Insult to Injury Page 12

  In moments like this, Gail can easily convince me to confide all my secrets to her. My poor heart wants nothing more than to unburden my guilt for trespassing, for lying about my past, for—being me. I’d give anything for her to hear the truth and still look at me with such warmth. Does Gail, who normally is so standoffish, realize how far she’s dropped her guard with me? It’s been gradual, but it’s also been quick. No doubt it wouldn’t take much for her to pull back into her shell again—and speaking of shells, how the hell am I going to find a way out of my own?

  “Any topics in mind for us?” Gail smiles faintly.

  “It depends.” I really would hate to sit here and suffer through some small talk that we’d both loathe. “I mean, it depends on whether you’re comfortable talking about real stuff or not.”

  “Define ‘real stuff.’” Gail frowns, but the warmth is still there.

  “You know. Not the weather, latest Kardashian drama, who’s up for an Oscar…” I chuckle when Gail manages to look affronted.

  “Is that what you think I normally discuss?” she asks, raising her left eyebrow in a way that makes my thighs clench all on their own.

  “No, but you’re a private person. That’s pretty obvious.” I follow the seam on the thighs of my new jeans back and forth with my index finger.

  “And accurate. And the same goes for you. I don’t think we’re all that different in some ways. We don’t like it when people ask too many questions—at least neither of us did during the dinner party.” Gail’s gaze falls to my hand, and I see her swallow hard. What the hell? Why is she staring at…? Oh, shit. I’m an idiot. Not only that. A dense idiot. But how could I possibly even begin to imagine that Gail would ever look at me that way? Even for a second? What the hell am I going to do? Say? Should I just play it cool and pretend I didn’t just see a very clear sign that Gail’s not entirely straight and that she’s not indifferent to me?

  I can hardly breathe, and of course my body, my poor, inexperienced body, is ready to throw itself at the woman who is so far out of my league, she could live on another planet.

  “Romi? Where did you go?” Gail lets her left hand fall onto my shoulder, shaking me gently.

  “I, um…I…” I cough in a ridiculous attempt to find something reasonably coherent to say. No such luck. “I’m sorry.” Remembering my words earlier about talking about real stuff, I dig for courage. “It’s just, well, the way you look at me. Can’t blame a girl for losing her train of thought.” I gaze at Gail, who now either will pull back or very kindly tell me I’m imagining things on a pathological level.

  “Dear God.” Slumping back, Gail stares at me, and I can’t decipher her expression. “I’m really not in my regular form, am I?”

  I get that it’s a rhetorical question and keep my mouth shut.

  “Should I apologize?” Gail raises her chin in a clear challenge, but I recognize that gesture. She’s donning her armor, or she will, if I say the wrong thing.

  “Never.” Not sure where my courage comes from, and I’m pretty sure this is a do-or-die moment, I run the back of my fingers along her cheek. “I promise. Not to me.”

  Gail’s eyes have detoured to the icy blue but now warm marginally again. “Good.”

  Trying to will my body to cool off, since it’s pretty clear that the earlier snippet of mutual desire is over for now, I pull one leg up and hug my knee to my chest. Aunt Clara would have berated me for having my feet up on the couch, but I somehow know Gail won’t care. I need the barrier of my leg between us, or my simmering arousal will reignite.

  “Things can sure take a turn when you least expect it,” Gail murmurs and resumes her earlier position.

  “Tell me about it.” Relieved that we’re just talking again, I nod. “I sure never would’ve guessed that moving back to Rhode Island would put me in your path—and Manon Belmont’s. To get a job is—miraculous.”

  “Did you lose your job in New York?” Tilting her head back into her hand, Gail looks at me unwaveringly.

  “Sort of, yes. Coming back here was my best option.” I’ve promised myself not to add to my previous lies, but I know I’m skidding along the edge of fabrication.

  “When did you leave East Quay?”

  “When I was sixteen.” The truth flies out of me before I realize it. “I was too young, really.”

  “Sixteen?” Gail’s eyes grow bigger. “And your parents agreed to this?”

