My assistance with Beck’s project turned out to be letting three art department students make a plaster cast of my face while I formed an expression of terror. Giving that look wasn’t difficult, since I’d seen them make hers first, and she looked as though she was crying. Watching her interact with her peers was enjoyable, but the experience of having alginate harden on my face before having it covered with plaster-impregnated strips of cheesecloth wasn’t my idea of a good time. I’d pretended that my dread of unfamiliar situations and unknown people was claustrophobia, and of course, Beck was wonderfully understanding and supportive, giving me an out at every turn—which meant I had to go through with it.
Though I was breathing much easier once we reached my car, there was still a slight tremor in my hands, and I asked Beck to drive. Once we’d left the campus area, she asked if I was hungry. My throat was so dry from breathing through my mouth that what I really wanted, for the first time in a long time, was a drink, but I told myself food would do. We pulled into a small storefront restaurant off the main drag, the type of place only locals would know or chance. The moment we entered, the scent of something familiar and warming made my stomach growl.
“Something smells divine,” I murmured as we waited to be seated.
Before Beck could reply, a robust man with a fringe of hair appeared from the back, beaming at us, his arms open. “Good people,” he all but shouted. “Let me take you to our best table.”
Beck grinned. “Thanks, Dag.”
Once we were seated, I smiled at her. “Do you know everyone in Windsom Edge?”
“Don’t be overly impressed,” she whispered. “He says that to everyone.”
I couldn’t help laughing. Beck’s total lack of pretentiousness was wonderfully refreshing. A few of the women I’d been with would have taken credit for getting a close parking space. Beck seemed to take my laughter as a positive sign. She covered my hand where it rested on the table with her own.
“You were amazing today. And your cast was absolutely perfect. I’d very much like to buy your dinner. Not as a date,” she added quickly. “But as a thank you.” Would I have preferred it if she’d made it a date? Beck seemed to misunderstand my hesitation. “Please,” she added. “It would mean a lot to me if you’d say yes.” Abruptly, she blushed and looked down. “I mean, if you’d let me treat you tonight.”
I felt my own face heat up, remembering what she’d said about kissing for yes. If I’d had any doubt as to exactly what she meant, I certainly knew now. Be gracious. My Aunt Sharon’s voice. What had made me think of her? “Thank you,” I said, stopping myself before I said yes. “You’re sweet to offer, and I accept.”
She beamed, and I wished, for the millionth time, that she weren’t so damned appealing. Luckily, my attention was diverted by a young waitress with a bored expression who approached our table. Her disinterested tone as she recited the special for the evening didn’t reduce my distress when she mentioned chicken and dumplings. I hoped to cover my sharp intake of breath with a long drink of water, but Beck noticed.
“Could you give us a few minutes, please?” she asked politely, and the young woman sighed and left. I suspected we wouldn’t see her for a while.
Once we were alone, Beck turned fully toward me, her expression focused. “What’s wrong?”
I thought of dozens of possible answers, none of them true. My stomach twisted as I pondered telling her something so intensely personal. If I opened this door to my past even a tiny crack, could I control what came out? Once I started, would I be able to stop? I swallowed, hoping my voice would sound normal. “It’s nothing, really. Chicken and dumplings was my favorite when I was young. My mother made them for special occasions or when someone was sick.” But never again, once they were gone. I fought off my memory of that last time: Abby with the sniffles but smiling at me from across the table as we both enjoyed the delicious treat. Feeling Beck’s eyes on me, I forced myself to breathe normally. “Later, when I was first living with my aunt, I asked her to make them for me.” Realizing why she’d been on my mind moments ago, I managed a small laugh. “They were terrible. Absolutely awful. Before long, I learned she simply wasn’t a good cook, but at the time I thought…” What had I thought? That she’d made them bad on purpose? I was angry, stupid, young, and scared. All I could recall now was the terrible fight we’d had about it, the first of many, as it turned out.
The press of warm fingers on my arm brought me back to the present. “The chicken and dumplings are great here, but I can understand if you’d rather not try them,” Beck said quietly. “And if it bothers you, I won’t get them either. Or we can go somewhere else.”
It’s only food. Did I truly need to guard this memory as if it was something precious? “No. It’s…it’s fine.” I straightened my shoulders, taking courage from her tender touch. “And I should try them. I mean, they can’t be any worse than my Aunt Sharon’s.”
Beck grinned and waved the waitress over. The girl clucked her tongue as if it couldn’t have been more obvious when we both ordered the chicken and dumplings. Once we were alone again, Beck asked, “How old were you when you moved in with your aunt?” She was watching me carefully while trying not to seem too concerned.
