Chapter Four
Grace stood frozen in place for so long that Abbie finally sighed and broke the silence.
“If you’re not going to invite me in, then I’ve definitely overplayed my hand.”
Grace blinked at her in disbelief. “How’d you get here?” she asked—before quickly regretting her response. “I’m sorry,” she corrected. “Of course.” She stepped back and swung the door open wider. “Come inside. You’re getting soaked.”
“Thanks.” Abbie did her best to shake off as much of the water clinging to her—everything—as possible before stepping over the threshold. And even dripping wet, the sum total of that “everything” presented the most bona fide, USDA-certified, prime and perfectly aged hunk of pure perfection that Grace had ever seen. “I’m sorry,” Abbie said. “I don’t mean to make such a mess.” She smiled at the obvious irony of her comment. “I mean—any more of a mess than I’ve already created for you.”
“It’s okay.” Grace closed the door behind her. “It livens things up in a dull Vermont town.”
Abbie gave her a dubious look. “I somehow doubt that’s what you really think.”
Grace shrugged. “You’re well advised to doubt it. I honestly don’t know what I think.”
Abbie nodded but didn’t say anything.
Grace fought hard not to stare at everything that was amplified by Abbie’s wet clothing. She cleared her throat. “Is that why you’re here?” she asked. “To find out what I really think?”
“That, and other reasons.”
“What other reasons?”
Abbie shivered.
“God.” Grace felt like an oaf. “Let’s get you outta that t-shirt.”
Abbie raised an eyebrow.
“I mean . . .” Grace was mortified. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant you’re so wet . . . I mean . . . so damp . . . from . . . from the rain.” She hung her head. “I don’t know what the fuck I meant.”
“It’s okay.” Abbie laid a hand on Grace’s arm. “I know what you meant. And, yes. I’d love something dry to put on.”
“Okay,” Grace said meekly. “Follow me to the bedroom.”
Abbie smiled at her again.
Grace rolled her eyes. “You’re not helping, you know . . .”
“I know. I apologize.” She waved a hand. “Lead on. After I’ve changed, I’ll explain the whole sordid business to you.” She held out a hand. “Here—I brought this along as a kind of peace offering.”
Grace had been so determined not to stare, she failed to notice that Abbie was carrying a bottle of wine. She took it from her and read the label. It was an Oregon pinot noir—a good one from the Willamette Valley.
“‘Whole cluster,’” she quoted. “Nice choice.”
Abbie smiled. “It seemed to be in sync with our situation.”
Grace had to laugh at that. “Follow me.” She led Abbie to the bedroom.
“Something smells wonderful,” Abbie commented as they passed through the kitchen.
“It’s my curry baste.”
“You like to cook?”
“I do. I don’t know how good I am at it, but I enjoy it just the same.” Grace stood back so Abbie could precede her into the bedroom. “Let me grab you some shorts and a clean t-shirt. I keep extra stuff here.”
Grace retrieved the items and set them on the bed. “I’ll wait out there while you change.” She pointed at the living room.
“Thanks.” Abbie gave her a shy smile.
Grace left her alone and tried not to swoon as she crossed the kitchen.
What the hell is Abbie doing here? How did she know where to find me? And how in the hell did she get out here?
There was another rumble of thunder. One thing was for sure, Abbie was stuck there for now. Nobody would be leaving the island any time soon.
Grace didn’t know if that thought filled her more with jubilation or dread.
“Grace?”
Abbie’s voice—coming from the bedroom.
“Yeah?” Grace replied.
“I think I may need something a bit—larger.”
Larger? That seemed unlikely. Abbie was taller than Grace, but not really bigger.
“Are you sure?” Grace called out.
“I’m sure.” Abbie’s voice came from just behind her.
Grace jumped, and turned around to face her.
“Oh. Um . . .” The words died in her throat. The t-shirt fit all right—well enough for Abbie to moonlight as a server at Hooters. “Yeah. I see what you . . . um . . . mean.”
Abbie glanced down at her chest. “I fear this one is a bit too snug.”
Are you kidding? Grace wanted to scream. I’d offer my retirement savings to bribe you never to take it off. “Yeah.” She cleared her throat. “Let’s get you something of Grady’s.”
