Sleep Tight (28 page)

She must have sounded pretty forlorn, because Gillian—always the demonstrative one—got to her feet and put an arm around her, her head on her shoulder. Mary stiffened, then relaxed. The contact was comforting. "We're a bit of a mess, aren't we?" Gillian said.

"I didn't realize how much of one until I came back here." After a moment's hesitation, Mary put her hand over Gillian's. "The past has hooks that reach into infinity, into yesterday and today and the future."

"Like a fucking rose tattoo," Gillian said.

"Yeah. Like a fucking rose tattoo."

In the cage in the corner of the room, Birdie woke up. "Hello, hello," he said, bobbing his head.

Chapter 23

Blythe loved parties. When the girls were little, she baked cakes and lit candles, and was sure to commemorate every occasion that presented itself. Because life was to be celebrated, and you never knew how long the good times would last so you had to embrace them.

After Fiona was killed, Blythe tried not to think about the young girl's death too deeply. Though she ached for Mary and saw her daughter change, she tried not to allow it to darken her own aura. After all, someone had to remain optimistic. They couldn't all drag themselves through the days, bemoaning the unfairness and ugliness of life. With hindsight, she realized now that ignoring what had been going on around her hadn't helped—it had only made things worse.

But Mary was home, and her daughters were speaking to each other again, and maybe they would be able to spend Christmas together for the first time in years. True, Gillian was suffering, but Blythe would be there for her. She would help her get past the pain.

It was time to celebrate.

She made a sinfully chocolate cake from a prize-winning recipe she'd gotten from a little cafe in St. Paul. It was moist and full of gooey layers, just the kind of decadence required for the ultimate party. She'd baked bread and prepared a tossed salad. Her special lasagna was in the oven. Wine waited to be opened. Lights were turned down, and candlelight reflected off glass.

The doorbell rang.

"Mary!" she shouted. "Will you get it?"

She heard Mary's footsteps on the stairs. It made her think of the old days, when they were a family.

They could be a family again. Couldn't they?

She heard a male voice. Anthony? Such a nice man. And so good-looking. One voice was joined by another, announcing the arrival of Gillian.

In a flurry of cold air, they burst into the kitchen. Anthony handed her a bottle of wine. Gillian inhaled, praising the odors coming from the oven.

Nothing about Blythe's place was formal. They ate in the dining area connected to the kitchen. Wine and conversation flowed, along with laughter. As if by unspoken agreement, they didn't mention the recent case or Gavin Hitchcock.

When Blythe brought out her masterpiece of a cake, everyone applauded, then sighed. Mary and Gillian, both chocolate addicts, closed their eyes and almost purred. The meal had lasted over an hour, but it was done with much too quickly.

"I have something else planned," Blythe said as Anthony and Mary cleared the table.

Mary put a hand to her stomach. "No more food—please."

"Pot throwing."

At Blythe's announcement, Mary and Gillian exchanged a conspiratorial look. They'd been getting along extremely well all evening, Anthony had noticed. "Pot throwing?" he asked, drawing a blank.

"As in pottery and a potter's wheel." Gillian got to her feet and rubbed her hands together. "This will be fun."

Anthony quickly made up an excuse, horrified at the thought of an artistic endeavor, especially one that involved clay. "I'm going to have to get back to the hotel. I haven't packed."

"Packing won't take you all night," Mary said, immediately seeing through his ruse. He was surprised she was encouraging such a leap. But then he noticed the way she was smiling at him—obviously amused by the idea of putting him in an uncomfortable situation. Or could it be that she'd simply had too much to drink?

He rather liked the idea of witnessing this more relaxed side of his partner. He smiled back. "Sounds like fun."

Blythe's shop was located off the kitchen in what used to be the garage. Shelves were lined with bowls and pots in various stages of production. Some were drying. Some had recently been removed from the kiln and were awaiting glaze. Others were ready to be fired, and many had already been glazed, fired, and were now cooling.

Blythe had two electric wheels and one manual treadle machine. "I propose a contest," Mary said. "The best pot wins."

"I'd have to guess that you've done this before," Anthony said. "So a contest hardly seems fair."

"Mary has done it before," Gillian declared, "but she's horrible at it."

Mary couldn't get mad, especially when Gillian looked so adorable in a pair of snug red plaid pants and a fuzzy black top. Earlier she'd claimed she was going to at least get some good out of her new clothes. "I am pretty bad," Mary admitted.

Anthony eyed his partner with a slight smile. "In that case, I'll accept the challenge."

Mary was drunk. She'd realized it as soon as she'd gotten up from the table. She'd been mildly drunk only a few times in her life, and hadn't enjoyed it at all. She liked being in control. But now she was thinking that being a little out of control was more fun than she'd remembered.

She sat down at the wheel with her piece of clay. Was she going to make a total idiot out of herself? She didn't even care.

"Ten minutes," Gillian said. "Let's see what you can both make in ten minutes."

"I don't even know what in the hell I'm doing," Anthony said as Blythe put a canvas apron over his head.

"I'll show you." She gave him a quick five-minute lesson; then they were off.

Mary's glob of clay immediately got off balance and she had to start over. She shot a quick look at Anthony. He had his wheel on low, meticulously working the clay.

"More water," Blythe said.

"Mom! Don't coach him!"

"I can coach him if I want to. He's never done it before."

"Your daughter can't stand to lose," Anthony said.

"
I
can't stand to lose? What about you?"

When the time was up, Mary's small bowl was thin and distorted on one side, thick on the other. "Another minute and it would have gone flying across the room," she said wryly. Anthony's, on the other hand, while unfinished and unexceptional, was on its way to becoming an actual coffee cup.