“I’d just turned twelve. She was what my mother used to call an old maid. Unmarried, childless, and—from all appearances—perfectly happy that way. She’d moved across the country to have her own life and unexpectedly having the responsibility of a hostile, frightened preteen certainly wasn’t in her plans. I see that now, but at the time…let’s say it wasn’t an ideal situation.”
“How long did you stay with her?”
I wanted to finish this conversation but not appear overly defensive. This was the most I’d ever said to someone outside of therapy, but the fact that I hadn’t lashed out at Beck for asking in the first place gave me some gratification. I told myself that if I handled this now, we’d never have to talk about it again. “Until I went to college. We managed to be civil to each other at least half the time, which is probably about average for most parent-teen relationships, don’t you think?”
“I guess I’m below average, as usual.” Her voice was glum, but she met my gaze steadily. “I get along really well with my mama.”
“That’s because you’re practically perfect.” I smiled at her blush, glad I hadn’t gone with my first impulse, which was to mention her stepfather to prove my point. Instead, I tried for a casual change of subject. “So…will you tell me what you’re going to do with those casts we made today?”
“Nope.” She shook her head emphatically. “You’ll have to find out along with the rest of the world when the PAFA committee makes its decision.”
“You’re not going to show me your work before you ship it?” I was only half teasing and more than a little disappointed when she shook her head again.
Our salads arrived, and I began eating. Then I noticed she was studying her greens with a face so serious, she almost looked sad. “What’s wrong? Is your food not all right?”
She looked at me as if surprised by the question. I guess I hadn’t often asked about what she was experiencing. “Oh no, it’s fine.” She resolutely took a bite, looking more cheerful as she chewed. But after a few more seconds, she put her fork on the plate again. “Could I talk to you about something else that has to do with my work?”
I put my fork down too, wanting her to know she had my full attention. “Of course. Anything.”
She cleared her throat. “I’m nervous about this sale coming up. I mean, like, scared nervous. Maybe no one will come. Or what if they come, and they don’t like my stuff? What if Mel loses what miniscule patience she has with me after the first night and quits, losing the money she’s already spent? I won’t have any way to pay her back.” She looked away, but she was worrying at her lip. “There’s a thousand ways for this to go wrong and only one way for it to go right. That’s not a good situation.”
She was about as upset as I’d seen her, and taking hold of her hand seemed like the thing to do. “I honestly believe you have nothing to worry about. Mel will be fine in any case, but I know people will love your work, and I think you’re going to make lots of money.”
I could feel her trembling under my grip. She looked at me, her honey brown eyes wet. “You’re gonna be there, aren’t you?”
“Every minute.”
“You promise?” Her voice was weak, but her look was intense.
I knew this wasn’t a cursory question, and I wasn’t one to give my word carelessly in any case. There were things between Beck and me that I hadn’t yet made up my mind about, but this wasn’t one of them. She deserved my support, and I would act as a buffer between her and Mel. Enclosing her hand with both of mine, I smiled. “I promise.”
The tension in her posture eased, and she added her other hand. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Beck. I told you I wanted to be able to say I knew you when.”
“When what?” she asked, and we smiled at each other, leaving our hands clasped until the waitress appeared with our meals.
* * *
It was still dark when I awoke. Somehow in the night, I’d positioned myself with one leg thrown over Beck’s thigh. It must have been the heat between us, combined with the way my center fit against her, that had woken me from—or might have been the cause of—a very pleasant dream. I shifted somewhat, and the sensations intensified. I closed my eyes again, giving myself an extra moment to revel in her scent, in her warmth, in the firm smoothness of her skin. How, after sleeping alone for every night of my adult years, had I become so readily accepting of another body beside me? Accepting? I was practically dependent at this point.
I thought of how she had stood shyly at my bedroom door earlier, already in those boy boxers I’d come to know and one of the oversized T-shirts she regularly slept in. I’d known her uncertainty was based on my near muteness once we’d gotten in the car. The fact that a raging debate had been going on inside me had kept me from external conversation, other than a quick yes or no. Beck had taken the hint, and we’d made most of the drive in silence. Then she’d waited to be invited in or pushed away, doubtlessly unable or unwilling to guess what I might want from her, since I’d never given her any kind of measuring stick to help determine my mood or my desires. Probably because it had been years since I’d found a reliable one myself.
