?”

  Before she turned around, Donna said, “Depends on the depth of the problem.” She faced her and added, “I have whiskey at the ready, too.”

  Sinclair sat down on a stool. “Maybe I should upgrade to a nice tumbler of cyanide.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse.”

  “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy aren’t due until game time, and if anyone else comes in, I’ll shoo them away.” She poured two shots of whiskey, pulled over a stool that was behind the bar, and sat down. “What’s the matter, honey?”

  Sinclair told Donna about her whirlwind feelings for Brenna and the trip to New York. She talked about how much she loved Brenna’s family and how wonderful being with her made her feel. She described the comfort of being in her arms and how time had flown by in the city.

  “It all sounds good so far,” Donna said as she followed the whiskey with two cups of steaming java.

  “Something happened and I ran. It had nothing to do with Brenna, well, not directly. I got spooked and took off.”

  “What did it have to do with?”

  “Me. I didn’t feel safe all of a sudden. It’s hard to talk about.”

  Donna patted Sinclair’s hand. “I understand that parts of your life and certain feelings are off-limits. We haven’t known each other all these years for me not to respect that. So just tell me what you can.”

  Sinclair searched for the right words. “There’s a wall that I don’t want and wish it wasn’t there, but it is. On one side of the wall is me, the real me, and on the other side is Brenna and the rest of the world.” She gazed into her coffee, shaking the cup until little mahogany ripples bounced against one another. “I know if she saw what was on my side of the wall, she’d run.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She doesn’t know who I really am, Donna. Not really. You’re closer to me than anyone else, and even you don’t really know me.”

  “I know you’re a beautiful woman, and I’m talking about your soul, too. You haven’t told me exactly what happened to you, but I imagine it was pretty bad. It kept you and me from ever getting really close when we were together. And, honey, I can tell that it’s happening again, and this monster of a wall is ruining your chance with Brenna.”

  “I want to protect her from all this, Donna. I can’t be in her life but I can’t get her out of my heart. All I do is think about her.”

  “Why can’t she be in your life?”

  “Because it’ll only go bad.” She held her head. The headache she’d spent the night skirting was flaring up significantly. “Haven’t you been listening to me? This can’t happen.”

  “How long are you going to keep running? Huh? Till you die an old lady that someone finds washed up on the rocks? Everyone’s got a secret, Sinclair. Everyone’s ashamed of something.”

  Donna swiveled on her stool and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass. Then she pulled out a bottle of aspirin from under the bar. She filled the glass and plunked two pills next to it.

  As Sinclair downed the aspirin, Donna said, “You’re going to have to weigh the possibility of true love against what happened in your past and ask what’s more important. The easy answer was the one you gave our relationship, but it wasn’t the right one.”

  The more she said, the more scared Sinclair became.

  “Don’t make the same mistake.”

  *

  The soldering iron stopped working. Sinclair had five pieces left to place in the window but no heat with which to melt the lead solder to the iron cross pieces.

  She had to keep going. She clicked the iron on and off.

  Her thoughts about Brenna would return if she couldn’t keep working on the goddamn window.

  She pulled the plug out of the wall, checked it, and reinserted it.

  Come on, you fucking piece of shit.

  As she tapped the iron against the palm of her hand, it remained cold.

  She grabbed the iron handle with both hands and raised it over her head. With a yell of anguish, she brought it down hard on the edge of the table.

  Fucking-piece-of-shit.

  She threw it to the floor, where it landed with a crash, and yanked the cord out of the wall. Swinging the back door open, she stepped out onto the deck and grabbed the railing.

  She messed everything up. She’d fallen in love with Brenna when she had no right to. Her anger flared deep inside and she shook the railing as hard as she could. The wood cracked but she didn’t care. She’d tear the fucking place down.

  A white blur came from above, spiraling down about sixty feet in front of her. She stopped shaking the railing and looked out toward the rocks. It looked like a seagull, but whatever it was now lay on a large rock, flapping in distress.

  She ran down the steps and swiftly navigated her way over the rocks and toward the bird. As she got close, she slowed down to reduce any anxiety about her presence. The seagull wasn’t flailing so much now, but its chest puffed rapidly and his eyes were fixed in a stare.

  Sinclair knelt close and noticed its side was badly gashed and bloody. It wasn’t a gunshot wound because a large portion of his wing had been half torn off, not blown off.

  She looked out over the water. A seal had probably attacked the bird. It must have pulled away right as the seal had taken a ferocious bite, and this was as far as it had gotten. She couldn’t help the seagull, who was breathing more slowly now.

  “Poor thing,” she said quietly, and
sat down cross-legged.

  The bird stopped fluttering, then began to shake slightly. Finally the seagull stopped moving altogether.

  Tears flooded her eyes, washing together the white color of the seagull’s body with the charcoal of the rocks until the whole image was as obliterated as the poor bird.

  “I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m so sorry.”

  She began to wail in despair for the bird, for Brenna, for her heart, and for her entire life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Brenna pulled into Sinclair’s gravel driveway just before ten o’clock that night. The house looked dark but Sinclair’s car was there.

  She walked over to the side door. The small incandescent bulb overhead glowed dimly, looking the same as it had, not long ago, when Sinclair greeted her at 5:35. That morning, Sinclair had a smile that could move even the darkest of clouds from anyone’s heart.

  Off to the right, along the foundation of the house, lay a hump of dirt. It looked like a newly dug grave for a small animal. A tiny cross made of driftwood stood at the base. A piece of green sea glass on a copper wire hung from the cross.

  Brenna leaned over the porch railing to look in the side window. Only a lone light in the kitchen was on. She knocked on the door.

  She had spent the last hour rehearsing the things she would say when she saw Sinclair. She’d prepared questions about what happened and statements about her feelings for her. But beyond a few opening bits of dialogue, she didn’t know how the conversation would go. She ran through the gamut of possible causes for Sinclair’s departure, from something she said to something she did. But over the miles of highway between New York and Maine, she’d come up with dead ends every time. Why had Sinclair left?

  She was compelled to make the drive and, though it was taking too excruciatingly long to get to her, it was the best way to find out what had happened. She missed Sinclair terribly. And whatever had caused such terror in her eyes had broken Brenna’s heart.

  She knocked again but Sinclair didn’t answer.

  Maybe she was out. If so, Brenna intended to stay there until she got back. She decided to walk around to the back porch and wait.