  “I was orphaned when I was very little. I grew up with a relative.” I hope we’ll brush over this part of my life fast. I know I’ll trip and fall if I have to involve my aunt.

  “And you’ve moved back in with them now?”

  Fuck. “Not per se. I’m staying at a house close to their property.” Damn it, this isn’t going well. I’m going to slip up, and Gail’s going to guess the truth, and she’s going to—

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the third degree.” Holding her hand up as if in surrender, Gail shakes her head. “I suppose I’m quite curious about you. No, wrong word. Interested.” Again, her cheeks color faintly, and I wonder if she’s always been this transparent, but I don’t think so. Until the evening after the dinner party I’ve thought of Gail as completely opaque, as encased in glass. Now, it’s as if her facade has partly…not cracked, really, but melted. This woman, looking younger for sure, with her radiant eyes and glowing complexion, is Gail, but not the woman I met when she first moved in.

  “Romi?” Looking concerned again, Gail briefly touches my knee, making me jump. “Hey. You disappeared again.”

  “Sorry.” I’ve got to stop doing this but have no idea how. Everything about Gail takes so much energy, and my mind struggles to process it all. The fact that it takes a while doesn’t help.

  “So, you have a rehearsal tomorrow. How do you like being a choir leader?” Gail seems as ready as I am to change the subject.

  “I like it. I mean, I don’t consider myself a true choir director. I don’t have any formal education when it comes to music. Autodidact, that’s me. Which in my present company seems very fake, somehow.” I shrug awkwardly.

  “Music isn’t just for the ones who’ve attended conservatories. Yes, I spent all my free time from age seven until eighteen months ago practicing my violin. I sacrificed a lot and it was worth it. Until—” Gail sighs.

  “Until eighteen months ago,” I say softly. “And when something life-changing like that happens, it makes you question everything.” I rub my neck, suddenly feeling so tired and low at the thought of how my life has changed and the cold, half-collapsed house I have to return to.

  “Yes. Exactly that.” Tilting her head again, Gail studies me closely. “What happened to change your life? I mean, first here and then in New York? You don’t have to answer. As I said, you interest me.” She sounds baffled.

  “When I was sixteen, I ran away. I couldn’t take it anymore, and the situation on the home front wasn’t great. So, I had saved up and left for New York, which turned out to be an expensive place.” I stop there, unsure how to continue.

  “What happened when you got there?” Gail gently rubbed the outside of her sling.

  “I—wait. You’re in pain again. I’ve definitely overstayed my welcome. I should go.”

  “What—wait.” Gail straightens as I begin to get up. “Dessert?”

  “I’m going to have to take a rain check.” I can barely speak now; my voice is trembling. I make my way to the hallway and fumble for my jacket, where it hangs next to Gail’s. “I’m really grateful for dinner.” I force the words out so fast, they nearly leave my mouth in the wrong order. Gail has followed me to the front door.

  “Wait. Please.” She holds her good arm protectively around her sling. “Tell me you’re not leaving because I said something wrong.” Her expression is so vulnerable, my heart aches, and I know I can’t leave her with her feeling like that.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. I really need to get home.” Home. What a joke. Even the cardboard I spent mo
nths sleeping in was homier than the ruin I’m returning to now.

  Gail comes closer, stepping well within my personal space. I lose what little breath I have left. She lets go of her aching arm and instead cups my cheek, whisper-light. Her touch levels the last of my resolve. My self-control, which I’ve paid so dearly for during the years I’ve struggled to survive, crumbles.

  Placing my hand over Gail’s, I hold it firmly against my cheek. These are precious, precious seconds that will never come again. Gail’s touching me. She’s concerned about me, and right now I’m the only one she sees. I soak up the amazing feelings, eager for them to permeate me and become one with the fabric of who I am.

  “Come with me to practice tomorrow?” I hear myself say, and for some unfathomable reason, my words seem to be the right ones. Gail’s eyes grow turquoise again, her fingers move against my skin in tiny circles, and she smiles.