In the debate, one side of me had wanted her to stay, had wanted to kiss her yes and make love all night, and manage whatever happened next whenever we got around to it. The other side told me I needed to be responsible, to let her go, to tell her to return to her own bedroom, to prepare us both for the inevitable leave-taking that was only weeks away. Whatever the repercussions would be of sleeping alone again, I needed to deal with them as I always had. But after taking a few seconds to openly admire the look of her slightly tousled hair and browned body, I’d simply said, “I’m nearly ready. Make yourself comfortable,” and disappeared into the bathroom like the weakling I was. When I’d turned off the light after many minutes of self-recrimination, her presence in my bed drew me as if by gravity. “Thank you for dinner,” I’d whispered, in case she was close to sleep.
“Thank you for you,” she’d replied, causing me to smile.
We’d dropped off without another word, and that had been all I’d needed until this moment. Now my body insisted I deal with the swelling urge that pulsed where we touched. I moved slowly against her, rocking almost imperceptibly. God, she felt good, so fucking good. I moved some more, holding my breath as I listened for any change in her breathing, any indication she might be waking. I heard none. Would she notice the dampness from my panties coating her leg where I pushed against her? Could she sense the way my flesh was opening, the way my clit grew harder with each brief stroke? Apparently not, and I took advantage, as I’d done throughout our relationship. I pressed closer, increasing both the pressure and speed. The sensations increased, and I tried to hold back my rising moan. Increasingly desperate for release, I convinced myself Beck was a sound sleeper who, if she had any awareness, might think she was dreaming. And me? I just wanted to come. I needed to come. And I was going to come if I could get a little more pressure, move a little faster.
In a way, it all happened so quickly, I couldn’t have done anything differently. In a way, it happened very slowly, deliberately, and with delicious purpose. Beck bent her leg, and I fully mounted her thigh. The added friction increased the sensation of my impending climax. At the same time, she cupped my buttocks, moving with the rhythm I’d set, pulling and releasing, pulling and releasing, before taking me to exactly the pace I needed. Any semblance of control shredded, and I whimpered with pleasure, unable to help it and, at that exact second, unwilling to try. Her touch, along with the added stimulation of our new position and momentum, pushed me over the edge, and I shuddered and spasmed against her, breathing erratically with an almost soundless “oh” of release and satisfaction. Her hands remained in place, letting me determine when the final thrust had milked the last of my indulgence, at which point, my body stilled alongside her, though I could still feel the beat of fading excitement in my throat.
She hummed quietly and kissed the top of my head, her hands drifting to my back where they encircled me with the same loving care she always showed. My mind prepared dozens of possible reactions, mostly various configurations of embarrassment or the total pretense of some ridiculous version of sleepwalking—sleep sexing?—but I opted to luxuriate in the fading sensations and the absurd relief that Beck hadn’t said anything to indicate she was aware of what had happened, even though it was quite obvious she knew.
I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep until I felt a slight movement of the bed. How much time had passed? Was it morning, and Beck was getting up? I took stock, trying to determine the situation without completely waking up. I was on my side, facing Beck, who was on her back beside me. The subtle shaking continued, and I focused on her body. There was a tension in her torso that was new, different from her normal sleeping posture. The arm that usually held me close wasn’t around me; it was resting between us. Well, not resting exactly. It lay between us while the other warm hand that had become the soothing companion to my rest now dipped between her own thighs. As I listened to her irregular breathing, everything became clear. Beck was touching herself, quietly masturbating next to me. Was this in response to my earlier loss of control, or had it happened before, and I’d slept through it?
Everything in my awareness seemed to sharpen. I could feel her muscles tightening in anticipation as I sensed the wet glide of her fingers and caught the rich scent of her arousal. In the next second, I imagined replacing her hand with my own, and the urge to touch her became so strong, I opened my mouth, ready to whisper, “Let me.” I could only force myself to hold off by pressing my lips to her neck. At the same time, I reached across her chest, cupping her breast. I was certain her nipple would be erect, but I didn’t touch it yet, gently massaging the full base of her instead. She arched, making a small sound somewhere between surprise and delight, and I felt her pace increase. I matched it with my own hand, and each of us worked our way toward the peaks we sought. I kissed her neck again, and when her higher-pitched breath sounded a warning, I bit gently, finding the hard tip of her breast and working it between my fingers. Her hips rose slightly, and she grunted a long, low sound. I could detect the waves of her pleasure even through the fabric of her nightclothes. After she stilled, and her breathing slowed, I pulled her onto my shoulder, running my fingers through her hair while she settled against me with a sigh.
