by Liora Blake
Her phone rang just as she pulled out of the hotel’s parking lot, and she managed to extract it from behind the still-drying canvas that was propped in the passenger seat. She had JT to thank for that, too. She might have been a little wobbly waking up after their night together, but her blank-canvas funk was long gone, just as she’d hoped. Fresh inspiration coursed through her, and she had spent hours working on a new piece, until it was time for her to pack up her belongings, check out of the hotel, and head toward her next destination.
Anya didn’t have to read the phone’s display to know who was calling. She grinned as she answered it.
“Yes, I’m alive. No, I haven’t been kidnapped.”
Tara snorted. “And your tattoo guy? Did he live up to your disturbingly low expectations? Or did he exceed them and now everything he says sounds like a great idea, even if it’s some harebrained crime spree involving gorilla masks?”
Anya gave up a happy sigh. “He more than lived up to expectations. But it’s pretty unlikely that he’d propose a crime spree.”
“Why? Is that because he’s already on probation? Was he wearing an ankle monitor?”
Anya rolled her eyes with a smirk. “Because he’s a cop. A US Marshal, to be specific.”
“What?” Tara squawked. “You banged a US Marshal? They’re like cops times a hundred.”
There was an audible groan in the background, followed by Tara’s husband, Alec, gently reminding her that they were at work. Anya deduced that she was on speakerphone and offered Alec a hello, which he returned in the Mississippi drawl that Anya adored. The man could read the fine print on a legal document to her and Anya would still hang on every luscious, unhurried word.
Alec and Tara were joint heads of a biochem research program at the university, which was how the three of them had met, nursing watery cocktails during a deathly boring multidepartment mixer three years ago. The couple’s work was complex, and frankly Anya understood very little about it, although it was easy to see that they were veritable rock stars in their field. With their tattoos, all-black clothing choices, and ever-changing hair colors, they could easily be confused with actual rock stars, armed with microscopes instead of microphones. If her friends someday developed a vaccine for Ebola and were awarded the Nobel, Anya wouldn’t be a bit surprised. And if Tara dropped a few f-bombs during an acceptance speech, that really wouldn’t surprise her.
“I know, I know,” Tara muttered sarcastically to Alec. “I remember that we agreed not to talk like rowdy oil rig operators in the lab. But it’s our lab. The minions aren’t even here, anyway. I can’t just sit here and pretend like Anya picking up a cop doesn’t justify a few follow-up questions. I mean, this is Anya. Anya, who has an open bench warrant because of too many unpaid parking tickets. A woman who was taught the history of civil disobedience before she learned how to ride a bike. And her parents also know where Edward-fucking-Abbey is buried. She bagged an officer of the law last night.”
Alec let out an agreeable chuckle, and Tara, satisfied that her husband had been placated, returned her attention to Anya.
“Okay, now explain to me how this happened. You and a Marshal. Start by telling me what he looks like. I know he has tattoos but nothing else, and when I think of a cop, I just picture some cheesy old TV show starring portly guys dressed in bad suits or those uniforms that look like a Halloween costume. Not exactly my catnip.”
“He did not look like that,” Anya answered with a snort.
“No suit? Okay. What about portly? A dad bod to the extreme?”
Anya smiled absently when her brain called up JT’s form, him hovering over her, doing things with his body at a pace that no man with a dad bod would have been able to keep up.
“Absolutely not,” Anya breathed, still a little wrapped up in her private memory.
Tara let out a frustrated growl. “Details, please. You can’t sound all la-la land distracted, then offer a vague answer in your 1-900 voice and expect me to let that go. I demand a full description.”
“I don’t know,” Anya groaned.
She was stalling, a little embarrassed because she did know. She remembered every detail about JT and the hours they’d spent together. Everything from the sound of his voice in the middle of the night, telling her he needed her again, to the way her body had accepted his so readily when he’d pressed into her from behind. Her body recalled that memory with so much detail that Anya had to hold back a quiet moan.
