Still Life with Shape-shifter (17 page)

“Cooper,” I called, my arms outstretched in supplication, a gesture he might be able to see, even in the dark, with his predator’s eyes. “Cooper, please. I need you. I’m so afraid without you. I can’t do this alone. Please don’t stay away. Please, if you’re out there, come to me—stay with me. Cooper, I love you.”

My voice broke on the last few phrases; my words were so choked with tears that I wasn’t sure he would have been able to understand them even if he had only been a few yards away. For a moment, when all that answered me was the incomplete silence of the whispering forest, I was swamped with blackest despair. I dropped my hands to my folded knees, laid my face against my forearms, and wept uncontrollably.

Then there was motion on the edge of my senses—no sound, only the sudden sharp awareness of another presence. I jerked my head up, wiping my cheeks with my hands, momentarily flooded with fear. Cooper wasn’t the only wild animal roaming these woods. There could be anything from a bobcat to a fox rustling through the undergrowth, and I couldn’t see well enough to tell what kind of visitor was creeping into my campsite.

“Cooper?” I whispered.

The shape drew nearer, black even against the blackness, a form and weight and silhouette I knew as well as my own. I felt his cold nose press against my wet cheek, and I let out a little cry of relief and gladness. I flung my arms around his neck and buried my face in his brushy fur. His head turned inward and he nuzzled my throat. One of his forefeet came up, callused and clawed, and rested on my leg. It was as if he had spoken aloud words of comfort and reassurance.
Don’t be afraid. I’m with you. I’m always with you.

I sighed and turned my head so that my wide, flat face for a moment rested against his narrow, pointed one. Then, without another word, I pushed myself to my feet and felt my way back into the tent. The wolf padded in behind me. I lay on my side on top of the sleeping bag, and he stretched out next to me. Side by side we slept peacefully through that brief and glorious night.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MELANIE

I
t’s a week before I speak to either Ann or Brody again. I’m actively avoiding Brody, refusing to pick up his phone calls and not answering his e-mails, but I don’t talk to Ann because she hasn’t been around. Since she and William left to go camping, they haven’t been back, and I’m so worried that I think my skull might split from tension.

I’m not much use at work, but I continue to go into PRZ every day because I need the distraction. Debbie—whose true superpower is friendship—seems to know exactly when to sit with me so I can rant and rave, and when to leave me entirely alone. She runs interference with Em and Chloe, makes me go out to lunch every day, and tells me at least once an hour that everything will be all right. I don’t believe it, and I’m not sure she does either, but it’s still desperately important for me to hear the words.

I can’t forget that the last thing I said to Brody was
Get the fuck out of my life.

Seconds after I’d snatched the paper from his hand, I’d leapt to my feet, and said, “Go home. Now. Just go.”

He’d stood up in a more leisurely fashion. “All right, you’re obviously upset, but can we—”

“No! We can’t
talk about it
. We can’t
be reasonable people
. We can’t do whatever you’re going to say! Just go!”

“Do you really think—”

“How could I have been such an
idiot
! All along, this is what you’ve wanted—you’ve wanted me to trust you, to let my guard down, so you could sneak in and destroy my life—”

“How can you possibly believe that? Don’t you know me any better than that by now? I’m not—”

I had charged across the room and flung the door open. My body temperature, cooled by dread, had dropped to zero, so I hardly noticed the chilliness of the air that swirled in. “I don’t care! Just go.”

His face was entirely sober as he joined me at the door. “Do you really think I would do anything to hurt you?” he said, raising his voice to be heard over my continuing commands for him to leave. “Do you really think I would hurt Ann? I just want to write a book.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “You’re too dangerous.”

“Melanie—”

“Get the fuck out of my life!” I grabbed his arm and
shoved
him out the door, accidentally banging his wrist against the glass, punching his shoulder to hurry him along when he stopped on the threshold as if to try one last argument. He probably outweighs me by thirty pounds, and he’s clearly stronger; I could tell that I only pushed him out because he let me. But I was too angry to be grateful, too terrified to be relieved. As soon as he was clear of the frame, I slammed the door shut and threw the locks, then sagged against it, panting as if I’d been running. I didn’t move until I heard the rattle of his feet on the gravel, the coughing sound of his motor reluctantly grumbling to life, the whine of his tires as they hit the pavement and pulled away.

Oh God oh God oh God oh God.

I crumpled to the floor, right there at the doorway, shaking all over with nerves or despair. Stupid—so stupid—how could I have let this happen? From the minute I met him, I had known what Brody wanted, and I had known it was a treasure I could not yield up. And yet I allowed him to charm me, entertain me, wear away my sharp defenses. And now he had it, the truth about Ann, and he had run away with it, a smiling thief with a prize so astonishing it could only be described in whispers.

