For the Longest Time (14 page)

Sam filed away the visual to share with Zoe when she got passed over for an invitation again this year.

“So you think that's what I need to do here,” she said. “Find some friends and get happy.”

“Oh, I don't know. I just want you to
be
happy, Sammy,” Andi said, throwing an arm around her daughter and giving her a squeeze. “How you go about it is entirely up to you. But in the meantime, you can be semi-
miserable as long as you keep your room clean and cook something once in a while.”

“Doable,” Sam said.

They made several other stops while Sam mulled over what her mother had said. She made it sound so easy. But then, Andi had been here for over thirty years. She was as local as it got by now, though there were some people who would never look at her that way. Andi had never seemed to care much, going about her merry way. Sam smiled as they walked along, remembering Andi's announcement, about a year after her husband's death, that she was going to find something to do during the day while the girls were at school or she was going to go insane. She'd taught preschool for years, wearing glitter-covered sweaters that had delighted the kids and singing them everything from “Pop! Goes the Weasel” to Pink Floyd. A couple of years ago, she'd decided it was time for something different, “something different” being to work at her buddy Joanne's yarn shop part-time. She taught knitting classes and fussed with yarn and, Sam was pretty sure, spent a lot of time gossiping with Joanne. It kept them busy, though not necessarily out of trouble.

Andi was content, Sam thought affectionately, and she deserved every bit of it. Maybe she'd get there herself someday. Or maybe she'd have to one day be removed from her hovel via forklift, having grown enormous on a diet of ice cream and tears.

For today, at least, just listening to her mother's warm voice gave her a little more hope for the former.

The two of them browsed through a trinket shop that Sam didn't remember, and where she bought a cute little black cat key chain. They poked around in the jeweler's, read a couple of menus, and smelled just about
everything in a store that crafted soaps and lotions. By the time they emerged from there, both of them were hungry, but Sam didn't want to leave without walking into the small park at the center of the square.

“You go on ahead,” Andi said, settling herself on a bench beside one of the lampposts. “I'll dig into one of these books while you have a look.”

“You're not coming?”

Andi was already pulling her reading glasses out of her purse. “Honey, I live here all the time. I love the tree, but I know it's special to you. You take a minute. I'll be right here.”

Sam knew there would be no budging her, so she walked to the corner, took the crosswalk and walked through the open gates of the four-foot black wrought-iron fence that surrounded Oak Shadow Park, and her tree. The Witch Tree.

Sam had to stop for a few seconds, just to take it in. It was an oak, one of the oldest in the country, and its gnarled branches had become a huge canopy that cast shade in a wide radius around the thick trunk. It was hundreds of years old and looked it, an unchanging fixture that anchored the Cove to its past. The founding witches, supposedly a Henry, an Owens, and a Nightingale, were said to have planted the seed and, like any witches worth their salt, cast a spell on it. As long as the tree grew strong, so would the town, went the tale. The heart of the tree was the heart of the town.

It was a charming story, fun to pass down and great for local advertising. But even if it hadn't had a story behind it, Sam knew she would have loved the tree.

The leaves, a vibrant orange, were everywhere on the ground, but there still seemed to be an endless supply in
the branches above. Sam walked toward the tree, smelling the rich scent of decaying leaves, of earth and grass and wood. Even now, the world seemed to be hushed beneath the branches. When she'd been very young, she'd been convinced that there must be a secret door in the trunk that led to a magical place. The older version of her still couldn't quite let go of the fantasy, or the fact that for a long time she'd misunderstood “witch” as “wish,” and made a lot of requests to whatever sylvan spirits abided here accordingly.

Sam reached out and touched the trunk she'd leaned against and lain beside countless times. Just her and her sketch pad and the dreams she took out and turned over in her head like a smooth stone. The bark was rough beneath her fingers, but she still could imagine the life thrumming through it.

Hey, she thought, feeling vaguely silly even as it felt like the right thing to do. I'm back. And I did a lot of the things I used to say I was going to do. But none of it made me happy. So if you've got any ideas, a push in the right direction would be great.