Tara continued to press for more until Anya gave in, letting out a surrendering sigh.
“Fine. He’s got dark hair and these absolutely gorgeous blue eyes. Clean-cut, no beard or anything, but a jaw you could crack open coconuts on. He’s built like one of those crazy MMA guys—ripped arms, a great ass, and the kind of abs you want to call a six-pack but would easily get distracted if you actually tried to count them. Great ink, full sleeves and some on his chest. Mostly black and gray, but there are these red poppies that weave up and down his arms and it all looked so good that at one point I swear that I considered licking his biceps.” She took a deep breath. “How’s that? Enough detail for you?”
Tara was unnaturally quiet. Anya pictured both her and Alec staring at the phone, waiting for the one piece of info Anya had yet to share. Anya knew there was no end in sight unless she told them what they really wanted to know.
“And, yes, he got the job done. Brilliantly. More than once.”
The dynamic duo on the other end of the line let out comically relieved exhales.
“And your painting funk? The one caused by Martin the Moron and his extracurricular TA antics?” Tara asked.
Anya’s mouth pursed at the mention of her ex’s name. Then she glanced at the canvas in the passenger seat, and her lips relaxed in a grin.
“Funk has been cured, for now.”
Tara gave a celebratory whoop. “Fucking superb news. All of it. Your kick-ass one-night stand with the Marshal and your return to creativity.” She sighed. “I feel so much better now. You needed this, and I was worried that my girl wouldn’t get what she deserves—which is everything, by the way. Too bad the guy was a one-off. It sounds like he might be worth having around for more than one night.”
Anya’s heart lurched a little, shifting into autopilot for the rest of the conversation until Tara and Alec said their goodbyes. She tossed her phone back onto the passenger seat. Tara was her tireless champion and always took the time to remind Anya of her value in the world, which were priceless traits in a best friend. Unfortunately, her offhanded comment about having JT around for more than one night was more tempting than Anya cared to admit.
JT had already been gone when Anya had woken up, leaving his business card on the pillow with a note scribbled on the back.
Got called in to work at five. Didn’t want to wake you up.
Call me if you ever need anything. JT
Before she could tell herself otherwise, disappointment flickered through her. One-night stands don’t include lazy mornings after with snuggling, hot coffee, and apple fritters, she reminded herself. Even if Anya thought sharing all that with JT sounded like the perfect way to spend a morning.
Anya had to stop herself from dialing the phone number he’d added below his name. By “need anything,” he probably didn’t mean someone to snuggle and eat apple fritters with. Legal troubles or criminal escapades were more likely what he meant. Perhaps if she found herself caught up in a dangerous Ponzi scheme or had somehow become an unwitting party to mob activities and needed witness protection, he could use his badge to swoop in and save her, action-movie-hero style. That was what he meant. Not apple fritters and snuggling.
Anya shook her head and forced her attention back to the road. JT was in her past, as much as her ex was. If there was anything she was good at, it was staying loose and moving on, whether it was from a place, a job, or an entanglement with a man.
A fresh new beginning was ahead of her. Phase one started today, in a tony suburb where a cushy house-
sitting gig awaited her.
6
Anya
Gated communities inevitably inspired an eye roll from Anya. As a working artist, she’d spent most of her adult life supplementing her income in one way or another, and almost all of those side gigs had been in the service industry. She’d been a house cleaner, a dog walker, and a window washer. She had also delivered everything from flowers and dry cleaning to pizzas and beer. All those jobs meant she’d spent a lot of time in gated subdivisions, the names of which ran together in her mind, but you could be sure that they were named after something that used to be there—like red tail foxes, rolling hills, lush meadows, or whispering pines.