This was the man who had bragged he could find any key, open any lock. I’d spent so much time guarding my own heart that I’d lost track of the other items, priceless and exquisite, that were also in my care.

I couldn’t even bring myself to hope he wouldn’t spend all that bounty in one profligate spree. I couldn’t hope that he would care for it with the reverence and affection something so rare deserved.

I drew my knees up and dropped my head, shivering uncontrollably. All I could think was,
What have I done? How soon is the world going to end?

*   *   *

I
n fact, the world blunders on for that entire week, and I stumble along with it, like a water-skier dragged behind an inexpertly guided motorboat. The one incident that sends a spike of clarity through my general fog of misery is receiving another offer on the house from Kurt. He sends it by registered mail, so I have to go to the post office to retrieve it. It gives me great satisfaction to stand there in the small dingy lobby, rip the paper to shreds, then buy an envelope and stamps so I can return the scraps to him that very afternoon.

“How much did he offer this time?” Debbie asks when I tell her the story.

“I didn’t even look.”

By Friday, I’m a little calmer, though I still feel like my skin is just a degree away from igniting. I’ve gained a small measure of peace, though I can hardly admit it, from the last e-mail Brody sent me, on Thursday morning. I don’t open it, of course, but I can’t help noting the subject line, which reads:
I’m not writing anything about Ann.
I decide I have to believe him, if only to keep from going crazy. Even if he really means
I’m not writing anything about Ann this month
, it’s still enough to get me through the weekend.

Oh, but there are even more joys to light me through these dark days. Because when I make it home from work that night, Ann is waiting.

*   *   *

“I
can’t believe you were so mean to Brody,” she says.

We’re sitting on the couch, eating gelato out of two pint containers. One’s raspberry, one’s chocolate, and after every few spoonfuls, we swap. Dinner was a little sketchy, egg-salad sandwiches and a couple of sad apples, so I figure it won’t hurt us to consume as many gelato calories as we want. Especially since Ann looks like she’s lost five pounds in the past week.

“I can’t believe I was ever nice to him,” I reply. “I should never have let him get that close.”

“I’m going to e-mail him,” she says. “Pretend I’m you. Tell him you’re sorry.”

“Oh, no, you’re not!”

“All right, then I’ll call him. I’ll tell him I’m me and that
I’m
sorry and would he like to meet me for pie at Slices?”

I stare at her helplessly. “You can’t do that. Why would you do that?”

“And you’ll be so worried about what I’ll say that you’ll come along, too, then you’ll see him again and forget why you were ever mad.”

“Ann—” I set the carton down so I can press my fingers to my temples. I’d like to think it’s the cold gelato that’s given me a headache, but I know better. “It’s to protect
you
that I need to stay clear of Brody.”

She leans over and touches a finger to my nose, leaving behind a chilly smear of chocolate. “I don’t need protecting,” she says. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“You’re not afraid of anything,” I say. It’s an accusation.

“Plenty of stuff,” she says. “Just different things.” She offers me her container, and we swap flavors again. “New topic.”

I sigh to indicate I’m only humoring her. “What?”

“Wanna go meet somebody?”

“Sure. Who is it?” I say, though I’m pretty sure I can guess.

“William’s family.”

“I thought
you
hadn’t even met them, at least officially.”

“Well, I did. This week. I really liked them, and I thought you would, too.”

A family of shape-shifters, all of them as strange as Ann’s strange boyfriend. And she thinks I’ll like them? But there’s only one way to respond to this particular invitation. “I would love to get to know them,” I say, then I pause. “Wait—is this a subtle message? Is this like asking your mom to meet your boyfriend’s parents so you can announce you’re getting married?”

She laughs. “Yeah, I don’t see us as the types to rent tuxedos and buy wedding gowns and go marching down the aisle.”

“Plenty of other ways to get married.” I wait, but she’s silent. “So? Is that what this is?”

She shrugs. She appears to be studying her hand as she digs her spoon into the raspberry gelato, making curved patterns in the creamy surface. “I can’t imagine being with anyone but William. I can’t imagine finding someone else who understands me and likes me and interests me and—and just
fits
me this well. He seems to feel the same.” She lifts her eyes to give me a brief, shy glance. How odd to see laughing, confident Ann this uncertain. “I mean, that’s what love is, isn’t it? That’s what commitment is?”

Not that I’m an expert on the topic,
I say only in my head. “Yeah. I think it is. Lucky you.”

Now she’s smiling again. “I know. Lucky me.”

