by Ann McMan
Now Abbie did look at her. “It’s not impossible. But it pains me to confront the reality that you believe it is.”
Even though her somber and futile view of their prospects was vindicated by Abbie’s grudging acceptance, Grace still managed to feel a contradictory pang of sadness. It was like living with the suspicion that you were afflicted with an incurable disease, and finally getting a diagnosis that confirmed your fears. That sliver of hope you thought lay buried in the sub-basement of your consciousness managed to reappear and writhe in silent agony as it died a miserable death.
Abbie must’ve noticed Grace’s morose expression. She reached across the table and took hold of Grace’s hand. “We still have right now,” she said softly.
“What makes right now different from any other day?” Grace asked.
Abbie squeezed her hand. “Because, according to your definition—I’m not the president of the college yet.”
“Isn’t that splitting hairs?”
“Maybe. But today, it’s a hair that can be split—and that’s the only part that matters to me.”
“I’m not sure many people would agree with that logic, Abbie.”
“Ask me how much I care about what other people think.”
“Maybe I have to care for you.”
Abbie released her hand and sat back against her chair.
“Or not . . .” Grace added. She pushed back her chair and stood up. “How about a compromise? How about we confine ourselves to one dimension for a change?”
“Okay.” Abbie belatedly got up, too. “What’d you have in mind?”
“Grab our wineglasses.” Grace walked to a cabinet beside the bank of batteries and extracted another bottle. “I keep a few of these out here for emergencies.” She held it up so Abbie could read the label.
“You must have pretty high-toned emergencies.”
“I find it’s best to be prepared. CK bought me six bottles of this last year for my birthday.”
“Impressive. How many do you have left?”
“After this one? Five.”
“I guess you don’t have many emergencies.”
Grace retrieved the corkscrew from the kitchen. “None of this caliber.”
Abbie laughed. “Until now?”
“You might say that.” She gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat. Just push that stuff to the side.”
Abbie put down their wineglasses and began collecting the pages from Grace’s manuscript. Something on one of the pages must’ve caught her eye. She paused to read it more closely.
Grace closed her eyes. Oh, shit . . .
Abbie held up the stack of papers. “What is this?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” Abbie continued to peruse the pages. “It’s captivating.”
Grace reflexively began to apologize. “It’s not anything—just some drivel I hammer away on whenever I’m . . .”
Wait a minute . . . did she just say it was captivating?
Grace walked toward her with the wine. “Did you just say captivating?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. This from the woman who reads Boccaccio for fun?”
Abbie rolled her eyes. “I was only reading that to improve my Latin.”
“Of course you were. Because you needed to sharpen those skills for your upcoming debut as the newest president of an indifferent, northeastern liberal arts college.”
“Don’t be an ass.” Abbie frowned at her. “And don’t try to change the subject because you’re uncomfortable.”
Grace didn’t reply. She plopped down on the end of the sofa and deposited the bottle of wine and the opener alongside their two glasses on the coffee table.
“And don’t pout, either,” Abbie added. She sat down next to her and their arms brushed together.
Grace knew right away this wasn’t going to end well. All of her internal alert sirens were blaring. Her head remained caught up in the same unending swivet it acquired the moment Abbie had stepped out onto that stage less than a week ago. And right now, Abbie’s sudden, physical proximity was pushing her agitation into hyperdrive.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be an ass. I’m just—self-conscious about my book.”
“That’s what this is?” Abbie asked. “You’re writing a novel?”
Grace nodded.
“What’s it about?”
“I dunno.” Grace shrugged. “Life. Loss. The differences between reality and illusion. You know . . . the usual.”
“The usual,” Abbie repeated. “Right.” She shifted on the sofa. “How long have you been working on it?”
“What year is this?” Grace asked. Abbie laughed. It was a silvery sound that Grace wished she could bottle up and carry with her through all the dark years that surely lay ahead—a soft, sad, and secret reminder of what might have been. “I started it years ago,” she explained. “It was an idea I got in grad school. It’s now what I have in lieu of a social life.”
“How near finished is it?”
Grace shrugged. “I dunno. Sometimes I think it’s finished and I leave it alone for a few months. Then I have the misfortune to reread it and realize it’s still a total mess. So, I tear it up and start over.” She paused. “You’ll soon learn that this exercise mirrors my general approach to life.”
“Hmmmm.” Abbie looked at her watch again.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Abbie smiled at her. “I’m just wondering if I could swim back to Burton Island before dark.”
“Hey.” Grace bumped her shoulder. “No fair. I was trying to be self-revealing.”
“Self-revealing?” Abbie quoted. “That’s not self-revealing.”
“It isn’t?”
Abbie shook her head. “Nope.”
“Well what is?”
“I’ve always found that actions speak louder than words.”
“Which means?” Grace asked.
Abbie leaned forward and kissed her lightly.
Grace didn’t wait to find out if this was intended as a test to see how she would respond—not unlike that first tentative kiss by the bay in San Francisco. She didn’t wait for anything. She reached out and pulled Abbie closer.
