The Obsession (12 page)

Before pictures also attached.

Miss you, love you,

Naomi

Once she sent the email off, she ordered herself to work. She had to update her Facebook page, do the Tumblr thing, the Pinterest deal, and write something for the blog. All chores she’d have put off for the rest of her life if they weren’t part of the job.

An hour later, she took her laptop back to the desk to plug in the charger. And saw the moon riding over the water.

She grabbed her camera, filters, a second lens, and went out on her deck in the deep night chill.

She caught the moon along with its reflection in the water.
Mirror Moon
, she thought, already composing as she took more pictures, changed filters, angles. She’d make a series—cards, which always sold well off her site. If they turned out as well as she thought, she’d set up her mat cutter and board and start sending some art to the gallery.

But she was doing one for herself. She rose, drew in the quiet, the light, the sense of lovely, lovely solitude.

She’d hang the best of the best on the wall she’d painted herself.

Her moon over her inlet.

It didn’t get better than that.

—

T
hree weeks after demo, Kevin stayed late to finish installing the hardware on the kitchen cabinets. Overwhelmed, Naomi grabbed tools and worked with him while Molly napped by the doors.

“I can’t believe how it looks.”

“It’s coming along.”

“Coming along? Kevin, it’s amazing. I didn’t make a mistake, right, changing up from the idea of the dark cherry cabinets for this sage green?”

“They’re classy, have character, and don’t look like a showroom—in a good way. With the gray granite, those veins of green in it? You’ve got an eye, Naomi. The beveled glass fronts set it all off.”

“I think so. I guess I’m going to need something better than paper plates and plastic cups to go in them. I’ve never bought a set of dishes in my life.”

“Didn’t you have like an apartment or something before?”

“Oh, here and there, but mostly I stayed on the move. Have camera, will travel. And it was paper, plastic, or secondhand. I never intended to settle.”

Overwhelmed definitely, she thought, glancing up at her empty cabinets. “It looks like I have, so I’d better think about dishes and glassware. I don’t know where I’m going to find the room in my head for that with faucets and light fixtures and tile.”

“You should talk to Jenny. That woman loves playing with new dishes.”

“Maybe I’ll just go with restaurant white, so I don’t have to think about it.”

“You should talk to her. You know what?” He nudged back the bill of his ball cap. “You should come on out tonight, have a drink with us at Loo’s.”

“That’s the bar, right, off Water Street?”

“Yeah, it’s a nice place, though. Good food, friendly. Music tonight, too. Jenny and I have a sitter, so we’re going for a while. Why don’t you meet us?”

“That sounds like date night to me, Kevin.”

“Yeah, sort of. The thing is, Jenny’s been after me to ask you over to dinner, and I figure you’ve had enough of all of us by the end of the day.”

Good instincts, she thought, because truer words.

“You come out tonight, have a drink, talk dishes with her some, it’s a compromise. Seems like you could use a night off and out, too.”

“Maybe.”

He didn’t push, so they fell back to companionable silence as they worked. When it was done, they bumped fists.

“I’ll see you at Loo’s if you make it,” he said, and she just waved him off.

She didn’t intend to leave her nearly finished, wonderful kitchen with its empty cabinets and pale gray (hinting toward green) walls. She had dozens of things to keep her busy, including reading the owner’s manuals on her new appliances.

Settling in, she reminded herself. If she really meant to settle in, no matter how innately unsociable, it required minimal doses of friendliness.

Otherwise she was that weird woman up on Point Bluff. That just asked for talk and attention. Normal people had a drink with friends now and then. She didn’t really know Jenny, but she definitely considered Kevin a friend.

Harry would have deemed them simpatico.

So why not? She’d throw on some halfway decent clothes, slap a little makeup on, and drive into town. Have a drink at the local bar, talk with her friend’s wife about tableware. She’d stay for one set since there was music, and consider any and all social obligations met for at least a month.

Good deal.

She opted for black jeans, and because it ran cool at night, a sweater. Not black, she ordered herself, as that was her first choice. She chose the one Seth and Harry had given her for Christmas—worn only once—and in nearly the same shade as her kitchen cabinets. She considered changing her habitual silver studs for something more fun and frivolous, then decided that worrying about earrings was too much for a simple drink with a friend and his wife.

She took some trouble with her makeup mainly because those needs could come calling—and maybe there was a local boy who could meet them at some point.

No reason to scare him off, whoever he might be.