*   *   *

W
e have an early dinner with William’s family the very next day. From what I can gather, Ann and William had a heart-to-heart at the park, laying out their feelings and their plans for the future, then went directly to Maria’s house. (Even though Maria has been married to William’s brother Dante for three months, everyone still refers to their place as
Maria’s house
.) So Dante and Maria have had a few more days than I’ve had to grow accustomed to the thought that their family member has found a permanent full-time lover.

I don’t know how they reacted; I’m still trying to absorb the implications. Will they set up a household together for those days that they’re human? Will they regret William’s decision to have a vasectomy, find themselves longing for children? Will they open bank accounts, register to vote, become more
normal
?

Will I see Ann more often? Or less?

We buy a couple of fresh containers of gelato as a hostess gift before we drive up on Saturday afternoon. The meal has been set for five o’clock to accommodate the baby’s schedule. Maria’s place is in the partially developed countryside off Highway 44, in a sparsely populated neighborhood that practically backs up to woodland. The perfect setting for a woman married to a shape-shifter. Her house is a little two-bedroom bungalow, not much bigger than mine, and even before we’ve knocked on the door, I’ve decided I’m going to like the owner. The yard is tidy enough, and the house is in reasonably good repair, but it’s clear Maria doesn’t spend much time landscaping or repainting the shutters. What she cares about is all on the inside.

The woman who answers the door is tall, well built, and looks to be my age or a little older. She has a mass of curly dark hair, shadow-blue eyes, and a baby on her hip. Though she’s smiling, I read a history of worry in the shape of her mouth, the faint tension around her eyes. This is someone who has spent much of her life loving someone with a perilous and unmentionable secret.

“Hi, come on in,” she says, pushing the door wide with her free hand. “I’m Maria, this is Lizzie, and dinner is almost ready.”

She manages to hug Ann without jostling the baby, then shakes hands with me, appraising me with eyes that are searching and sober, despite the continued smile. “Great to meet you. I have to say, I never thought William would be bringing a girl home to meet the family, but I’m glad it’s one as delightful as Ann.”

So I was right. I do like Maria the minute I meet her.

Dante’s another story. He’s in the kitchen slicing meat loaf, but he doesn’t need a weapon to look dangerous as hell. He’s lean and sinewy, with long, dark hair caught in a ponytail and a face both beautiful and unnerving. Like William, he exudes a certain indefinable air of
wildness
that you’d probably notice even if you couldn’t interpret what it meant. If I met him on the street, I’d cross to the other side, and I’d continually be looking over my shoulder to make sure he hadn’t decided to follow me and murder me in the dark.

“Dante, it’s Ann’s sister, Melanie,” Maria tells him.

He nods. “Hey.”

Probably not the easiest guy in the world to make conversation with. All I can think to say is, “We brought gelato. Is there room in the freezer?”

William sidles out from some interior room. I’m glad to see that he moves as soundlessly here as he does in my house. That means he doesn’t consider my house hostile territory; stealth is just his standard mode of operation. I’m surprised when he takes the baby from Maria because he doesn’t seem like the type to fawn over children, but he seems perfectly at ease with her in his arms. For her part, Lizzie chortles and grabs at his hair. If she’s not afraid of her scary uncles, this little girl isn’t going to be afraid of anything.

“Is she ready for a nap?” he asks Maria.

“I wish. No, she wants to stay awake and visit with our guests during the meal and throw food on the floor and scream if I don’t give her more applesauce and otherwise make Melanie pray she never has a baby.”

“How old is she?” I ask, because I can never tell.

“Almost ten months. Just about to start walking. Life will never be the same.”

Ann has gone over to stand by William and flirt with Lizzie, tapping her on the nose, the chin, her left ear, making the little girl scream with laughter. Something about the baby’s expression, and the shape of her eyes, reminds me of William; I’m guessing her dead mother shared a family resemblance with her brothers.

I vaguely remember Ann’s telling me that the baby hasn’t shifted shapes yet, so I don’t make the inquiry though I’m curious. On the other hand, it seems like a rude question to ask of people you hardly know. So I say, “She’s beautiful.”

“I think so, too,” Maria replies. “And since she’s not mine by blood, I can say that without sounding conceited.”

Dante speaks up from the kitchen. “We’re all ready here, once everyone knows what they want to drink,” he says. “Let’s eat.”

*   *   *

T
he meal isn’t quite as uncomfortable as it could have been though neither William nor Dante says much, and I still find Dante unnerving. But Ann has always been a talker, and Maria is clearly aware of how bizarre the whole situation is, how unusual her menfolk appear to be, so she makes a great effort to engage me in conversation. We mostly discuss trivialities, our jobs, funny things Lizzie has done, how cold and wet March has been, but maybe April will be better. So it’s no worse than your average conversation with a total stranger on an airplane, but it’s not exactly relaxed, either.