“Thanks.” Abbie gave her another one of her thousand-watt smiles. “I’d appreciate it.”
“His things are in that tall chest by the closet. Top drawer.”
“Great. Be right back.” Abbie turned around and headed back to the bedroom.
Grace watched her go. There was definitely no problem with the sweat shorts. They were just the right fit to show off all nine miles of her perfect legs.
She sank down into a chair. I’ll never fucking survive this.
The symphony broadcast was just beginning. Riccardo Muti was giving program notes for the evening performance. Grace tried to pay attention, but it was a losing battle.
“This is much better.” Abbie rejoined her. She held out her arms. “See?”
Abbie was wearing one of Grady’s ratty, Nova hockey t-shirts—with long sleeves.
It should’ve been illegal . . .
“Aren’t you too hot in that?” Grace asked. What the hell was she saying? Abbie could never be too hot in anything. Even if she’d appeared trussed-up in a biohazard suit, she’d still trip every meter on every dial.
“No.” Abbie raised her arms, and the impossibly long sleeves drooped from her hands. “I’ll just roll these up and I’ll be right as rain—no pun intended.”
Grace looked at her bare feet. “Want some dry shoes?”
“That would be great.”
“I have some spare Crocs.”
“Very stylish.”
Grace got up and retrieved the pair of battered, lime green shoes and handed them to her. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Abbie put the shoes on. Miraculously, they fit. But with Crocs, it was kind of a moving target. “Is that what I am?” she asked. “A beggar?”
Grace shrugged. “You tell me.”
Abbie perched on the arm of the sofa because its cushions were strewn with pages from Grace’s manuscript. “Maybe I should start by explaining why I’m here?”
“That’s a thought. I’d also like to know how the hell you got here.”
Abbie laughed. “That part is easy. Captain Polly.”
Captain Polly? Captain Polly ran a small-scale island charter service out of Burton Island. She knew these waterways better than anyone—even better than the coterie of crusty old bass fishermen who hauled in the biggest catches year after year in all the high-dollar tournaments the lake was famous for.
“How’d you find out about Captain Polly?” Grace asked. “I thought you’d already left for North Carolina.”
“I got a later start than I’d planned because I had a couple of things crop up that I needed to take care of. And when I finally got on the road, I saw her sign on my way out of town—near the turnoff for the marina—and changed my mind.”
Grace sat back down in a chair facing her. “Why’d you change your mind?”
“That part is a bit more complicated.”
Grace waved a hand at the big front windows that faced the lake. It was pouring now. “Doesn’t look like either of us is going anyplace for a while.”
“No,” Abbie agreed. “It appears we’re stuck with each other.” She met Grace’s eyes. “For now,” she added, softly.
How about fucking forever? Grace cursed herself for her own weakness.
Time for a reset. She forced her eyes away from Abbie’s. Beyond this point, there be dragons.
“That still doesn’t explain how you knew I was out here.”
Abbie sighed. “CK told me.”
What the hell? CK?
“When the hell did you meet CK?” Grace shook her head. “I mean . . . I only just saw her about . . .” Grace looked at her watch, “five hours ago. I swear, that woman spreads news faster than a 5G network.”
Abbie laughed. “It was less dramatic than that. I ran into her at the bookshop on Main Street. We both were trying to avoid that energetic Québécois who appears to hang out in there. We ended up hiding behind the same bookcase.”
“You mean Pierre Paul? And nice French, by the way.”
“Yes. That would be he. And thank you—I grew up in Québec.”
“I didn’t know that.” Grace was fascinated. “Your interest in St. Albans begins to make more sense now. Remind me to grill you about that after you explain meeting CK?”
“Okay,” Abbie agreed.
“So,” Grace continued, “you two introduced yourselves to each other?”
“Kind of,” Abbie explained. “I recognized her right away.”
“She is hard to mistake,” Grace agreed. “She has more ink on her body than the combined total from every term paper written in the storied history of St. Allie’s.”
Abbie laughed. “That’s not why I recognized her. She delivered the keynote address at last year’s Q-Knot Conference in Banff.”
“Do I want to know what the hell a ‘Q-Knot’ conference is?”