She could feel the pages of her manuscript crumpling between them like a harbinger of destruction, but she didn’t care. Right then, she didn’t care about anything. Not the impropriety of intimate contact. Not her job. Not her prospects. Not the colossal chaos all of this certainly portended for Abbie. Not the fact that Anne-Sophie Mutter was working up to a thunderous expression of wild and unleashed adventure in the rondo finale of the concerto. Not the storm that continued to roll and rage outside around them. Not the fact that they were isolated on a damn island in more ways than just one. Not any of those things. For once, she allowed herself to live in the moment—instead of second-guessing what might occur in the next moment, after reason and sanity prevailed.
She could tell that Abbie was surprised by the initial way her body stiffened. But that didn’t last long. Within moments, they had sunk down onto the sofa cushions, strewing pages from Grace’s GAN all around them. A frail voice of better sense fought valiantly to bleat out a warning—but it quickly faded beneath the roar of shared passion that surged over them. Better sense didn’t have a prayer. Not now. It was clear that right now, in this perfect moment, neither of them cared about being sensible.
Together, they were too strong for it.
Abbie’s warm body moved beneath her. It felt both solid and fluid. Heady scents of bergamot orange and late-summer rain filled up Grace’s world and clouded her judgment. Abbie’s tongue tasted spicy and sweet—with fleeting hints of paprika, cinnamon and honey. It was an intoxicating medley of flavors that should never work together—yet they did. Perfectly. Wonderfully. Mysteriously.
Exotic—and a certain recipe for disaster . . .
Abbie managed to find her voice first.
“We shouldn’t.” She was breath
ing heavily.
Grace nuzzled the smooth fragrant skin on Abbie’s neck. “I know.”
“We should stop.” Abbie’s hands were roaming beneath Grace’s shirt.
“I know that, too.”
Abbie kissed along the side of Grace’s face. “Do you want to stop?” Her voice was a husky whisper.
Grace decided to give her a definitive, nonverbal reply.
Abbie gasped. “I take it that’s a no?”
Grace chuckled and began to tug on Abbie’s shorts. “That would be a big no, Dr. Williams.”
“Wait.” Abbie stopped her hands.
Grace looked down at her with alarm. “I’m sorry . . .” She immediately withdrew her hand. “I thought you wanted to . . .”
“No,” Abbie stopped her with a kiss. “I do want to.” She pushed Grace up into a sitting position, then shifted herself around to straddle her lap. She wound her arms around Grace’s shoulders and pulled her closer. “This time,” she said in a voice that was soft and low, “I want to drive.”
They dissolved into each other. This was right, Grace’s tired mind told her. Right in ways she’d never experienced before. Her head was reeling. She could feel the cold, hard terrain of reason slipping away beneath her feet. The world was upside down. It was getting harder to breathe. Grace could feel the floodwaters rising inside her. Soon they would overspread their banks and carry them both away. For the first time, she understood what drove her poor, misguided father to risk everything in a passionate display of devotion to his cake of many spices.
Abbie proceeded to make good on her pledge to take the lead. Grace was only too happy to surrender control—although she hardly remained passive. The roar in her head grew louder and succeeded in drowning out all other sounds. Even the music on the radio faded into oblivion. She was surprised when she slowly became aware of a dim and persistent sound that was more like a wail than a moan.
She lifted her head. “Was that you?” she asked Abbie.
Abbie looked back at her with a dazed expression. Her lips were moist and slightly puffy. “Was what me?” she replied. “This?”
Grace jumped at the intimate contact. “No,” she gasped. “Not that. The noise.”
“What noise?”
The wail sounded again, closer this time.
“That noise,” Grace asked. “Outside.”
Abbie cocked her head to listen. “What is that?”
“It sounds like some kind of animal.” Grace’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.”
“What’s wrong?” Abbie shifted back on Grace’s lap. She laid a hand against the side of her face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Close. I think it’s Grendel.”
“Grendel?”
“The Nine O’Clock Dog . . . remember?”
Abbie blinked. “Your neighbor’s dog?”
Grace nodded. “Former neighbors. They skipped out during the night.”
“And came out here?”
“Not all of them.”
Abbie looked surprised. “You mean they abandoned their dog out here on an island? That’s contemptible.”
The low-pitched wail sounded again—closer this time.
“We need to go find it.” Abbie climbed off Grace’s lap. “The poor thing is probably starving.”
Grace was surprised. “Are you serious?”
“Of course.” Abbie was busy straightening her clothing. “Don’t you think we should?”
“Well, yeah. I just didn’t think you’d . . .” Grace didn’t finish her sentence.
“Care?” Abbie asked her.
“No.” Grace laid a hand on Abbie’s leg. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t think you’d want to go trolling around outside in the rain again.”
“Oh. That.” Abbie gave her a coquettish smile. “Why not? I mean . . . if I end up getting soaked—again—it will simply provide you with another flimsy excuse to get my clothes off.”
# # #
The rain was still coming down in sheets, and that made seeing in the dark—which on the island was difficult under the best conditions—next to impossible. Grace kept a tight hold on Abbie’s hand to try and prevent her from tripping as they navigated the rugged path that led to the highest point on the island.