  Leaning in, she presses her lips to my other cheek, lingering only a moment. “All right. Just come knocking and I’ll be ready.”

  I want nothing more than to press my lips to hers, but of course I don’t. She wants to see me again. My heart does something that feels like crazy pirouettes. “Around one p.m.”

  “See you then.” Gail lets go of my cheek, and I pull on my jacket.

  As I step out into the crisp evening, not even the walk across Gail’s yard toward the abandoned house can wipe the smile off my face. Yes, yes. I’m not crazy. Nothing can come of this. Naturally, I know this. Sooner or later, Gail will discover the truth about me. This means I need to log as many Gail-hours as possible. I need them to last me a lifetime.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gail

  I watch Romi walk out the door, and the noise the deadbolt makes when I lock it behind her mimics the pang in my heart. Why does it bother me—no, not just bother me, hurt me, to see her walk away? I don’t know this young woman. Not really. The thoughts barely flicker through my brain before my entire being objects. Yes, I do know her. On some miraculous level, I know Romi, and I can’t for the life of me figure out how that’s possible. She’s secretive. So am I, though I think we’re on completely different levels. Romi is guarded. Me too. Though I wasn’t this evening.

  I make my way upstairs after turning off most of the lights on the bottom floor. Walking into the bathroom, I look longingly at the tub but settle for running the shower. I’m very tired and fear I may fall asleep in the bathtub again. Removing the sling, I slowly extend my injured arm, using the joint of the orthosis like the physiotherapist showed me. It’s damn sore, but not as sore as it was after my first appointment here in East Quay. Perhaps Manon was right when she recommended this PT?

  The orthosis is attached with strips of Velcro, which I remove carefully. When the air reaches my skin, I can see and feel goose bumps form on it. I shudder, and a glance in the mirror shows the two scars, paler now, but still red and ugly. The first, six inches long, is located at my wrist. The one at my elbow is only four inches, but it hurts the most. I shake my head at the evidence that my life was literally over when that man ran a red light and slammed into my BMW. I have no idea at what angle he hit me, to make the wheel twist and break my right arm so badly. In many ways I’m grateful that I have no memory of the accident, but I still have questions that only the man hitting me can answer. I grit my teeth. No way in hell will I ever reach out to him. The police gave me a reasonably accurate version of what they thought occurred and what the other driver told them. They said he was in a state of shock but physically unharmed, as he was driving an SUV. I suppose my little Beemer had no chance against his vehicle.

  The shower soothes me, it always does, and I’ve grown accustomed to lathering up using only one hand. My new PT told me I need to work on developing muscle tone in my injured arm, as it has lost a lot of muscle tissue from being inactive too long. I tried to explain how incompetent I’d found my former PTs, not to mention the first surgeons, but this new woman—what was her name again? Yvette? Annette?—refused to let me get away with casting blame elsewhere. She insisted that if I was unhappy about my PT, I should have found someone I could work with instead of sitting around the house and uselessly licking my wounds. I’ll never know how she managed to tell me this in such a friendly manner that I couldn’t snarl at her like I wanted to.

  Stepping out of the shower, I dry off and slip into my sleep T-shirt. I loathe nightgowns or full pajamas. Long men’s T-shirts are perhaps a bit tricky to get into, but if I slide my bad arm in first, I can usually wriggle into one without too much hassle. After brushing my teeth, I walk toward the bedroom. Passing the door to one of the spare rooms I have yet to redo, I stop, suddenly curious. If I remember correctly, this room once belonged to a kid.

  I push the door open and switch on the ceiling light, and the dust whirls up a bit. The furniture is mostly covered with sheets, but I gently pull them off, mindful of not inhaling or touching the dust. A worn desk comes into view. It’s almost eerie to see the writing pads, stickers, pens, coloring pens, and other items sitting there as if waiting for their owner to return any moment. A single bed with a pink bedspread stretches along the far wall. I tug away the last sheet covering a bookshelf filled with books, some young-adult ones and some kids’ books. I remove one. After reading the back cover, I realize it’s a romance novel for teenagers. I put it back and pull out five more, reading the back blurb and flipping through some pages. So, whoever lived here was fond of reading. Then something catches my eyes. On one of the lower shelves, the dust that has snuck in under the sheet has been disturbed. In six different places, it looks like books are missing. How the hell did that happen? If it had taken place before I moved in, it would have grown dusty again, right?