Abbie smiled. “Quantum Knot Invariants. This is a leading forum to explore research in the intersections of modular forms and quantum knots in invariants.”
Grace blinked. “Which translated into English means?”
Abbie thought about it. “Imagine the Klutz Book of Knots with a greater emphasis on algorithms.”
“Ah. Now I get why CK was there. But why on earth would you be attending something that dense?”
“It wasn’t by choice—not to say that Alberta isn’t rife with charm in the wintertime. The conference was partially funded by a grant from our foundation.”
“So, it was a working gig?”
“Precisely.”
“Tell the truth.” Grace narrowed her eyes. “How much of the content did you really understand?”
Abbie seemed to consider her answer. “Not. A. Single. Word.”
“Well, thank god.”
Abbie laughed.
“But that’s where you met CK?” Grace clarified.
“No. I didn’t meet her there. But I was impressed by her speech. So, when I saw her in the bookstore, I introduced myself.”
“I’d have loved to have overheard that conversation.”
“She’s very devoted to you.”
“Really?” Grace raised an eyebrow. “And my name happened to come up because?”
Abbie shrugged.
“Oh, come on. You don’t get off that easily, Williams. Dish.”
Abbie looked down at the carpet. “After we made our introductions, I told her that I’d heard her speak before. She seemed surprised by that, but went on to say she knew a bit about me, too.”
Grace closed her eyes. “God . . . I’m sorry Abbie. CK is my best friend. I didn’t tell her about us to boast. She could see I was miserable and she knows me well enough to . . . to . . .”
“Interpret the algorithms?” Abbie suggested.
Grace nodded morosely. “Something like that.”
Abbie reached out to touch Grace on the knee. “It’s okay. I’m not upset. I’m . . . glad.”
“Glad? I doubt that.”
“Don’t. It’s true. It makes me happy you have someone you trust to talk with about . . . things.”
“Yeah. Things.”
Abbie squeezed her knee. “I mean it. I wish I had someone like CK to confide in.”
“You don’t?”
Abbie shook her head.
Grace tentatively placed her hand on top of Abbie’s. It felt every bit as warm and solid as it had the other night when they sat together at her kitchen table drinking cognac. It was raining like hell that night, too. Grace wondered if the weather’s instability was an omen for their prospects.
“I’m sorry about that, Abbie.”
“Me, too. But I have no one to blame but myself for living such an insular life.”
“If it helps, I’ll be happy to share CK with you.”
“I’d like that. She seems pretty special.”
“Special?” Grace laughed. “Yeah. She’s definitely . . . woke.”
“Woke?” Abbie quoted. “Is that the same thing as lighted?”
Grace narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you mean lit?”
“I always get those colloquial expressions wrong. I’m such a nerd.”
“You’re adorable.” The words were out before Grace could keep them back.
Abbie looked at her.
Time stood still. They stared at each other while the rain continued to thrum against the roof and the Chicago Symphony began to work its way through the first movement of Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty. Grace didn’t miss the irony. She felt like she was finally waking up from her own stupor of repressed longing. And its object wasn’t the product of some manufactured fantasy—it was the Word become glorious flesh. And the whole human enchilada was seated right in front of her in all its quick and vibrant glory.
The question was what she was going to do with it. It was a colossal mess.
And it was tying her invariants up in quantum knots . . .
She smiled at her own musing.
Abbie noticed and gave her hand a tug. “What?”
“It’s . . . nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
“I was just thinking about the irony of both of us taking advice from CK.”
“Would that be a bad thing?” Abbie asked.
“Bad?” Grace thought about it. “Not bad. But definitely messy.”
Abbie seemed intrigued. “Messy? She seems a bit eccentric, I’ll grant you. But otherwise pretty well put together.”
“Not that kind of messy,” Grace corrected. “I mean the kind of messy that requires a half-gallon of Resolve and a drop cloth.”
Abbie blinked. “I have no idea what that means.”
Grace let out a long, slow breath. “Tell you what—let’s make some dinner and I’ll explain it to you. Then we can listen to the symphony concert. Maybe things will be clearer with a small dose of curry and a big dose of Mozart.”
“At least our sinuses will be clearer, even if our understanding lags behind.”
