“Oh, pretty,” she mumbled. So tall and, well, pretty.
Sunlight sparkled on the few windows remaining, and the unkempt yard looked less scary than it had before. Instead of weeds, she should look for potential, she told herself.
“Potential,” she said aloud, then laughed because it sounded funny. Oh, yeah, she was drunk.
At least buying the house had been the right choice. As for dating and men and...
Speaking of the opposite sex, one of them walked out her front door. He was tall and muscled, wearing a T-shirt and cargo shorts. He bent down, picked up several two-by-fours, slung them onto his shoulders as if they weighed nothing, then walked back into the house.
Andi staggered a little to the left as he disappeared inside.
Nice, she thought, recognizing Wade. Very nice. “Do you think he’d go out with me?” she asked no one in particular. “Or have sex?” Because the past few months with Matt had been of the sex-free variety, and while their time between the sheets hadn’t been all that interesting, she missed orgasmicisms. Orgasisms.
Wade was so tall and strong, with those big hands. As a medical professional she happened to know the big hand and feet rumor was a myth, but a girl could dream. Only if she was dreaming about hot, sweaty sex with her contractor, didn’t that mean she wasn’t as self-actualized on the single front as she would have thought? And if she wasn’t ready to be a—a spinster for the rest of her life, didn’t moving to the island seem like a really, really stupid idea?
Her vision blurred slightly and she realized she needed to get in out of the sun. Maybe drink some water. That’s right. Hydration. She would have water and then figure out what she was going to do about—
Andi blinked and the thought was gone.
She managed to get up the street to her house, then staggered up the stairs. When she walked into the darker interior, she had to lean against the door frame until her eyes adjusted to the change in light. She glanced down at the bottle of water in her hands and wondered where it had come from.
“Hey, you’re back. How was the wine tour?”
She looked up and saw Wade approaching. She smiled up at him.
“I was on a tasting tour.”
“I know.”
“There was a lot of wine.”
His dark eyebrows drew together. “You’re drunk.”
She held up her hand, to show her thumb and forefinger somewhat close together. Only there was a bottle in the way. Huh. Where had that come from?
“Andi?”
She returned her attention to his eyes. Pretty, she thought, swaying a little. Like the house, only different.
“How much did you drink?”
“I have no idea. I was with Fred and Betty.”
“Who are Fred and Betty?”
“Friends. Old friends.” She giggled, realizing he would think she’d meant people she’d known a long time when she really meant people who were old. But explaining the joke seemed way too complicated.
“Okay, you’re going to be hating yourself come morning,” he told her. “Let’s get this off you.”
“What?”
He stepped close and removed the backpack she’d totally forgotten she’d been wearing. It felt as if the weight of the world was lifted off her shoulders.
“Whoa, how much wine did you buy?”
She stared at the backpack. Where had that come from? “There’s wine?”
He hefted it in one hand. “I’d say about a case. Want me to take it up to your kitchen?”
“I have a kitchen? You built me a kitchen? That’s so nice.” Just this morning, she hadn’t had one at all. Just an empty space.
Wade shook his head. “You’re worse off than I thought. Come on. I’ll get you upstairs. You can sit quietly until you’re ready to start throwing up.”
“I’m not going to be throwing up,” she informed him with a sniff.
“You better hope you’re wrong. Trust me, get rid of it fast and you’ll feel a lot better in the morning. Otherwise, I sure wouldn’t want to be you tomorrow.”
She had no idea what he was talking about, but it didn’t seem to matter because they were moving. Wade half propelled, half carried her up the stairs. One second it seemed as if she was in her empty shell of a house, and the next she was in her attic living room and Wade was settling her into a chair.
“I’m fine,” she informed him.
He chuckled. “I can see that.”
He put her backpack on the counter, collected ice from her tiny freezer and put it in a glass, then filled it with water and handed it to her.
“Drink,” he told her. “I’ll be back later to check on you.”
Before she could tell him it wasn’t necessary, he was already leaving. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, she was shoving the glass onto a table and clutching her stomach. Thirty seconds later, she was on her way to the bathroom to test Wade’s theory that throwing up now would make her feel better in the morning.
Chapter Nine
BOSTON STARED AT the large piece of paper in front of her. In her mind, she could see the mural exactly as she wanted it to be. The sleek jaguar with the glowing eyes, the smiling, mischievous monkey in the bright green trees, the winking caterpillar. Usually seeing it was all she needed. Once the vision was clear in her head, her hand started to move. Just not this afternoon.
It was her third attempt to start sketching out ideas for Andi’s waiting room. Working out of her comfort zone but without the pressure of having to come up with a design for four-hundred-dollar-a-yard fabric had seemed the perfect antidote for her recent artist lull. But despite what she saw when she closed her eyes, despite how much she desperately wanted to make her work come to life, she sat immobilized. Her fingers numb and uncooperative.
“Hey, babe.”
The familiar voice, the familiar words, released her from her artist prison. She jumped to her feet and hurried out of her studio.