  Frowning, I try to solve the mystery, but I really am exhausted and want to curl up with a good book of my own. I turn to leave, but one of the book spines gives off a sparkle, and I can’t resist pulling it out. “Goodnight Mister Tom.” I jump as I read the title out loud. I was always a reader, even if my love of books had to take a back seat since playing my violin always came first for me. My grandmother gave me a first edition of this book at Christmas one year, I think I was fourteen, and told me it was published the year after I was born. For some reason this fact stuck in my memory, and when I lost that book along with an entire crate when moving into my penthouse in Manhattan, I felt as if I’d lost my grandmother all over again. Seeing the book now, in pristine condition, makes me tremble.

  I open it and see something written on the inside of the cover.

  This book belongs to RS. I paid for it myself. Allegedly I’ve mowed lawns across half of freaking East Quay, but in truth, busking’s the name of the game.

  Busking? I snort in disbelief. Whoever the original owner was, it’s mine now, according to the contract I signed with the representative of the seller. “Poor RS. You should have taken it with you. Oh, well.” I tuck the book under my left arm and walk into my bedroom.

  Only a small lamp on my nightstand is lit, but it’s enough. Placing the book there, I move over to the window to close the blinds. I look out into the late-evening darkness, not expecting to see anything but perhaps a passing car’s headlights out on the main road. Instead I see a faint, flickering light in the opposite direction. This is the first time I’ve noticed any light over there. Is that where Romi’s staying? If so, why haven’t I seen anything from that part of the neighborhood until now? Perhaps it’s because the leaves have fallen a lot more the last couple of days?

  I try to judge how far away the house is located, but it’s impossible to guess in the dark. I suppose it could be about four hundred yards, give or take. I remain by the window until I start to shiver, Romi on my mind again. As I crawl into bed, I realize I’ve forgotten the orthosis in the bathroom and have to return to collect it. I can’t sleep without it, no matter how uncomfortable it is. If I should accidentally move my injured arm under my body…it has happened before, and I don’t want to even think about how much that hurt. I scre
amed so loud, I was sure my neighbors in Manhattan would call the police.

  Finally in bed, I take Goodnight Mister Tom and open the cover again. The acerbic note is written with an adolescent handwriting, but at least not adorned with hearts or stars. I begin to read, but every time I turn the page, I think of Romi. Those warm, apprehensive hazel eyes. Her pale, nearly transparent skin, and, oh God, that soft, apricot-colored mouth…and barely-there freckles. If I had a type, which I don’t think I do, Romi would certainly not be it.

  Perhaps this is why I’m so uncharacteristically bewildered. The last lover I had, and I cringe at how long ago that was, was an accomplished musician like myself. What a disaster. We were both self-absorbed, ambitious, and yes, competitive, people. Even in bed. The sex could be great, but no greater than my trusty vibrator. When I realized this fact, and that the woman who shared my bed and my professional life would never do more than that for me, I broke it off, and she wasn’t any more upset than if she’d lost her cell phone. Annoyed, yes. I suppose it was convenient to have a friend with benefits who understood what it was like to be a professional musician at our level.

  I hug the book closer. No way can I even contemplate Romi in the same light as that woman. Before her, I’d had short relationships with men, some of them very nice, but so wrong for me—as I found out. Now, as I picture Romi by my front door, her hand holding mine to her cheek, her eyes probing me with such concern and care, I tremble. And to be completely honest, the vision of her makes my stomach clench. I haven’t felt this aroused in…oh, God, years. Then I start to laugh and sob at the same time.

  When I came to this house in the sticks, I didn’t even pack my fucking vibrator.