“Such an optimist.” Grace stood up, but retained her hold on Abbie’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go sling some hash.”
Abbie got to her feet, too. Once again, Grace was struck by how much taller she was. She stared at Abbie with the open-mouthed awe of a tourist gawking up at all six feet, six inches of Mary in Michelangelo’s Pietà.
Yep. Into the hand basket and straight on to hell . . .
She dared to allow herself a fleeting hope that her own prospects might be a tad brighter than the Blessed Virgin’s.
Fat chance.
“Come on.” Grace led the way to the kitchen. “You can open the wine.”
# # #
Anne-Sophie Mutter was killing it.
Even with the herculean level of distraction that accompanied sharing her medley of curried chicken and vegetables with Abbie, some still-functioning part of her mind managed to be blown away by how great Mutter’s performance was.
Abbie seemed to read her thoughts. “I love this concerto. I once heard Isaac Stern play it, and although I was very young, I recall being mesmerized by his musical gymnastics.”
Grace was impressed. “You heard Isaac Stern?”
“My grandmother used to take me to performances by the Montréal Symphony.” Abbie smiled. “I was only eight years old when I heard him, but I’ll never forget the experience.” She took a sip of her wine. “Mutter is playing this superbly.”
“So, you grew up in Montréal?”
“Near there,” Abbie explained. “In Québec City. I lived in Canada until I finished college at McGill.”
“So, you grew up speaking French?”
“And English. My parents are both committed Francophiles, but I was determined to become proficient in both languages. And McGill is an English-speaking college.” She smiled. “They weren’t particularly happy with my choice.”
Grace was intrigued. “Why not?”
“Before his retirement, my father was a professor of economics at Laval. He was determined for me to attend one of the province’s French-speaking universities.”
“But you didn’t share his enthusiasm for that idea?”
“Not in the least. I found that level of cultural sophistry offensive. So, after grad school at Chicago and Princeton, I just never went back.”
“Until now?”
“Well—my parents are a lot older, and I’m their only child.” Abbie shrugged. “This seemed close, but not too close—if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“Where is your family?”
“My mother is in Wilkes-Barre. My brother, Dean, lives in Plattsburgh—the headquarters of his home improvement stores.”
“What about your father?” Abbie asked.
Grace refilled their wineglasses. “He died when I was a year old.”
“Oh, dear god.” Abbie’s jaw dropped. “That’s terrible. May I ask what happened?”
“The flood.”
“The flood?” Abbie repeated.
“I’m sorry. The Susquehanna Flood of ’72,” Grace explained. “In three days, tropical storm Agnes dumped eighteen inches of rain on the Wyoming Valley in Pennsylvania. The river rose more than a foot per hour. When it finally crested at forty-one feet, the dikes just couldn’t hold it back. It overran its banks and nineteen feet of water roared through all the little towns in the valley. My dad was one of the unlucky ones. He drove a delivery truck for the Sanitary Bakery in Nanticoke. He got caught in flood waters while trying to move the truck to higher ground.”
“Oh, my god. How horrible.”
“Yeah.” Grace shook her head. “He died trying to save a load of spice cakes. Most of the other fatalities were people who drowned trapped in their cars, too. My mom managed to get my brother and me to our grandparents’ house in Ashley—but, oddly, our house was one of only three on our street that wasn’t destroyed. I don’t remember anything about the experience, of course. But Dean says he remembers the smell of mud and oil—how it hung around the whole area and seemed to cling to everything for years. He’s a big bubba, but to this day, he won’t change the oil on his own truck. He says the odor makes him sick.”
“I don’t doubt it. What did your mom do after your father’s death?”
“She stayed. It’s what people did. They pushed the mud and debris out of what was left of their lives and they went on. Eventually, she got married again, but it didn’t last long. He was a shift supervisor she worked with at the garment factory—but it turned out his real life’s work was perfecting his role as a drunk and a womanizer—quite a change from our sainted father, whose worst excess was overindulging on his beloved Polish spice cakes. Mum later said that since her new husband chose to spend more time at the VFW hall than he did at home, it made sense to pack up his stuff and drop it off over there. I remember riding along with her in our old, beat-up Ford station wagon.” Grace smiled at the recollection. “She was so calm. Like dumping all this guy’s shit out on the sidewalk in front of a bar was the most natural thing in the world. Afterward, she took me to Howard Johnson’s for ice cream.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Grace repeated. “When Agnes is done with something, she’s done. No second thoughts. No apologies. No going back.”