She closed her eyes, just for a moment, and waited just like she had as a child for some acknowledgment that magic was about to happen. And though, as always, nothing happened, Sam opened her eyes feeling as though something small but important had shifted today. She didn't know what—only that she felt better today than she had in a long time. She never would have expected to have that happen here, since the town was so much like she remembered, but . . . right this second, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. And if you didn't want to get too technical, Sam supposed that could be considered a magical happening of some sort.

Find some allies. Kick some ass. Get happy.
Then she thought of Jake.
You could also get— No, you know what? Three things on the list are enough for today. It's not much to go on, really. But it's a start.

Sam gave the trunk an affectionate pat, then turned and walked away.

* * *

Late that night, when the house had gone quiet, Sam tossed and turned until it was more an effort to stay in bed than get out of it. Finally, she shoved off the covers and swung her legs over the edge of her old bed, the white wrought iron seeming almost to glow in the near dark.
Why can't I just go to sleep?
It had been a good day. Watching her mother pick a kitten from their big cage in the back of the animal hospital had almost made up for the lack of Jake's presence. Apparently, he sometimes made house calls to the couple of farms outside of town.

The thought of Jake mucking around under a cow had only contributed to her good day, not that she thought he would appreciate that if he knew.

In any case, she and Andi had come home tired, happy, and full of Merry Meet's excellent shepherd's pie. Loki would be coming home this weekend with one of his sisters, a pretty little dilute tortie whose fur was a blend of creams and peaches and grays, and who was very sweet when not taking down her siblings with a well-placed paw to the head. It was going to be interesting.

And it still didn't explain why she couldn't sleep. Insomnia had rarely been an issue of hers. She was only ever up all night when she was sick. Or when a project had captured her completely and she needed, not just wanted, but
needed
to paint.

She sat there a moment, dangling her legs and grappling with what she wanted to do.

I'm just going to screw up a perfectly good canvas and end up junking it. That's all that ever happens anymore.
This felt different, though. For months, her only attempts at painting had been forced. This was more a compulsion. This was new. Or maybe it had just been gone so long that it was new again.

“All right,” she said softly. She stood, slid her feet into her slippers, and padded silently out the door and down the hall to the attic stairs.

The attic had long been one of her favorite places. Open and airy, with the roof peaking high above and dormer windows to let the light in, it had never been a scary place to her. She and Emma had spent hours up here, playing dolls or hide-and-seek or whatever weird game Sam could con her sister into. And when Emma had started to balk at playing, she'd treated the attic as an escape. One of the last things her father had done for her was to fashion a small “studio” for her under the eaves, by one of the windows where the light was best. Even at ten, she'd treasured the gift.

She hadn't actually worked up here in years, but her mother had left things just as they were: an easel, a stool, a small table, and some shelves for her paints and brushes. It was simple, but she liked simple.

Her boxes of paints and supplies sat unopened beside the stool, and the two blank canvases she'd brought, remnants of a time when purchasing such things had been fun, were here as well. She'd just brought them up and left them leaning against the wall, but the positioning had changed a bit.

Sam smiled when she saw that Andi had placed one
on the easel. It looked as though it was waiting. She supposed it was.

She walked slowly to the boxes, crouched down and pulled the flaps open to reveal tubes and jars of paint, her brushes and cups, her palettes. There was only a moment of hesitation . . . and then she was pawing through the colors, plucking out what she needed, her fingers moving with the kind of purpose she'd almost forgotten. Reds and oranges, browns and greens—the image in her mind hovered over her as she chose.

And there it stayed when, twenty minutes later, brush touched canvas. Sam drew in a breath in the silence of the attic, waiting for the need to wither and die again. But this time, as her hand began to move and guide the brush, she instead felt something begin to unfurl.

Like the petals of a flower beginning to bloom.

