The Turning Season (23 page)

“So you can blame yourself if he already thinks you have a hot temper and you lack judgment,” I say.

“I hope you also mentioned that I'm loyal and funny and I've saved your ass more times than I can count.”

“I don't think I got that far.”

Joe leans back in the booth like a man preparing to be entertained. “So how do you two know each other?”

Celeste eats another French fry. The goth waitress comes over to see if Celeste wants any food of her own. “I'll have some of that cider.”

“And her own order of fries,” I add.

She folds her hands on the table and returns her attention to Joe. “We met out at Janet's place. Karadel had sort of taken up residence there one summer because she was—” She waves her hands. “Changing like a maniac. Never knew what she'd become or when it would happen. So she had to hide away so no one could see her.”

“How'd you know Janet?”

Celeste wrinkles her nose, like she's trying to remember. “Through my mom. I don't know how
they
first met. But there was this whole network of—of people,” she says, glancing around to see how close anyone else is sitting. She doesn't want to say
shape-shifters
out in public. “They all knew about Janet. If one of us got sick or hurt or whatever, we'd go to her for treatment.”

“So your mom was the one who—” Joe lets his voice delicately trail off.

Celeste nods. “She was like me. Had complete control. Could choose when to change from one to the next.”

“The easiest possible life,” I grumble.

She grins. “I
am
the golden girl.”

He studies her a moment, and I get the feeling he's doing the math.
Celeste looks to be about Karadel's age, so her parents would probably be in their fifties.
And he sure hasn't forgotten what I've said about the life span of shape-shifters. “Is she still in Quinville?” he asks. Nicely phrased, I think.

Celeste shakes her head. “Nah, she's been gone for years. I don't even know if she's still alive.”

That widens his eyes; not the answer he expected. I fill in a little. “Celeste's mom wasn't really the maternal type. Not too interested in raising her kids. Always trying to find somewhere to stash them so she could go off and do what she wanted.”

“Kids?” Joe repeats.

Celeste nods. “Yeah, apparently I have a half sister somewhere up near Chicago. And, who knows, maybe a couple other brothers and sisters scattered across the Midwest. I've never met any of them.”

“That would make me curious,” he says. “I'd be tempted to track them down.”

“Would you?” she says. The waitress arrives just then with her order, and she thanks the girl with a smile. As soon as she leaves Celeste says, “I've never seriously considered it. I figure they're all probably as unstable as I am, and hardly worth the trouble of getting to know.”

“You're not unstable,” I say. “You're just annoying.”

“So the two of you hung out at Janet's and started arguing with each other,” Joe says, “and that led you to realize you were meant to be best friends?”

Celeste laughs. “We're so different,” she admits. “But we got along from the beginning. Kara seems so meek and quiet, but there's a lot of fury under that calm exterior.”

“Fury,” Joe repeats, looking at me. “I would have said longing.”

“Ooooooh, that's good,” Celeste says. “But she's way more discontented than she seems.”

“Let's go back to talking about you,” I say.

“No, we're supposed to be talking about
him
,” she exclaims. “I got distracted!”

“What do you want to know?” he asks. “No secrets.”

I rattle off the basics. “Divorced, no kids. Lots of brothers. Good family relationships. Ex-cop.
Now
will you go away?”

She ignores me. “So what do you like about Karadel? What attracted you to her?”

“Initially?” he says. “I thought she was cute.”

“Smokin' hot bod, right? She does
not
take advantage of it.”

He's grinning. “That's part of what made her cute.”

“So then? After that?”

“I liked the way she talked to me. Like she thought I was interesting. I thought
she
was interesting. She seemed very authentic.”

“Yeah, she was lying to you the whole time, you know that, right? Because unless she was telling you all about her
other life
, she was just making up stories.”

“Well, everybody holds back at the beginning, don't you think?” he says. “You show part of yourself, and if someone likes it, you show a little bit more.”

I can tell she likes that answer, but what she says is, “What have
you
been holding back?”