“Agnes?” Abbie asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Grace explained. Just like the storm. She smiled. “It’s no accident that Agnes shared the same name. That bit of irony regularly conspired to compound my escalating load of Catholic guilt.”
“That parallel must’ve been interesting to grow up with.”
“Was and is,” Grace corrected. “It’s no accident that I ended up with a job more than four hundred miles from home.”
“You said your brother lives in Plattsburgh?”
Grace nodded.
“I suppose he feels the same way?”
“Hell no.” Grace laughed. “Dean is her fair-haired boy. He can do no wrong. I’m the black sheep in the Warner family.”
“You?” Abbie seemed surprised. “Why?”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Surely not because you’re gay?”
“No. Not because I’m gay.” Grace leaned over her plate and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Because I’m something much worse than gay: I’m a lesbian.”
“How on earth is that worse?”
“Hell if I know. If I had to guess, it’s because the word ‘lesbian’ summons up all kinds of murky, seamy and vaguely foul-smelling unnatural acts. Gay men don’t much threaten staunch Catholic women. I mean . . . think about it: most of our priests are closeted gay men. But homosexual women? Nuh uh. They’re all up to something subliminal and corrupting. Why else would all those generations of nuns make little girls sleep with their hands outside the covers? They knew things. They didn’t want us figuring that shit out.”
Abbie seemed confused. “I’m trying very hard to follow your line of reasoning here—but I’m having difficulty connecting these dots.”
“Okay.” Grace sat back. “Let’s go at this another way. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and assume you also were raised Catholic?”
“You might say that.”
“So, do your parents know about your newfound . . . curiosity about sexual relationships with other women?”
Abbie sighed. “For starters, I wouldn’t characterize my attraction to you as a function of ‘curiosity.’”
“You wouldn’t?”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
It was Abbie’s turn to lean forward. “Why do you want to know?”
“I thought we’d established that.”
“So, your question is part of some academic exercise?”
Grace thought Abbie sounded a little disappointed. “No. It’s not.”
“Then what is it?”
“Hey, wait a minute.” Grace held up a hand. “Isn’t that what I just asked you?”
Abbie tapped her fingers on the side of her wineglass. The gesture was in perfect syncopation with the allegro aperto of the Mozart concerto. “I forget,” she said.
“You’re lying.” Grace called her bluff.
“Maybe I just want you to answer first?”
“Okay.” Grace sighed. “I thought I was trying to make a point about why Catholics view lesbians as a greater threat than gay men. But now it appears that what I’m really asking you is why you’re interested in me.”
“Interested seems like a pretty benign term, Grace.”
“It does?”
Abbie nodded.
Grace thought about what to say next. “Well, what term would you use, then?”
“I think I’d have to go for something a bit more—visceral. Certainly, something thoughtful that implies greater emotional intensity and . . .”
Grace wondered why Abbie was struggling to complete her statement. “And . . . what?”
Abbie met her eyes. “Investment.”
“Oh.” Grace didn’t have a ready response.
“Is that okay?” Abbie asked. Her voice sounded uncertain.
Grace nodded.
“So,” Abbie continued, “maybe now you can answer my question. Why do you want to know?”
Grace took her time. “Maybe because I’m emotionally invested in your answer.”
“Are you?”
“I think so.” Grace closed her eyes and shook her head. “Hell. I know so.”
There was an ominous roll of thunder.
Abbie sighed and looked at her watch. “Why did we have to wait to have this part of the conversation when I need to be heading back to St. Albans?”
Grace looked out the front window of the cabin. The rain was coming down in sheets. It had been pouring like this an hour ago while she grilled their dinner. Abbie had stood there beside her on the tiny back porch and mused about when the system might blow itself out. Grace knew better than to say anything about her certainty that this storm wouldn’t be letting up anytime soon. By now, she was ninety-nine percent sure Abbie would be marooned on the island with her for the rest of the night.