It must have been the light. Beck startled and struggled to sit up. “It’s late. I’m late,” she mumbled, throwing off the covers and stumbling out of bed. I had barely gotten to a sitting position and was still rubbing the sleep from my eyes when she reappeared in her usual cutoffs and sleeveless tee. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Emily.” I might have frowned at that because she quickly added, “I don’t like leaving you like this. It’s just…there are four jobs today, and yesterday Mom said she was worried we wouldn’t get everything done. Otherwise, I’d—”
I stopped her with a hand on her cheek, a gesture that felt more intimate than I’d intended. But then, everything between us seemed to be moving in that direction. “It’s fine. I understand.” I moved my hand away, but she caught it and held it to her chest. I swallowed.
“I think I understand something too,” she said. I couldn’t bring myself to ask what, but she went on anyway. “I understand about kissing good-bye. I’d really like to.”
I stood and put my mouth to her ear. “I think we should talk about that tonight.”
She shivered lightly before her expression turned worried. “You’ll be here?”
I put my other hand to my chest. “I promise.”
She seemed reluctant to let go but nodded. “Okay.”
Less than two hours later, when I looked at the readout on my ringing cell phone, my upbeat mood dropped like a stone, its dead weight coming to rest in my gut. In the last twenty-four hours, I’d made two promises to Beck. Now I’d be breaking them both.
* * *
“Girl, where in blazes are you?” William’s voice was hushed, and I suspected he’d stepped away from the others to answer.
“In Blazes, Arizona.” I tried for levity as I answered, unable to keep the weariness from my tone. “But I’ll be back late tonight.” His stunned silence gave me time to ask, “How did it go?”
“Fabulous, of course.” He didn’t pretend not to know what I meant. “Those twinkle lights we used looked way better than the tiki torches Mel wanted. That horror in Charlottesville ruined those for our lifetimes.” The party to launch Beck’s sale had been Friday night, with the sale going on through Saturday evening. It was close to noon on Sunday, and I wanted to call before I checked out of the motel. William’s voice dropped even lower. “Mel can’t seem to decide if she’s happy or not. Apparently, the sale made a lot of money, but there was some other deal…” He trailed off, probably hoping I’d fill in the blank. But the money wasn’t what I’d wanted to ask about.
“And Beck?”
He was quiet for a few seconds. “I think she’s doing okay now.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “What about during the party and the sale?” Another pause, followed by a sigh. “Tell me, Will.”
“Em, we didn’t think she was going to make it at first. She was frantic when you weren’t home that first night—”
“I left a note,” I said, hearing the defensiveness in my voice. Granted, it was deliberately vague and very brief, but I hadn’t simply disappeared.
“Evidently, it fell onto the floor under the table, and it took Mel and June coming over and helping search the house before they found it.”
Okay, that was bad, but not entirely my fault. “So then?”
“Beck wanted to call the whole thing off, but Mel wouldn’t hear of it. I think I heard them yelling from here. Luckily, June calmed everyone down. She really saved the day, Em. She told me later how Beck was practically catatonic on Thursday. While we were all running around, trying to get stuff ready for the sale, she was sitting on your deck, staring out at the water and petting that white cat. She wouldn’t talk beyond a syllable or two. Mel was getting pissed again, but June went over and talked to her for a while. Finally, Beck came downstairs, mumbled an apology to everyone, and started pitching in to help. Friday night, June acted as Beck’s date.”
“Date?” I asked, trying to tamp down the unpleasant taste in my mouth.
“You know, walking her around, hanging on her arm while they talked to people, bringing her drinks and making sure she ate something.” He giggled lightly. “Beck was stiff as a board at first, but by the end of the evening, they looked pretty cozy. You should have seen Mel’s face. I wouldn’t be surprised if she asks June to marry her or some other crazy thing just to make it clear who rules that roost. She wouldn’t want Beck getting any ideas.”
Beck didn’t usually drink. I wondered if June was the one who’d been getting ideas. She’d always said how cute she thought Beck was. William took advantage of my silence to ask, “What about you, Em? Are you okay? What made you take off for Arizona, of all places? And why now?”
It was my turn to sigh. “It’s too complicated, Will. I can’t go into it on the phone. And please, don’t tell anyone you talked to me.”
“Not even Beck?”
The question was completely sincere. Despite the fact she’d been on my mind almost constantly, I answered, “No, especially not Beck.” A secondhand conversation was not what she and I needed.
His sniff conveyed immense disapproval. “You’re the boss.”