J
ake was sitting at his desk, hands stuffed in his hair, staring at nothing in particular when Angie poked her head in.

“Sam Henry's here to see you. Are you busy?”

Sam? Here?

“Yeah, send her back,” Jake said, rousing himself out of his near stupor. He ran through a quick mental checklist, mostly involving what he might smell like and what sorts of things might have left marks on his lab coat. When he decided she probably wouldn't run screaming, he scrubbed his hands through his hair, pretty sure he looked like he'd recently suffered an electric shock. At this point, he'd expected that the highlight of his day would be going home and falling onto his couch, eventually passing out in front of the television with his dog. It was possible a can of something with pasta in it would find its way into his mouth at some point before he lost consciousness.

He looked at his watch. Almost six. So close to freedom. And Sam was here. So maybe the end of his Friday wouldn't be quite as pathetic as it had been looking up until now.

There was the sound of footsteps, and after a few
seconds, Sam appeared in his doorway clutching a Ziploc bag. She looked almost as surprised to find herself there as he was to see her, but whatever had prompted the visit, Jake had no interest in questioning it.

She was by far the best thing he'd seen all day.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” Jake said, smiling. “Everything okay? Your mom decide to take the whole litter instead of just one more?”

Sam laughed, a low and sultry sound. “No. I think she's out at Pet Palace buying more stuff, though. We still on for the big handoff tomorrow evening?”

“We'd better be. I need less housemates. Marin's taking them home tonight. I think we've convinced her she needs another cat, so this should seal the deal. Anyway, I need a night off from the wrecking crew. Pretty sure Tucker thinks there're a bunch of demons living in the spare bedroom.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Tucker's afraid of cats?”

“We're manly men. We prefer the word ‘cautious.'”

“I'll try and remember that.” Sam flashed a smile, then began to fidget, digging one toe into the linoleum. “Are you okay? I can take off. It's no big deal. I just wanted to drop these—”

“No, no,” he interrupted her quickly. “Stay. They'll be locking the doors in a minute, and we've cleared almost everybody out. Finally. I just finished up, and Tom's with the last patient now. I'm just . . . it's been a really long week. I've been up to my ears in . . . never mind.” He looked again at the bag in her hand. “Oh my God. You brought me cookies?” He looked more closely. “Are those your mom's oatmeal raisin cookies? Oh my God. You just made my entire day.”

Actually, the smile she gave him made his entire day. He'd tried to be cool this week, messaging her but keeping his distance. This was new. She wasn't sold on it yet, and he didn't think clambering all over her like an overstimulated puppy was going to do anything but send her back into hiding—no matter how much he wanted to after he'd finally gotten his hands on her. But as Sam finally stepped over the threshold, he decided a week was way too long to wait, and he wouldn't be doing it again.

He drank her in from head to toe. She'd pulled her hair back into a loose bun, and pale tendrils had escaped to frame her face. She wore a dress that looked more like a long sweater, with a cowl neck that fell into a hood at her back. Then there were the gray leggings and the black knee-high boots. Stylish, a little edgy, a lot out of place. That was Sam. She looked a little like a beautiful angel of death. The kind who would have no trouble making her monthly soul quotas.

She was certainly hot as hell.

“Here, then,” she said, depositing the bag directly in front of him. “You look like you could use these.”

Even sealed in a bag they smelled like heaven. Jake hesitated, looking up at Sam from where he sat. But when she just looked back expectantly, he threw caution to the wind, opened the bag, and stuffed an entire cookie in his mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head. He made some sort of sound. It was hard to hear with all the pleasure centers of his brain lighting up at once.

“Bad day?” she asked, her voice laced with amusement.

“
Ungnmm
,” he replied, then finished chewing and swallowing. “Sorry. Yes. This week has been crazy. It
always happens like this, though. When it rains, it pours. And this week, it's definitely pouring.”

“
Hmm
,” Sam replied, and he could feel her eyes on him as he stuffed another cookie in his mouth. He avoided eye contact, since he was concerned she might see just how close he was to shoving his face in the bag. And then he might fall asleep in the bag, and it was a plastic bag, so . . . yeah, maybe he needed to slow down a little.