She waved a hand at the window. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Abbie followed her gaze. “I wasn’t . . .”
“Trust me. You aren’t going anyplace by boat in this.”
“No?”
Grace shook her head.
“But, Captain Polly . . .”
“Captain Polly would be the first person to tell you to stay off the water.”
“Should I text her?”
Grace shrugged. “You could try. Sometimes, if you hold your mouth just right and manage to stand in precisely the right spot on the island during a solar flare, you can grab a stray signal.”
“Great.” Abbie met her eyes. “So, I guess that means I don’t need to be out on the dock in twenty-five minutes to wait for her to fetch me?”
“I’m thinking not.”
“Are you . . . will you be okay with that?”
“I dunno.” Grace pretended to mull it over. “Lemme think . . .”
Abbie tossed part of a dinner roll at her.
“Hey!” Grace caught it in midair. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
Abbie’s chin went up. “You think you can take me?”
Grace was no longer sure what they were talking about—which she quickly realized wasn’t much of a change from their normal conversations. “You mean in a food fight?”
“I mean in any kind of fight.”
“Why do I suddenly feel like we’re playing three-dimensional chess . . . again?”
Abbie took her time before answering. “Maybe because we are.”
“I don’t want to play games,” Grace declared.
“I don’t either. I want to bask in how much I’m enjoying this meal—and this company.”
Abbie was right about one thing: the food had turned out better than Grace had planned when she cobbled together the makeshift marinade. But although it had come together nicely, she still regretted that the first and only meal she’d probably ever get to cook for Abbie would be so—forgettable.
Oh, well. At least it didn’t totally suck. And the wine was great . . .
Abbie raised another forkful of the curried vegetables to her mouth and made happy, moaning sounds—which made it hard for Grace to concentrate on anything but her memories of the other happy sounds she remembered hearing her make once.
She made a valiant effort to distract herself. “It’s so amazing to me that we can listen to this virtuosic performance and recall that Mutter once cut off part of her finger while chopping carrots.” Grace wagged her pinkie. “I never trusted taproots, and after hearing that story, I knew my suspicions were well-founded.”
Abbie laughed. “Right story. Wrong musician. That happened to Salerno-Sonnenberg, not Mutter.”
“My bad. I always get them confused.” Grace shook her head. “It’s those damn hyphens. They invariably portend the certain onset of something ominous.”
“Really?” Abbie raised an eyebrow. “As in the case of Bryce Oliver-James?”
Grace was surprised. “You know about him?”
Abbie nodded. “Of course.”
Grace narrowed her eyes. “Why, I wonder?”
“I don’t know.” Abbie speared a slice of grilled chicken. “Maybe I did my homework and researched the faculty.”
“Uh huh. Or maybe a little sprig of Clover got stuck in your ear while you were hiding from Pierre Paul?”
“It’s been known to happen.”
“Abbie. You know you cannot get involved in this.”
“I’m already involved in it.”
Grace felt a surge of panic. “Not yet you aren’t. And after today, you won’t ever have reason to become involved.”
“Meaning?”
Grace sighed. “You don’t really need me to spell this out for you again, do you?”
Abbie avoided her gaze.
“Abbie?” Grace tried again. “You know it’s impossible. You know we can’t.”
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 breathing 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.”
“At least not until we can figure something out.”
Abbie took hold of Grace’s hands. Grace was surprised at how warm her touch still felt—even after their seek-and-rescue mission in the rain. “You think we can figure something out?”
“I’m counting on it, Grace.”
“I wish I shared your optimism.”
“It’s not really optimism. It’s more like—determinism.”
Grace laughed. “Now you sound like CK. ‘Dam the torpedoes’ has always been her mantra.”
“I knew that coming out here was wrong of me—that it was totally selfish.” Abbie squeezed her hands. “But I couldn’t stop myself.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
From her corner in the living room, Grendel began to whimper. The sound was soft and sad, and it perfectly matched how Grace felt in that moment.
“I guess we’d better feed her,” Abbie suggested.
“Probably.” Grace kissed Abbie’s neck before releasing her. “Then what?” she was brave enough to ask.
Abbie turned around to face her. “Then you take me to bed, and we make this night last a thousand years.”
Grace was not inclined to argue with her.