Palo Verde Heights was no different. Once she’d punched in the access code the homeowners had texted her, Anya eased her Subaru through the iron gates and peered through the windshield to see if she could spot an actual Palo Verde tree anywhere. No luck. Nothing but unnaturally green lawns bordered with decorative rock and prickly pears. Anya sighed and reminded herself that she needed this house-sitting gig—desperately—regardless of whether it pained her to watch all these automatic sprinkler systems waste thousands of gallons of water to keep some grass alive.
In the desert.
She made her way down a few winding streets, eventually finding Gwen and Jack Greene’s stucco ranch home at the end of a cul-de-sac. Anya parked her car on the street and spotted a lively-looking older couple loading things into the cargo area of a large SUV. Between the way the man was trying to muscle in a cardboard box that was far too big for the available space and the way the woman was waving her hands around as if that would somehow conjure up more room, Anya was sure she had found the right house. They were exactly as Professor Maxine Monroe—Anya’s previous graduate program adviser—had described them.
Anya hadn’t even had a chance to roll up the car windows and shift into park before the couple was headed down the driveway to greet her, big smiles on their faces.
Like a pair of perfectly matched bookends, Gwen and Jack were both spryly built, each with a headful of shimmering white hair. Hers was cut into a sharp chin-length bob and his in a smart, short fade. They both sported simple browline glasses, in the same plain style Anya associated with everyone she had ever met from the engineering department. Their bubbly personalities, though, were not what she would normally expect from civil engineering professors.
“You must be Anya!” Gwen opened her arms for a hug, which Anya didn’t hesitate to return. Gwen held on tight for a split second, then leaned back, her hands still gently grasping Anya’s upper arms.
“Maxine sent over a link to your portfolio. It’s sublime. So evocative, so haunting. Are you working on anything now? I cleared out a guest room in the back for you to work in. Either that or you can use the basement, although the light down there might not be what you need. Is natural light critical for you? Everyone is different, I suppose, but this way you’ll have options. Maxine said you applied for the Fenton artist-in-residence program. Have you heard back yet? My friend Antoinette was their spring awardee about ten years ago and it changed everything for her. It made her career and—”
Jack chuckled, wrapping one arm around his wife’s shoulders in a hug, cutting off her rapid-fire ramblings as he sent Anya a bemused look. Apparently, Anya’s dazed reaction to the onslaught of Gwen Greene’s enthusiasm was written all over her face.
“Let’s give the poor woman a chance to say hello, shall we, love? If you keep on this way, she might decide she doesn’t want to house-sit for a pair of nutty professors like us. And then what will Mr. Snickers do? He has yet to figure out how to open a can of Fancy Feast on his own, which means he’d starve while we’re gone.”
Gwen dropped her hands from Anya’s shoulders and laughed.
“Of course. I’m sorry, dear. It’s just that Maxine sang your praises and Sera Beth had nothing but wonderful things to say, too. It’s as if I already know you. But we’ll start at the beginning.” She stuck her hand out. “I’m Gwen and this is my husband, Jack. We’re so happy this worked out, for us and for you.”
As Anya shook hands with each of them, she was both grateful and wary that a good reputation had preceded her. On one hand, it was always nice to know that people—especially her former adviser and then her now-former boss at the campus museum—thought well of her. It certainly made landing a gig like this much easier. Most folks wouldn’t consider leaving their house and beloved cat in the care of a stranger, so it made sense that two retired professors would feel much better about hiring someone through their academic connections.
On the other hand, Anya couldn’t ignore the fact that all her connections at the university were also connections to her ex. Martin might not have been the love of her life, but they had spent two years together, and he was a respected department chair in the same program Anya had graduated from. He’d even helped her get the job she had just been laid off from, working as an assistant curator at the campus art museum. Her life with Martin and her life at the university were like unruly branches on a tangled family tree, wrapping around each other until it was nothing but a gnarled mass of bark. Even if Anya had always thought of herself as a bit of a rolling stone, taking whatever came her way with a what’s next attitude, she couldn’t help but wince a little when she thought about how her academic family tree now felt like it was splintering apart.