Night had fallen when she set out, so she left the porch light on—new fixture yet to come—and locked up. Alarm system, she thought, installed very soon.

When she glanced back at the house, she nearly went back inside. It looked so appealing sitting there, so quiet. One drink, she ordered herself, and pushed herself to drive away from solitude.

She’d never been into town this late—no reason to—and saw that Friday night hopped a bit. She imagined that those strolling along the boardwalk by the marina were tourists, but it was likely a mix with those on the street, poking into shops open late, sitting out with heaters at outdoor tables.

She knew Loo’s sat a block off Water Street, tucked between a seafood restaurant and a snack shop. She spotted Kevin’s truck, found a parking spot half a block down from it.

She needed to come back at night with her camera, get night shots of the marina, the old character homes, the bold red door and the blue neon curl of
LOO’S
over it.

Music pumped against the door before she opened it.

She’d pictured a little bar, but it proved bigger—even boasted a small dance floor, packed now as crowd-pleasing rock beat out. She smelled beer and fried food, perfume, sweat. The bar itself dominated one wall in dark, aged wood backed by more than a dozen taps. She heard the whirl of a blender and immediately decided on a foamy frozen margarita. As she scanned, Kevin waved from a table near the dance floor.

She wound her way through, found her hand caught in Jenny’s.

“I’m so glad you came! Kevin didn’t think you would.”

“Couldn’t resist.”

“Sit, sit. Kevin, get Naomi a drink.”

“What’ll you have?”

“I hear the song of a frozen margarita—with salt.”

“I’m going to get that going for you. It takes a while for them to get to the tables. Jenny?”

“I’m still nursing this one.”

As Kevin moved off, Jenny swiveled in her chair. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

“I . . .”

“I’m on my second glass of wine. I get loose easy. It’s just I always wanted to be tall, and look what happened.”

“I always wanted to be petite. What are you going to do?”

“I looked up your website, your photos. They’re wonderful, really. There’s this one of a water lily, just one water lily with these ripples around it where it floats? I felt like I’d been on vacation just looking at it. And this one of an old gravestone in a cemetery, and you can see the shadow of the church. The dates? She was a hundred and two when she died, and it still made me tear up. I can’t remember the name on the stone.”

“Mary Margaret Allen.”

“That’s right.” Jenny’s eyes, nearly the same soft doe brown as her hair, smiled. “What I’m saying—I take a good snapshot. Slices of life, the kids and all, I mean. And it’s important to have the record, those memories. But what you do, it just grabs emotions right out.”

“Best compliment ever.”

“It’s a true one. Kevin said you needed dishes and glassware and such.”

“I do. I was thinking white and clear, and done.”

“Well, going that way you can jazz it up with napkins and so on. The thing is . . . He took some pictures of the kitchen with his phone, and showed me. I just love the soft green of the cabinets, and the pewter tones of the hardware, the gray of the walls. It’s like you’re pulling the tones and colors from outside in.”

“I can’t resist that either.”

Jenny sipped her wine, gave her long, loose hair a push back. “I think it’s just right, if that matters. And it struck me how if you went deep, deep blue with the dishes, like cobalt blue, you’d have that pop behind the glass, and keep with that scheme.”

“Cobalt blue. It would look great.”

“I think it would, then you go for color in the glassware, softer, like blues and greens—a mix, just tie it in. I can give you sites to look at, and I’ve got a stack of catalogs. And before Kevin comes back, because I’ll embarrass him, I’m going to ask you to ask me to come over and look at the place, at his work, and what you’re up to. I know he said you took this
old glider and chair and redid them. I love doing that kind of thing, finding something someone’s gotten rid of and making it new.”

“Sure you can come by, have a look.”

“I swear I won’t be a pest or take advantage.” She beamed at Kevin when he came back with a jumbo margarita.

“I’ve talked her ear off. Stop me.”

He set the drink down, sat, kissed his wife’s cheek. “Shut up, Jenny.”

“I will. Plus I love when they do this number.”

“I could take a bath in this,” Naomi commented. She took a sip. “But I’ll drink it instead.”

She angled to look at the band as she recognized the Springsteen classic—and the voice lit the suggestive lyrics of “I’m on Fire” like a slow-burning match.

He wore black—jeans and a T-shirt, worn motorcycle boots. He stood, the guitar slung low, his fingers working the frets and strings while that voice wrung every drop of sex out of the words.

She should’ve known.