“You’re home early,” she said, stepping into the kitchen.
Zeke stood in the mudroom, unfastening his tool belt. “I had to get home to my best girl,” he said with a wink.
She moved toward him. His tool belt hit the ground, and his arms came around her. She stepped into his embrace.
Everything was familiar. Comfortable and sexy at the same time. She didn’t just know how Zeke’s mouth was going to move against hers; she knew how that movement was going to make her feel. Anticipation blended with certainty to create desire.
Before six months ago, sex had never been an issue, she thought, leaning into him and enjoying the feel of his hands sliding up and down her body. After Liam’s birth, she’d been ready to be intimate with Zeke long before being cleared by her doctor. Lately, though, Zeke had been the one who wasn’t interested.
He deepened the kiss, moving his tongue against hers. He gripped her butt in his big hands and squeezed. She arched her pelvis against him, rubbing back and forth, waiting for the familiar ridge of his erection. Wanting to feel that hardness. She dropped her hands to his wrists, ready to pull his fingers toward her breasts, only to realize there was nothing there. No physical evidence that he wanted her at all.
He broke the kiss and gave her butt a final pat, then looped his arm around her shoulders.
“So, tell me what you got done today on the mural,” he said, leading her toward her studio.
“There’s nothing to see. I’m having a little trouble getting started.”
“That’s okay. I don’t expect perfection. I’m just curious.”
He sounded determined and she realized stopping him wasn’t an option. So she gave in to the inevitable and let him guide her down the hall.
The studio had been added on to the house shortly after she and Zeke had gotten married.
It faced south, and had massive windows to let in light. There were custom cubbies and shelves for her supplies, holders for her brushes and pencils and specially designed expanding tables for her hand-painted fabrics.
Zeke released her and walked into the studio. Boston stayed in the hallway, already knowing what he would see. What she hadn’t had time to hide. Because that’s what she’d been doing for weeks now. Hiding the evidence.
Blank sketch paper sat on an easel. Every other surface, every inch of wall space was covered with pictures of their dead son. Pencil sketches, oil portraits, watercolors, pastels. Black-and-white, color, realistic, surreal. Every style, every pose, every position. She found the images comforting but knew Zeke did not.
He turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. Finally he faced her, his mouth tight, his body stiff.
“What the hell, Boston? You’re still doing this? Where are you?”
She stepped into the studio and faced him. “I’m right here.”
“No, you’re not. You have to deal with your grief.”
“I am.”
“This isn’t dealing. This is hiding. You think you can paint him back to life?”
“Not everyone wants to drown their sorrows in a bottle, Zeke.”
“At least I’m feeling something. At least I’m crying about our kid. Are you? Have you cried even once?”
She could see the anger. It was bright and red—a cliché, but there it was. Shimmering. Sadness, too. More muted. India-green or mantis, she thought, aware of the swirling blend and how much easier it was to think of that than her husband’s words.
“I’m dealing in my own way,” she told him.
“You’re not. You’re getting lost.” He took a step toward her. “Dammit, Boston, I can’t lose you, too. But I feel you slipping away.”
He motioned to the studio, to the paintings and sketches. “Do you know how much this scares me? Do you know what it’s like to think about you painting Liam over and over again?” His fingers curled into fists. “Don’t do this to me, Boston. Please. Go see someone. Go talk to a doctor.”
“A psychiatrist, right? Because I’m crazy?”
She shook her head. She knew what would happen. How he or she would want to fix what was broken. Didn’t anyone understand that being broken was all she had left? Without that, Liam was truly gone.
“I can’t watch you do this,” he told her. He walked past her and down the hall.
She let him go. She knew that he would leave now. That he might go to Wade’s house or he might go to a bar. She supposed she should worry. Not about him cheating but about what was lost every time they did this. If love were a house, she would say their foundation was beginning to crumble. That at some point, the house simply collapsed in on itself.
She waited for the stab of pain, for the worry. It was purple. No. Wisteria and thistle. Yes, that was better.
She heard Zeke’s truck door slam, then the sound of the engine. She walked over to the stool and took a seat, then picked up her pencil. Thoughts of a cartoon jaguar disappeared. Instead she saw a beautiful sleeping baby and began to draw.
* * *
Andi woke up with a killer headache and a heartfelt vow that she would never, ever get that drunk again. Her eyes felt gritty, her whole midsection hurt from the barfing and her skin was maybe two sizes too small. As a doctor, she could detail the process of getting the toxins out of her body. As the person going through it, she could only hydrate and wait for the hangover to pass.
She only had vague memories of the previous afternoon. She was pretty sure she’d spoken to Wade. She could only hope she hadn’t said anything too stupid. Like asking to touch his muscles. Or if he would take his shirt off. Yes, her contractor was a good-looking guy, and yes, maybe she’d been a bit hasty in the “I’m so over love” department. However, she needed to think things through. Move cautiously. And perhaps wait to feel slightly less like roadkill before throwing herself at him. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d made a move toward her. Not by a blink of his long, dark lashes had he even hinted he saw her as anything other than a client. She’d already suffered through enough romantic rejection for one year, thank you very much.