“Are you sure you're okay?” she asked.

“Just wiped out,” he said. “I'll make it. Do I really look that bad?”

She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth and considered him. He could tell she was trying to find a way to be diplomatic without flat-out lying.

“Well, ‘bad' isn't the—”

“Jake, I just let the Prices out. Doors are locked, and we're good to—hi, I don't think we've met.”

Jake watched, resigned, as Tom Perry caught sight of Sam and lit up like a Roman candle. He walked the rest of the way into the office and extended a hand. Sam shook it, smiling.

“No, I think I moved away right about the time you took over from Dr. Mullins. I'm Sam Henry. Nice to meet you.”

It was odd to see Sam being polite, mostly because it wasn't something she'd felt the need to be with him. At least he could enjoy the sight of Tom, who Jake was pretty sure had been hit on by every single—and sometimes not so single—woman with a pet in the county, trying like hell to keep his tongue in his mouth. Not that he was worried about Tom trying to poach. He was a genuinely good guy, even if the Clooney comparisons he
was constantly overhearing sometimes had Jake on the verge of stabbing himself or others with the nearest pointy object.

“Nice to meet you, too. I'm Tom Perry. You're one of Andi's daughters.” His smile broadened.

“That's me,” Sam replied, and Jake could see her wariness almost immediately. It bothered him to see how defensive she was about her family. It bothered him more to know he'd contributed to that. Once she got to know Tom at all, though, he was sure she'd figure out that the defensiveness wasn't necessary. The transplants who stayed here because they loved the Cove, Tom among them, didn't tend to pick up much of the long-standing crap that the locals refused to let die, and that was a good thing.

“We love Andi around here,” Tom was saying. “Her donations have done a lot of good. Did I hear you're keeping a couple of the kittens your mom found?”

Her obvious surprise made Jake smile. She needed to get used to people being nice around here. He wanted her to expect it.

“Yes! Yes, I am,” Sam said, her smile returning, shoulders relaxing. “I mean, we are. Mom decided yesterday to take one of the torties. The little black one is mine.”

“I'm glad you're taking him. People are strange, you know. The black cats are still the hardest ones to adopt out.” He looked at Jake. “I'm heading out. Pete and Marin are cleaning up. Go get some sleep so I can kick you around again on Monday, okay? And think of me tomorrow when you're on your butt eating Doritos and I'm here trying to figure out how to look at Shmoo Martin's teeth without losing fingers.”

“The Shmoo is nothing. Last Saturday when
I
was on
my own, someone brought in a pissed off chicken. No sympathy,” Jake said.

Tom looked at Sam. “You actually dating this guy? I could tell you stories, you know.”

Jake groaned. “No.”

“Stories, huh?” Sam asked, sounding interested. “What kind of stories?”

Tom smirked, shooting a look at him. Jake drew a finger slowly across his throat.

“The fact that he's threatening me with violence should tell you what kind of stories.”

Sam laughed, and to Jake's ears it sounded just a little evil. It was sexy, even if he was a little preoccupied with Tom's probably not very idle threat.

“I know where you live, Tom,” Jake said, narrowing his eyes. “Remember that.”

The other vet sighed dramatically. “I don't want to be checking all my locks and windows for the next few years, so I'm going to have to leave you guessing. I could tell you where his hands have been today, though. That's an interesting story, too.”

“I'm going to have to take a pass on that one,” Sam said, looking between them and clearly amused. “I haven't eaten yet, and I was kind of looking forward to that. It was nice meeting you, though.”

“Probably a wise choice. Nice meeting you, too,” Tom replied. “I'm sure I'll see you around. Welcome back.” He flashed a grin at her, then looked at Jake. “I mean it. Get some sleep. And maybe eat something besides ramen and a pudding cup. You look like shit.” Then he vanished, leaving the two of them alone again. Sam looked at the space where he'd just been.