“Xander and the band play here every few weeks,” Kevin told her. “They’re the Wreckers.”

She said, “Oh.”

And deep inside as those bold blue eyes met hers, as that voice sent out lures and warnings, something inside her said,
Oh damn
.

She figured she’d need every drop of that margarita to cool off.

H
e came over on the break with a bottle of water and an easy swagger. Jenny pointed a finger at him.

“You know what that song does to me.”

“You can thank me later,” Xander said to Kevin, and sat—slouched, with his long legs stretched out. “So.” He gave Naomi a slow smile. “How ya doing?”

“Good. I’m good.” She felt like someone had started a brush fire under her skin. “You’re good, too. My uncles are huge Springsteen fans. They’d have approved your cover.”

“How many uncles?”

“Just the two. They took my brother and me to the E Street Band’s reunion tour at Madison Square. Have you ever seen him in concert?”

“In Tacoma, same tour. Blew the roof off.”

She relaxed enough to smile. “Yeah, they did.”

A blonde in a tight pink shirt came up, circled Xander’s neck from behind. “Are you doing ‘Something from Nothing’?”

“Last set.”

“How about coming over, having a beer? Patti and I are right over there.”

“Working, Marla.” He wagged his water bottle.

She wasted the sexy pout, in Naomi’s opinion, as Xander couldn’t see it with her chin resting on the top of his head. “You could come over anyway. Hi, Jenny. Hi, Kevin.”

Her gaze tracked over to Naomi. “Who’s your friend?”

“Naomi,” Kevin said, “Marla.”

“Visiting?” Marla asked.

“No, I live here.” And didn’t that sound odd, Naomi realized. She lived here.

“Haven’t seen you around before. You must . . . Hey, are you the one who bought the old place on the bluff? You’re working there, right, Kevin?”

“That’s right.”

“You must be rich or crazy.”

“I’m not rich,” Naomi said, adding a half smile because the pouty blonde’s statement struck her as more baffled than needling.

“You know it’s haunted, right? They should’ve told you it was haunted.”

“I don’t think anyone mentioned it.”

“I’d be scared out of my mind staying there alone. You take pictures, right? Patti figures you’re looking to open a photography studio.”

“No. I don’t do studio photography.”

“What other kind is there?”

“How much time do you have?”

“What?”

“I’ll come over next break.” Xander gave the hand currently stroking his clavicle a pat.

“Okay. Then maybe . . .” She leaned down, put her mouth on his ear, and whatever she whispered had Xander’s lips curving.

“That’s a hell of an offer, Marla, but I don’t want Chip coming after me with a hammer.”

She did the pout again. “We’re divorced.”

“And still.”

“Well, you think about it.”

“Hard not to,” he murmured as she hip-swiveled back to her table.

“What was the offer?” Kevin wanted to know.

“I’ll tell you later.”

“She just can’t help it.” Jenny glanced at Naomi, apology in her eyes. “She doesn’t mean any harm. She’s just a little clueless.”

“Did she do any harm?” Xander wondered.

“Not to me.” Naomi lifted her margarita, sipped. “But then, she didn’t make me an offer.”

“Ha. She’s hoping Kevin will tell Chip she did—”

“Which I wouldn’t.”

“No, but she’s hoping you will, and that would rile Chip up enough he’d go by her place, and they’d fight about it, have pissed-off sex, and she’d kick him out again after.”

“That’s about it,” Kevin agreed. “They have a strange relationship. He wouldn’t come after you with a hammer because he knows you—and you’re a bud.”

“Add in, Chip’s sweet,” Jenny claimed. “I know he’s punched a couple people over her, but she pushed him into it. He’s a sweet man.”

“She doesn’t think she wants sweet. She’d be wrong about that,” Xander added. “But that’s their problem. You guys want another round? I can let Loo know.”

“Another glass of wine and I’ll be a wild woman. What the hell?” Jenny decided. “It’s Friday night, and we’ve got a sitter.”

“I’ll keep up with her,” Kevin said.

“Not for me. I’m driving, and I really should go.”

“Stick around.” Xander sent her a lazy look. “Make a request—something on your playlist. Come on, play stump the band.”

She considered. “‘Hard to Explain.’” A choice, maybe because it had played in her ear right after he’d walked out of her bedroom the other day.

He grinned, pointed a finger at her, then walked off.

“I don’t know that one,” Jenny commented. “But I bet Xander does.”