That phrase made the unpleasant taste edge toward the same scream that had been threatening to emerge ever since the phone call four days ago. When it tried again to force its way out of my throat, I swallowed vigorously. “Thank you, William. I’ll see you soon.”
After spending three days in the desert in the company of people like me, people whose lives had already been shattered and whose broken hearts hoped only for some imperfect conclusion, I wanted nothing more than to return to the fresh, cleansing scents of sand and sea. I’d met a wide sampling of humanity over the years at similar scenes, huddled together as we watched distant lights at night surrounding shallow graves in the woods or standing isolated in the unbearable brightness of morgues in cities large and small. Some of us knew each other’s stories. All of us knew each other’s pain. Once, the familiarity of their anguish would have brought me some small measure of comfort, but this time I’d found myself wanting distance from it.
Detective O’Malley, whose cop instincts still worked though he was retired, had eyed me over coffee at the airport. “You look different,” he said. “You seeing someone?”
“Not really,” I’d hedged. “Some friends talked me into a vacation, and it’s been…a nice break.”
He gave me a shrug. “Maybe you need a break from this too. You want me to not call for a while?”
“No,” I said emphatically, shaking my head to show there was no question. “I want to know. I need to—”
“Okay, okay,” he cut me off. “I just asked because things can change. The way people feel about what they’re doing in their lives can change. But sometimes, they don’t realize it until someone else points it out to them.”
His words echoed for the entire flight to Norfolk.
* * *
It was late, and the Guest House was totally dark. It took me two circuits of every room, turning on lights and calling softly, to convince myself I was truly alone. I couldn’t imagine where Beck could be at this hour. No, I didn’t want to imagine, but as I wheeled my bag into the bedroom, a most unwelcome series of ideas presented themselves. Was she sleeping with June or reunited with Peyton? Injured in a scooter accident? No longer at risk from her stepfather, had she moved back home?
After confirming that her things were still here, I kicked off my shoes and flopped onto the bed. The previous cool spell had evidently passed, as the air felt heavy and oppressive. I’d practiced my return speech in my head dozens of times, and it still wasn’t good enough. But having to wait, not knowing when I’d see her or how she was feeling would make me crazy if I thought about it anymore. In no time I was dozing, relieved by the now familiar scents and sounds of the ocean. I opened my eyes again when a faint, unfamiliar sound broke through my lethargic mind. When it came again, I stood and walked slowly into the main room.
“Beck?” I asked hopefully.
The answer was another faint cry from the door. I opened it to find Sugar waiting expectantly. She darted in, making her move before I could react, trotting quickly toward the bedroom.
“She’s not in there either,” I called, and the little cat looked back at me as if to say, whose fault is that?
Two days later, there was still no sign of her. Or rather, I hadn’t sighted her physically. Wandering around the house on the first morning after my return, my stomach lurched when I noticed the found jar. Cleanly shifted sand covered all the trinkets we’d collected. One shell and a piece of a ticket stub were still visible as they clung to opposite sides of the tall container, but everything else was completely covered over. Certain this was Beck’s doing, I tried to puzzle out what it meant. Could it signal we had a chance to start over? Or did she mean it as the end of everything we’d known together?
Head spinning, I’d gone to Reefside, thinking they would know where she was. But everyone denied any knowledge of Beck’s whereabouts, so I let it go, despite thinking June looked a tad guilty. They insisted I eat breakfast with them, and since I owed them for all they’d done to help Beck with her show, I tried to be as sociable as my mood would allow.
When I returned to the Guest House, my shower had been used, and Sugar, who I’d left sleeping on the couch, had been let out. I thought it was an indication Beck knew I was there and she’d be home that evening, but I was wrong. Though there was a thawing pan of lasagna on the counter when I awoke from my nap, there was no note, and my houseguest—as Mel had called her—did not return. Similar occurrences repeated at odd hours when I was gone or sleeping until, on the morning of the third day, I lost patience. I left a note for Beck, requesting her to stay until I returned or at least contact me in some way.
Storming down to Reefside, I ignored everyone else and marched straight over to June. “I know you know where she is.”
June shook her head. “I don’t.”
“But you’ve been in touch with her, haven’t you?” I countered. When she didn’t reply, I snatched the phone from her hand. Of course there was a passcode, so it was a vain gesture, but I knew I was on the right track when Mel locked eyes with June and inclined her head in my direction.
June reclaimed her phone but didn’t look at it. “We’ve texted a few times, but I honestly don’t know where she is. She won’t tell me.”
“Do you think she’s at her mother’s house?” I asked, my temper cooling.