He narrows his eyes and seems to consider. Then he smiles. “Stuff I'd probably tell Karadel before I'd tell
you
.”

She makes a little disgruntled noise, but she doesn't seem displeased. “Well, I hope it's nothing too terrible.”

“I think I'm basically a decent guy,” he says. “Whether or not you like me.”

She laughs. “You want to know something amazing?
Aurelia
told me she liked you, even though she didn't want to. And Aurelia likes maybe two percent of the population.”

“That
is
amazing,” he agrees. “I feel like ordering champagne or something to celebrate.”

“No, let's go over to Black Market instead,” Celeste says.

“
You
can go,” I say. “
We'll
stay right here.”

“It'll be fun,” she says. “There's a DJ. People might dance.”

“I like to dance,” Joe says.

“Nobody dances on Thursday night.”

Celeste jumps to her feet and tugs on my arm. “It's not like it's a
rule
,” she says. “People dance all the time. Come on.”

Joe's already throwing money on the table. “I got yours,” he says as Celeste reaches for her wallet.

“I'll buy the first round at Black Market,” she says. “Let's go.”

*   *   *

I
n fact, there's a rehearsal dinner or family reunion or something at the bar, because people
are
dancing at Black Market, but most of them bear a vague resemblance to each other and they're taking up one whole section of the seating area. I've never particularly liked this place, because it's got low ceilings and sticky floors and a sort of depressing ambiance, but at least there's no cover charge and you don't have to worry about looking good enough for the rest of the clientele. Celeste tows us to an empty table against one wall and says, “A pitcher okay?” When we nod, she heads up to the bar.

Joe smiles at me. “I like her. She's fun.”

I nod gloomily. “Everybody loves Celeste.”

“Hey, I didn't say
that
.”

“Well, don't like her better than you like me or I'll probably never get over it.”

He reaches across the table to take my hand and give it a squeeze. He doesn't bother to release it. “
You're
the one with the smokin' hot bod,” he reminds me.

That makes me laugh. “And the authentic personality.”

“That's right. It's no contest.”

Celeste is back at our table a minute later, followed by a waiter with the requisite pitcher and glasses. None of us have taken more than a few sips before a Maroon 5 song comes over the speakers, and Celeste gives Joe an I-dare-you look.

“Dance with me?” she invites him.

He glances at me, but I wave them toward the floor. “Go on. Have fun. I'll people-watch.”

“Come on,” Celeste says, pulling him out of his chair. “Don't waste the music.”

I sit at the table by myself and try not to feel like a wallflower. Just to have something to do, I observe the cluster of tables holding all the family members and try to guess the reason for the gathering. Are they celebrating the old woman's eightieth birthday? The young couple's engagement? The middle-aged couple's silver anniversary? It's easy to pick out the spouses, the ones who look bored or irritable or long-suffering. One of them, a good-looking power-suit type who's probably in his mid-fifties, catches my eye and gives me a wink.

Not wanting him to come over and start making conversation, I shift in my chair to look away, and find myself staring straight at Ryan.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he says, and bends over to kiss me on the cheek.

Instantly, my skin is aflame with reaction to his presence and worry that Joe will have seen the gesture. I laugh, hoping the sound seems casual instead of rattled.

“Ryan! What are you doing here—or, no, let me guess. You and Celeste cooked this up between you.”

He grins and settles into the chair next to me. Joe's place. “Nothing so specific. She said she knew you had a date tonight and she was going to try to track you down. I said I'd be here or at Arabesque. Looks like we both picked Black Market.”

“Because you're twins.”

“Something like that.” The waitress materializes at his shoulder and asks if he'd like a glass, which she conveniently already has on her tray. He glances at me and I shrug, so he accepts the offer and pours himself a beer.

“Won't your date think you're rude to go off and talk to another woman?” I ask.

“Not on a date. Here with clients,” he says. “And they left five minutes ago. It's just me.”

“How's your hand?”

He holds it up for me to inspect in the low light. He's dispensed with the bandages, so the wound is plain to see—mostly healed, but still an angry red surrounded by slightly puckered skin. “I think I'll live. Now, whether Terry Foucault will live, that's another story.”