After drinking two glasses of water and eating three soda crackers, she made her way downstairs. At least it was Sunday and she wouldn’t have to deal with any pounding or sawing or even conversation. She could detox in peaceful solitude, then later maybe sip some soup.
The large open area that was her sad, naked shell of a house didn’t improve her mood. She wanted walls and flooring. Windows instead of boarded-up holes. Okay, sure, it had only been a week, but still. She wanted visual progress.
Andi paused by what looked like very new, very tidy wiring and tried to get excited. There wasn’t even a flicker. She was about to make her way upstairs to spend the rest of the morning lying down when someone knocked on her front door.
At least she assumed it was supposed to be a knock. In her present condition, it felt a whole lot more like a herd of Visigoths battering relentlessly both on the door and inside her head. She hurried over to make it stop.
“Yes?” she said as she stared at the pretty blond woman standing on her porch.
Her visitor was of average height, with blue eyes and pale skin. She was casually dressed, but in a pulled-together way that made Andi aware of her slightly worn and possibly stained T-shirt and baggy shorts. Not to mention her bare feet and uncombed hair.
Realization registered as Andi recognized her perfect neighbor.
“Hi,” the woman said with a practiced smile. “I’m Deanna Phillips. I live next door.”
Deanna wore a light jacket over a lacy shell. Her pants were tailored and the beaded necklace pulled the whole outfit together. She had on makeup and earrings. Andi tugged at the fraying hem of her T-shirt.
“Nice to meet you,” Andi said, automatically stepping back to allow the other woman in. She belatedly remembered she didn’t exactly have walls, let alone a place to sit. “Sorry. I’m still under construction.”
House, she thought frantically. She’d meant the house. Not that she couldn’t do with one of those lifestyle makeovers, but that was hardly Deanna’s issue.
Deanna walked inside and looked around. Her delicate nose wrinkled slightly. “At least you’re down to the studs,” she said. “I’m sure the place is going to look lovely when it’s done.” She paused. “I’m sorry to be so tardy in stopping by.”
She held out a casserole dish. “Welcome to the neighborhood. It’s basically chicken and vegetables. Healthy, but I hope you like it.”
“Thank you.”
Andi took the dish, grateful to have her meals for the day taken care of. Assuming she ever felt like eating again. Honestly just the hint of the spices escaping from under the foil was enough to make her tummy turn.
Deanna turned slowly, taking in the boarded windows and the exposed subflooring. “I heard you’re a doctor.”
“A pediatrician.”
“A career. Yes, that’s what’s expected these days, isn’t it? Having it all. I wanted to be a mother and have a family.” Her mouth thinned. “I defined myself that way. Old-fashioned, I know.”
Andi wasn’t sure if it was her hangover or the conversation itself, but either way, she was having trouble following exactly what was going on.
“I understand you have five daughters. That’s pretty amazing. I’ve met Lucy. What a sweetie.”
Deanna stared at her. “Yes, daughters. Five girls I’m responsible for.” She shook her head slightly. “I’m sure you’ll want to come see my house. The downstairs is perfectly restored. The main sitting room is furnished with a combination of antiques and reproductions that are appropriate for the age of the house.”
“Um, that would be nice. Thank you.”
Deanna nodded. “The
house has been in my family since it was built. Boston inherited hers as well, but her grandparents bought it from the original owners.”
“Okay.” Because whose family had owned the house the longest mattered?
Deanna offered another smile, this one flattening at the corners of her mouth. “Yes, well, I’ve kept you long enough. Welcome. We’re very grateful to have someone living here. Whatever you do to the place will be an improvement.”
With that, she turned and left. Andi stared after her, not sure what had gone wrong, but confident that Deanna Phillips was someone she could never like.
* * *
A week later Andi found herself just as out of sorts, but without the hangover from the previous Sunday. As she wandered downstairs, she admitted that she was absurdly lonely and that the day seemed endless. During the week she kept busy. She was getting plenty of patients, and the nurses were friendly. When she got home from work, she was pleasantly tired and ready to relax. She’d filled yesterday with errands, but today she had nothing planned.
Usually she and Matt had spent Sundays together. It was the one day of the week they were both off and rarely on call. Although with Matt’s specialty—pediatric surgical oncology—he was never truly off duty.
Still, they’d done things together. Gone to museums, out to dinner with friends, visited his family, seen movies. They’d gone shopping, with him telling her what to buy. Her day had been filled, often with what he wanted to do. At thirty-two years old, she was uncomfortable to discover she didn’t know what to do with herself for a single day.
She finished her coffee and rinsed the mug, then made her bed. She was already showered and dressed. The day was sunny and warm, so she should take advantage of that. Maybe she could... What? Were there any museums on Blackberry Island? She didn’t want to go to the movies by herself, and her friends were a couple of hours away in Seattle.
Three Sisters Page 9