He sent over another round—water for Naomi.

And she didn’t stump the band, who played the Strokes’ old classic as if they’d rehearsed it that morning. She stayed for most of the second set, then realized if she didn’t slip out, she’d end up staying until they closed.

“I’ve really got to go. Thanks for the drink—and for talking me into coming out.”

“Anytime. See you Monday.”

“I’m going to come by soon,” Jenny told her. “If you’re busy, Kevin will show me around.”

She left with a slow, simmering cover of Clapton’s “Layla” following her into the night.

She decided the sex dream with Xander with throbbing bass and mad guitar riffs while the house burned around them was inevitable.

Maybe it left her a little edgy, but she had plenty to do to work off the beginnings of sexual frustration. She wasn’t ready to be sexually frustrated, and far from ready to take care of it.

A weekend of quiet, of work, of sun and soft evening rain polished the edges away. As promised, she took morning coffee out on the deck—she
would
buy a better coffeemaker—and soaked in the silence and solitude.

When she FaceTimed New York on Sunday, her mood was high and light.

“There she is!” Seth, sporting the trim goatee he’d decided he’d needed on his forty-fifth birthday, beamed through her iPad screen.

“Hi, handsome.”

“You talking to me?” Harry moved into view, draping an arm over Seth’s shoulders. The rings they’d exchanged in Boston in the summer of 2004 glinted on their hands.

“Two scoops of handsome.”

“Make it three. Guess who’s here for Sunday dinner?”

Mason slid on-screen just behind them and grinned at her.

“Why, it’s Doctor Agent Carson.”

Just look at him, she thought, so tall and—yes, three scoops of handsome now. And best, happy. He was on his way to doing and being just what he’d set out to do and be. “How’s the FBI?”

“That’s classified.”

“He just got back from upstate,” Seth told her. “He helped on a kidnapping, helped bring a twelve-year-old girl back home safe.”

“It’s a living. What’s going on with that crazy house you bought?”

“Crazy? Take a look.” She panned the tablet, slowly circling the kitchen. “Who’s crazy?”

“Naomi, it’s beautiful. Look at that range hood, Seth! You went with the Wolf.”

“I listen.”

“Forget the range hood,” Seth said. “The cabinets are fabulous. Why are they empty? Harry, we need to send her some dishes.”

“No, no, I’ve got a line on that. I’ll send you the link to what I’m looking at. I’m taking you upstairs. I want you to check out the master bedroom walls—which I painted myself.”

“You?” Mason snorted.

“Every inch of them. I may never pick up a paint roller again in my life, but I did every inch of this room.”

“And how many rooms in that place again?”

“Shut up, Mason. Now be honest—does the color work?”

Upstairs she did another slow pan.

“Pretty and restful,” Seth declared. “Now why don’t you have an actual bed?”

“It’s on the list.” The really long list. “Really, I just finished the paint, and I finally set up a temporary mat room. I have a ton of stuff I’ve been processing and printing.”

“You work too hard, too much,” Seth objected.

“You worry too hard, too much. I went out with friends Friday night, had a drink, listened to a local band.”

“Seeing anyone?” Harry prompted, and behind him Mason rolled his eyes—mouthed,
Better you than me
.

“I see lots of people. The crew’s here eight hours a day, five days a week.”

“Any good-looking, single men in that crew?”

“Are you looking for one?”

Harry laughed. “Got all I can handle.”

“Me, too, right now. I want to hear how you’re all doing. How’s the restaurant? What’s for Sunday dinner? Is Mrs. Koblowki next door still entertaining gentlemen callers?”

She didn’t distract them—she knew better—but they let it go, and for the next fifteen minutes they talked about easy things, funny things, homey things.

When she said good-bye and turned off the tablet, she missed them like a limb.

She worked in the mat room for an hour, tried to settle down at her laptop. But the contact with family left her restless and blue.

Time to get out, she told herself. She’d yet to take real pictures in town, real studies of the marina. What better way to spend the rest of a Sunday afternoon? Then she’d come home and cook something besides scrambled eggs or a grilled cheese sandwich in her gorgeous new kitchen.

Pleased with herself, she drove into town, dumped her car, and just walked. No errands to run, no chores to deal with. Just walk and study and compose shots.

The sailboat called
Maggie Mae
, its paint white as a bridal gown and its sails lowered, its shining brightwork. The cabin cruiser decked out with balloons for a party, the fishing boat of dull gray that made her think of a sturdy old workhorse.