“I like him,” she said.

“You would.” He started to get up, noting that his body now felt like it weighed about a thousand pounds. When he was finally on his feet, he braced his hands at the small of his back and stretched. “Ugh.”

Sam just looked at him and shook her head. “He was kidding about the pudding and ramen, right?”

He tried to remember the last time he'd gone grocery shopping, and what was left in his pantry. “Maybe.”

“Do you even
have
food at your house? Like, real food?” she asked, beginning to frown.

“By some kind of loose definition, sure.”

He loved the look she gave him, the chin down, arched brow,
God you're an idiot
look. It was very cute, despite what it said about her assessment of his life skills. And despite his weariness, and the fact that they'd planned to get together tomorrow for the transfer of the kittens and maybe a movie, he suddenly very much wanted her to stick around.

“Listen, are you busy tonight?” he asked. “I need to go home and let Tucker out . . . the dog walker gets him at lunch, but he's going to need some running-around time. I can grab some fast food on the way, though, if you want to join me for some . . . tacos? Fried something or other? What do you like?”

Her nose wrinkled, and for a few seconds he thought it was a reaction to his question. The pang he felt was quick, sharp, unfamiliar. She was going to say no.

Except she didn't.

“Yes, on the dinner. No on the grease. Give me fifteen minutes. I'll be over. And if you fall asleep before I get there, I will hurt you.” Not all the wariness was gone, but she still surprised him. Something about her seemed different today. He just couldn't quite put his finger on what.

“You're going to . . . cook?” The sweetness of it caught him completely off guard. He'd found Sam fascinating, frustrating, and completely desirable. But not sweet. This was new. He watched her, fascinated.

“You look exhausted,” she said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I can cook. Sort of. It's not a big deal.”

“For my pots and pans it is—believe me. I think they're still there. Hopefully.” He stared at her while she looked uncomfortable, a little irritated, and—in the case of her cheeks—bright pink. It was a good color on her. “You really want to come over and cook for me?”

Sam rolled her eyes. “You're a mess, Jake. Go home. I'll be there in a few. It's not like I had so many other exciting things planned anyway.”

The bluster was transparent, maybe because he was getting used to it. She actually cared that he was sort of a wreck today. Maybe it was because he was so damned tired, but the realization affected him more than he might have expected. Jake had a sudden, overwhelming urge to grab her and kiss her senseless. He took a step toward her with that in mind, but Sam had apparently reached her current limits for outward affection.

“Uh-uh,” she said, backing up with a knowing look in her eye. “Home.”

“You sound like my mother,” he grumbled.

“Just for that, I'm burning your food,” Sam said. “Let's go.”

* * *

Painting deep into the night had injected Sam with a dose of confidence that she'd cruised on all day. It had sent her to work with that bag of cookies, it had brought her a couple of big sales, and now it was going to take her all the way to Jake's by way of the grocery store.

It's finally happened. I've gone completely insane.

As she watched Jake get into his truck, she had to wonder whether she'd been given a much-needed boost to her bruised ego, or a good reason to lock herself in a room for twenty-four hours the next time she painted something that didn't make her want to put her head through the canvas.

Either way, she was in for it now. She'd seen the look on his face, the flash of heat in his eyes once he'd realized she was serious. And the tight, heavy feeling low in her belly was giving her fair warning about being alone with him. She could tell herself all she wanted that she just felt sorry for him, that if she didn't do something he was just going to slither home, eat a can of pasta rings better suited for a ten-year-old's lunch, and pass out in his clothes. And for all his friends, the man really did seem to need a keeper.

But that wasn't the whole story—or even most of it—and she knew it.

Take it slow, right? Like you ever could where he was concerned.

Sam got into her car and watched Jake climb into his truck, his hair impossibly mussed and his eyes sleepy. She tapped her fingers restlessly on the steering wheel, turned on the stereo, and pulled out behind him, returning the wave he gave her.