She’d lent Abbie one of Grady’s rain slickers, and the thing was impossibly large on her. With its cavernous hood pulled low over her face, she looked like a shadowy caricature of the Grim Reaper. Grace noted the irony of that, and recalled how Abbie had looked the first time she showed up at her house—in the rain and wearing a long, black cloak.
It didn’t take them long to find Grendel. The frightened creature was huddled beneath some cast-off sheets of plywood that were leaning against a tree near the community burn pile. The beam from Grace’s flashlight reflected off a pair of owlish eyes.
“There she is,” Grace said, waving the beam around in a tight circle. “Beneath that wood.”
“What do we do now?” Abbie asked.
“Hand me that bag with the bits of chicken in it.”
Abbie retrieved the Ziploc bag from the pocket of Grady’s raincoat. “Do you think she’ll take it?”
“Only one way to find out.” Grace took the bag and handed Abbie her flashlight. “Here goes.”
Grace extended a piece of the chicken and approached Grendel cautiously.
“Here, girl.” She tried her best to sound nonthreatening. “I know you’re hungry.”
The closer Grace inched toward the dog, the more it ducked its head and growled. She finally gave up trying to coax it forward and tossed it the bite of chicken. The dog lunged forward and snagged it, then retreated to its spot beneath the plywood.
Grace turned to face Abbie. “She’s not going to come to me.”
“I have an idea,” Abbie said. “Come hold the flashlight.”
Grace complied. “What are you gonna do?”
“Give me the bag of chicken.”
Grace handed it over.
“Wish me luck. I’m going in.” Abbie turned and slowly approached the cowering dog. She stopped about six feet away and calmly sat down on the ground. She opened the bag of chicken and poured a handful of bites into her hand. She didn’t say anything, she just sat there in the rain with her hand extended. Grace couldn’t believe her eyes when Grendel slowly got to her feet and took a few tentative steps toward Abbie.
“It’s okay,” Abbie cooed. “I won’t hurt you, baby. Come on.”
Grendel walked to within a few feet of where Abbie sat and slowly stretched out her neck to take the chicken from her palm. She did not retreat to her hiding place, however. She sat down on the ground and stared up at Abbie with saucer-like eyes.
Abbie patted her hand against her leg. “Come on. I won’t hurt you.”
Grendel shimmied closer—close enough to rest her head on Abbie’s thigh.
“Good baby.” Abbie cautiously began to pet the soggy dog. “Have some more to eat.” She emptied the rest of the bag into her hand and Grendel ate it without hesitation. “You want to come with us?” Abbie slowly got to her feet. She patted the side of her leg. “Come on. Come on.” Grendel got up, too. Grace fully expected the dog to retreat to her hiding place. But she didn’t. Grendel cautiously followed Abbie back to where Grace stood, holding the flashlight.
“Let’s go,” Abbie said. “Before she gets spooked and changes her mind.”
Grace didn’t bother to argue with Abbie. She simply turned around and began lighting their way along the slow hike back down to the cabin. She resisted the impulse to look back to see if Grendel was still following them.
Abbie must’ve read her mind. “She’s following us,” she whispered. “Don’t stop—just keep going.”
When they reached the cabin, Grace didn’t bother to stop and shake the water from her raincoat. She opened the door and stepped inside. Abbie followed suit—and so did Grendel, who immediately ducked behind the sofa to claim a spot on the floor near the corner. Before lying
down, she gave her small body a vigorous shake and sent water flying everyplace.
“Do you have any old towels?” Abbie asked. “Something we can give her to lie on?”
“Yeah.” Grace took off her soggy jacket and held out a hand. “Give me your coat. I’ll hang these out on the back porch.”
Abbie complied. “She looks pretty comfortable—like she’s used to being inside.”
“I think they let her in at night.”
“We need to feed her something else.”
Grace nodded. “Wanna take a look in the fridge while I hang these up and get her some towels?”
Abbie nodded.
Grace headed for the back porch with their dripping coats.
Who ever saw this one coming?
If she’d stopped to think about it, she probably could’ve come up with a hundred ways their . . . assignation . . . could’ve been disrupted. A flash flood of epic proportions? The International Space Station crashing through Earth’s atmosphere and landing smack-dab on top of Grady’s cabin? An invasion by marauding Canadians determined to reclaim their island chain? Or maybe Lucretia Fletcher with a searchlight and a salivating pack of bloodhounds?
Any of those would’ve made more sense.
But Grendel? Out here on Butler Island?
Not in a million years.
When Grace came back inside after hanging up their rain gear, Abbie was pulling containers out of the fridge.
“There’s more rice,” she said. “And we could scramble her some eggs.”
Grace peered over her shoulder. “Sounds delicious.”
Abbie leaned back against her. Neither of them said anything for a moment. Grace felt like she could stand there forever. She leaned her head against Abbie’s shoulder.
“Why does it have to be this way?”
Abbie didn’t seem to have any trouble understanding the non sequitur. “I don’t know. It should be so simple. Yet it isn’t.”
Grace wrapped her arms around her. “I want it to be.”
“I do, too. But it’s not, and we both have to face that.”
“I know.”
“Do you also know that we can’t see each other this way again?”
“Yeah,” Grace replied. “I kind of figured.”