All the masts naked and swaying into blue sky, and reflected blurrily in the water.

And farther out, a couple zipping along on Sea-Doos, their busy speed a perfect contrast to the dreamy waiting of the docked boats.

She treated herself to an orange Fanta—a staple of her teen years—and climbed back in the car with plans to spend the evening working on the prints.

She rounded a turn. Slammed the brakes.

It wasn’t a deer this time, but a dog. Not in the road, but limping on the shoulder. She started to drive on—not her dog, not her deal—but it took another couple of steps, then just lay down as if hurt or sick.

“Damn it.”

She couldn’t just drive away, so she pulled over, even as she asked herself what the hell she was supposed to do.

Maybe it was rabid, or vicious, or . . .

It lifted its head when she got out of the car and gave her an exhausted, hopeful stare.

“Oh well. Okay, hey boy. Nice dog—I hope to God.”

Because he was pretty big, she noted. But thin—she could nearly count his ribs. Big, thin, and filthy, a big, skinny, dirty brown dog with shocking blue eyes that looked so painfully sad.

And damn it again, the blue against the brown made her think of Harry.

She didn’t see a collar, so no tags. Maybe he had a chip. Maybe she could contact the vet or the animal shelter—she could find the numbers on a quick search with her phone.

Then he whimpered, bellied toward her. She didn’t have the heart to leave him, so she walked closer, crouched, and gingerly held out her hand.

He licked it, bellied closer.

“Are you hurt?” Filthy, he—or she—might have been. Naomi gently stroked his head. “Are you lost? God, you look half starved. I don’t have anything to eat on me. How about I call somebody to help?”

He laid his head, all floppy eared and dirty, on her leg, didn’t whimper so much as moan.

She took out her phone, then heard the sound of an engine—motorcycle—heading out from the direction of town.

She lifted the dog’s head, set it gently back on the shoulder of the road, and stood to wave down the rider.

The second she spotted him—long legs in jeans, lean torso in black leather—she thought, of course. It would be. Even with the smoked-glass visor of the helmet, she recognized Xander Keaton.

He cut the engine, swung a leg over the bike. “Did you hit him?”

“No. He was limping along the side of the road, then he just lay there. And I—”

She broke off as he was already hunkered down, running those
big, guitar-playing hands over the dog as gently as a mother stroked her baby.

“Okay, boy, just take it easy. I don’t see any blood, any wounds. Don’t feel any breaks. I don’t think he’s been hit by a car.”

“He’s so thin, and—”

“There’s some water in the saddlebag. Get it, will you? Thirsty? I bet you’re thirsty. Plenty hungry. Been on the road awhile, right? Been traveling.”

As he talked to the dog, stroked it, Naomi poked through the saddlebag of the bike, came out with a bottle of water.

“Let’s see what we can do here.” Xander took the bottle, gestured Naomi down. “Cup your hands.”

“I—”

“Come on, come on. It won’t kill you.”

She did as he asked, cupping them in front of the dog’s muzzle. He lapped at the water Xander poured, panted, lapped, then laid his head down again.

“We need to get him off the road. I’ll put him in the back of your car.”

“Where should I take him?”

“You should take him home.”

“I can’t take him home.” She sprang up as Xander slid his arms under the dog, lifted him.

She saw that the dog was definitely male—unneutered male. “He belongs to somebody.”

With the bone-thin, tired, filthy dog in his arms, Xander stood, boots planted, and gave her a long look out of deep blue eyes. “Does this dog look like it belongs to anybody? Open the back.”

“He could’ve gotten lost. Somebody might be looking for him.”

“We’ll ask around, but I haven’t heard about anybody losing a dog. He’s full-grown. Mutt. Maybe some husky or Australian shepherd in there with those eyes. Alice will know—the vet. If somebody lost a dog, she’ll know. Meanwhile she’s closed on Sunday.”

“There must be an emergency number.”

“The only emergency I see is a dog who needs a decent meal, a good bath, and somewhere to rest.”

“You take him home.”

“On that?” He jerked his head toward his bike.

“I’ll wait.”

“You found him.”

“You’d have found him two minutes later.”

“There you go. Look, take him home, and I’ll go pick up some supplies for him. You get him to the vet tomorrow, I’ll split the bill with you. You’re not taking that dog to the shelter. If they don’t find the owners—and I’m betting they’re long gone—they’ll probably put him down.”