Then it was Gillian's turn.

At one time Gillian had been fairly adept at the wheel, but apparently she was out of practice. She immediately began having such a hard time that Mary started laughing and couldn't stop.

"Oh, Gillian!" she gasped.

Mary looked up to catch Anthony watching her with a disconcerting expression on his face. When he retained eye contact, she broke away, confused.

Ten minutes later, Gillian was slapping her rejected piece of clay, starting over again for the third time.

"Anthony wins, hands down," Blythe said.

Anthony and Gillian decided they needed more practice and played around a little longer, Blythe and Mary gathering close, coaching them and laughing. Finally Blythe took the seat and they watched as she quickly created a beautiful vase, removed it from the wheel, and put it aside to dry.

"That's why you're the artist and I'm an FBI agent," Anthony said, smiling.

"You're too sweet."

Was her mother flirting with Anthony? Mary wondered. No, surely not. Or was Anthony flirting with her mother? She'd called him sweet and he hadn't batted an eye.

The party didn't break up until almost midnight.

"Do you need a ride to the airport tomorrow?" Mary asked Anthony.

"No, thanks. I have to drop off my rental car there anyway. Can I talk to you a minute?"

"I'll grab my coat and join you outside. I could use some fresh air."

"I'll glaze your coffee cup so Mary can give it to you," Blythe promised.

Anthony shook hands with Gillian, then surprised Mary by giving Blythe a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for dinner. I had a good time."

Mary walked with him to the street where his car was parked. "Your mother's nice," he said, pausing near the curb.

She crossed her arms at her waist. "You didn't have to kiss her."

"Jealous? She called me sweet. That deserved a kiss."

"Deserved? That makes you sound awfully special."

"Why bring it up?"

"It just seemed ... I don't know." She paused. "Out of character."

"Really? Then I guess you don't know me very well."

His delivery was teasing, but the truth behind his words stung. In some ways she knew him intimately. She could read every nuance of his expression, and often knew what he was going to say before he said it. When he wasn't around, she could hear his voice in her head, calmly offering theories. But in other ways, he was more of a mystery to her than he'd ever been.

She managed to shrug off his comment, not wanting it to spoil a wonderful evening. "I'm glad you came to Minneapolis."

"What about you? How's it been for you, being here?"

"I'm glad I came too."

"It looks as if you and Gillian are getting along. Maybe it'll be easier for you to come back now."

His insight surprised her. "I think it will." Cold air blew down her collar. She pulled her jacket tighter. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

He leaned against the car in what she read as feigned unconcern. "You are coming back, aren't you? To Virginia?"

"Of course I am. How could you think otherwise?"

"I don't know. I thought you might be starting to like it here. And I know Elliot is in the market for a profiler."

She tipped her head. "Now I'm beginning to wonder if you're jealous."

"Do you think that's possible?" he asked slowly, his voice smooth.

"Of course not," she said, suddenly flustered. "I don't know why I said it."

"Maybe you're a little drunk."

"Maybe."

He pushed away from the car and took her gently by both arms. He leaned close. . . . And then his lips touched hers—just a brush before veering to the right to plant a soft kiss on her cheek.

That millisecond of contact sent an electrical sensation along her skin, down her jaw, up to her scalp. Her breath caught, and heat suffused her body.

"That's so you don't feel slighted." And then he was pulling away, casually telling her good-bye.

She had to stop him. He couldn't leave just yet. "Anthony—wait."

He paused, his hand on the car door. Light from the Victorian-style street lamp fell over him, lending a film noir quality to the moment. As she looked at the contrasting shadows that made up his face, she suddenly became aware of the passage of time. Of weeks and months and years. She thought about all the unspokens, and how important it was to let the people you care about know how you felt.... But how could you do that when you weren't sure yourself?

"Mary?" Anthony asked. In his face, she saw a hint of the same pain and panic she'd witnessed in those slow-motion minutes after she'd been shot. "Is it your arm?"

"No. No, I'm fine," she said slowly.

Mary had been so sure of herself for so many years.

The ground she'd stood on had seemed so solid. Now it was shifting under her, slipping away, taking Anthony with it. Was he seeing someone new? she wondered.

"I wanted to tell you to be careful," she said. "And that I'll see you soon."

His worry vanished. He flashed her a smile and got in his car. She stood on the curb and watched as he drove away, watched as the red taillights disappeared around the corner.

"He likes you." Gillian had silently appeared on the sidewalk, just beyond Mary's shoulder.

"Anthony?"

"Who else?"

"I think he sometimes finds me amusing."

"He likes you. More than likes you."

Was Gillian right? Was that what Anthony's hot, cold, and sometimes unreadable behavior was rooted in? The very idea of Anthony liking her was foreign and exotic and made Mary's heart hammer in a strangely frightening and exhilarating way. A case of arrested development? "What would make you say something like that?"

"I saw the way he was looking at you when you weren't watching."

Mary tried to wave off the idea. "He's constantly criticizing me and pointing out my faults." This was like something Gillian would have started when they were younger. "Remember that time you told me the cute boy down the block had a crush on me?" Mary asked. "So I wrote him some embarrassingly mushy note and had you give it to him. Do you remember how that turned out? He didn't even know who I was."

Gillian clapped her hands together, then threw back her head and laughed in delight—showing a flash of the charming brat Mary used to know. And in that outfit, with that hair, she looked like a teenager. "I completely forgot about that stupid note!" She doubled over. "That was so funny!"