But here she was. And all things considered, this was a good place to be. Welcomed into the home of two gracious people who were off to spend their summer teaching GED classes in western Appalachia, hoping to help recovering addicts and low-income working moms earn their diplomas. She couldn’t ask for a more tenderhearted couple to work for over the summer, especially when Anya needed a soft place to land more than ever.
Knowing that made it easier for Anya to push away the unease nipping at her heart, returning her attention to Gwen and Jack.
“I’m glad it worked out, too. For all of us—including Mr. Snickers. Sounds like he needs my opposable thumbs.” Anya sent a grin Jack’s way before turning to Gwen. “But to answer your questions, I’m pretty easy when it comes to work spaces. Light or no light, I can make almost anything work, so I’m sure your home will offer exactly what I need. As for the Fenton program, I haven’t heard back yet. It’s a long shot, though, so all I can do is cross my fingers until they announce the winner.”
“Long shot” was a generous way of putting it, given that the Fenton award was the most prestigious artist-in-residence program in the Southwest. The winner would receive a part-time teaching position at the Fenton Ranch for the Arts, housing in the form of a cottage on the ranch, and a dedicated studio space. All that, plus a stipend—real money to take care of the basics, like feeding herself and paying her student loans. Anya couldn’t imagine a better scenario for an artist like herself, who had yet to find a large enough audience to survive on sales of her art alone.
But she refused to let herself indulge in any elaborate what-if fantasies about the Fenton. That would make it hurt all the more when she didn’t get it; at least, that was what her ex had so callously told her. When Anya applied, Martin had gone so far as to tell her that this might force her to accept the limits of her talents. As if she—like every other working creative in the world—didn’t crash heart-first into her own limiting beliefs a hundred times a day.
Some people don’t have it. The sooner they realize that, the sooner they can figure out how to work with what they have, Martin had said. Not a hint of remorse in his voice as he’d calmly told his girlfriend that, simply put, she wasn’t good enough. He knew how hard it was for her to talk about her work, how she struggled to put herself out there and promote herself as an artist. He knew that. And yet, he hadn’t even flinched when he’d said those words, as if he thought that by shattering her fragile self-confidence, he was somehow doing her a favor.
What made it even worse was that deep down, she wanted to win the Fenton—badly. She didn’t dare say that aloud to anyone, hopin
g that if she kept it an unspoken dream, then she wouldn’t jinx her chances. But after working steadily to build a career that was no farther along than it had been ten years ago, she was desperate for the validation that something like the Fenton prize would give her. For the first time in her career, she wanted to know what it would feel like to have her work singled out for its merit. With that, maybe Martin’s opinion wouldn’t matter.
Before all of her insecurities had a chance to take over in her head again, Gwen took her hand and began leading them toward the house. She was already well into another monologue—and this one was about the dreaded sprinkler system.
Welcome to Palo Verde Heights, Anya thought.
Two hours later, Gwen and Jack had gone over every detail of the sprinkler system, the solar panels, the programmable thermostats, the voice-controlled light dimmers, the robotic vacuum cleaner, and weekly rotation of Mr. Snickers’ Fancy Feast dinner choices. Anya’s head was spinning a little with all the information, but they had outlined everything on detailed spreadsheets and then organized it by topic in a three-ring binder. She should have expected as much. They were engineers, after all.
The three of them ventured outside as a group and walked around the block so Anya would know where to collect the mail. As they sauntered back, Gwen pointed out each house on their cul-de-sac and shared a few details about who lived there. Jack piped in with his own commentary as he flipped through the mail.
While Palo Verde Heights was technically a retirement subdivision, it didn’t take long to figure out that, like so many other communities these days, many of their neighbors housed multiple generations under one roof. The homeowners themselves might be retirees, but their spare bedrooms housed everyone from adult children and grandkids to aging parents and other assorted in-laws.