“I asked. She says not.”
Mel stepped up beside me. “Never mind all that. We’re leaving before the storm gets here, and you need to come too.”
I frowned. “What storm?”
Walter jumped in as if he’d been offstage waiting for a cue. “Girl, haven’t you been watching the weather?” Ignoring my exasperated expression, he explained, “There’s a hurricane a few hundred miles off the coast. It’s already a category three, and they think it will continue to strengthen until it reaches land.”
He waited for my reaction. Finally, I asked, “It’s expected to hit here?”
“They’re not sure yet, but there’s a chance it will. And even if it doesn’t hit here directly, there will be strong winds and heavy rain, probably for days. Food shortages, gas shortages, terrible traffic.” Mel and June were nodding like bobbleheads. “We think it makes sense to go back to the city now. We’ll lose our deposits, but it’s better than possible damage to our cars or other property.” He lowered his voice dramatically. “Never mind us risking our lives if we try to ride it out.”
I could have pretended to give it some thought, but what would be the point? As unusual as it was for me to disregard something that was potentially dangerous, I knew I wasn’t leaving. Not yet. At this moment, the idea of having something else in my life cut short was achingly unacceptable, and I was determined to do the right thing this time. “I’m not going until I hear from Beck.”
Mel and Walter both started talking at once, but June pulled me out onto the deck, shaking her head at them as she closed the deck door. “I don’t think she wants to talk to you, Emily. After you came by on Monday, I told her you were asking about her, and she’s stopped texting me since. You know, it would be best if you came home with us. You always told me things were never going to work out between you two anyway.”
I’d said that, true, but the idea that Beck was avoiding me because she’d reached the same conclusion stung in a place I couldn’t remember hurting before. Besides, my feelings toward our future had changed. But there certainly was no chance for us if Beck wouldn’t speak to me. Anger rising, I stepped into June’s space. “That’s not the point. The point is, I need to talk to her before I go. You don’t understand. There are some things I need to…” I stopped myself, aware I’d closed the distance to her and was dangerously close to losing my temper.
June’s expression was difficult to read. I couldn’t tell if there was sympathy or pity in her look. She waited a beat to see if I would finish. “We won’t be ready to leave until tomorrow,” she said. “I hope you’ll reconsider.”
Not wanting to watch the discussion between her and the rest of my friends, I left quickly. The house had been cleaned and the dishes done. A single word had been added by way of reply to my note. “No,” was all it said.
By the next morning, most forecasts had Hurricane Harper veering off to the north, though it did seem likely we’d get hit by several outer bands of rain and wind from the storm. Still, my friends were as determined to leave as I was to stay. Mel’s objections rose in volume until she was practically shouting, and even William chimed in, but I simply refused to go. I spent the next day helping them with the last of the packing and loading after having left a new, very short note for Beck. It simply said, “Why not?”
Mel initially insisted on hourly reports from me, but after we watched the latest storm track report, I was able to convince her that twice daily contact would be sufficient. Saying good-bye to everyone took almost as long as the round of car Tetris we’d played to get everything into Mel’s Range Rover. I kept offering to bring some things when I came, but as I couldn’t give a specific date as to when that would be, no one seemed willing to take me up on it. Watching them drive away gave me a strange feeling that was part relief and part panic. I felt worse when I returned to the Guest House and saw the words responding to my latest note: “I can’t count on you.”
Beck had said those words to me the last time I’d hurt her. I understood how she must feel, but how could I get her to forgive me if she wouldn’t let me near enough to explain? I closed my eyes, revisiting a major decision I’d made while in Arizona. I wanted to tell Beck yes because I found I no longer cared about our age difference or her working for me or about what limited time we might have. Not anymore. After being forcefully reminded how life could be all too brief and was often brutally cruel, why wouldn’t I choose to make love for hours before falling into an exhausted sleep next to someone who wanted the same? Why not have Beck and give myself to her if doing so could block out our individual pain and sadness for a time? It wouldn’t be the first time I’d used sex to help me forget something, though now it felt like a kind of surrender I’d never tried before. The echo of Detective O’Malley’s words had gelled into a realization in the skies over Oklahoma, jarring me to the point where I’d seriously contemplated ordering a Bloody Mary before settling for a second cup of coffee. Something in me had indeed changed, and Beck had been primarily responsible, either for the transformation itself or at least for helping me become aware of it. Now, pondering not being able to ever take that next step in our relationship left me hollow, with an emptiness that threatened to devour whatever was left of my feelings.