“Haven't you learned your lesson about going out and stalking people on their own property?” I demand. “Isn't there some kind of my-home-is-my-castle law that allows people to shoot intruders? We were intruding.”

He sips his beer, watching me over the rim of the glass. There's something about the look on his face that gives me a momentary chill, and I try to identify the expression. Menace? Calculation? Conviction? I have the wayward thought that, if I was running down a dark alley, I'd rather meet up with a Foucault brother than with Ryan. I shake it away.

“We were driving down a public road, which we had a right to do,” Ryan finally says. “If we'd climbed the fence, then maybe they'd have a right to shoot us. If that gun's even legal.”

“Well, hey. Unregistered firearms. Tell the sheriff.”

“I don't talk to the law.”

“Phone in an anonymous tip.”

“We can take care of ourselves and our problems,” he says. There's an ever so slight emphasis on
we
.

“Shape-shifter vigilante,” I scoff, too annoyed to be cautious. But no one can hear me over the music. We can barely hear each other.

He smiles faintly. “If necessary.”

Just then one song ends and another begins—a Jessie J piece, I think, though I don't recognize it. Danceable, though, which means there's no chance Celeste will release Joe for the duration. I try to muffle a sigh.

Ryan sets down his beer and slips to his feet. “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand. “Just a dance.”

My glance strays toward the family reunion table, where the restless stockbroker type is still watching me. I get the sense that if I don't accept Ryan's invitation, this guy will come over and offer to buy me a drink. Maybe my shirt is too tight.

“Fine,” I say ungraciously and scramble to my feet. “But just one song.”

It is, of course, impossible for me to adhere to the one-song rule. Ryan's a great dancer, lithe and sexy, and he always focuses his attention wholly on his partner. A bit like a lion stalking its prey across an African veldt, maybe; I always get the feeling it's too late to get away. I shake my head to flick away the thought and shake my hips to the upbeat music.

There are maybe five other couples on the dance floor, as well as a group of twentysomething girls from the family group, forming their own private dance hall and raucously egging each other on. Still, it's not hard to get a look at everyone else who's out there swaying to the music. Joe and Celeste look like they're having a great time, strutting and pointing and snapping their fingers as the beat dictates. She's tossing her hair and giving him sultry looks over her shoulder, but she's playacting; that's the way she always dances, even when it's with me. Joe sees me watching them and gives me a big smile. If he doesn't like that I'm partnered with Ryan, he doesn't show it.

I see someone from the family group cross the floor to request a song from the DJ—even looks like there's a five-dollar tip involved—so I'm not surprised when the next chord progression elicits exclamations from the whole party and most of them surge to their feet. It takes a moment for me to recognize “Stand by Me,” which maybe was the theme song at someone's wedding. At any rate, they're all planning to dance to it.

I turn back toward the table, but Ryan catches my wrist. “C'mon. You love this song.”

I used to. It was playing on the radio the first time Ryan and I made love, and I can't ever hear it without remembering that. When we first broke up, I stopped listening to both oldies stations and country music for fear it would come on the radio in one of its cover versions.

“Ryan—” I say.

“C'mon,” he repeats, tugging me closer.

I could break free, but I don't want to have a wrestling match here in Black Market and I don't want Joe to see me struggling in Ryan's hold. It seems easier to acquiesce, to let him pull me against his chest, put his arms around me, and rest his cheek against my hair. Unexpectedly, I am engulfed in such deep and complex emotions that I think I'd lose my balance if I wasn't already leaning against him. I'm sad—so sad—I miss him so much, I miss
this
, the shape of his body against mine, the sense of excitement, desire, and belonging I feel whenever his arms are wrapped around me. The song speaks of faith and trust, the singer offering himself up as a bulwark against despair, and for a moment I can't remember that Ryan cannot be counted on for any of those things. For a moment I remember only how much I loved him and that I can't have him anymore, and the sense of loss is devastating.