Authors: Joanne DeMaio
“You have to know,” he says, looking down at her. The room is shadowy, the outside light fading at dusk.
“Know what?” she murmurs back, her hands touching his shoulders, his arms, slipping around his back, pulling him closer.
“That I’m not leaving you.” He bends then and kisses her as though he’s on one long inhale, that the kiss is necessary to live. With his hands still holding her face, with the kiss growing deeper, he walks her over to the sofa, lowering a hand behind her back as he lays her there, her arms pulling him down with her. In the darkening room, his presence is a mere shadow, a closeness that can’t be denied. But it’s the strength of his insistence, of the way his hands roughly get her clothes where they need to be, that has her breath quicken, has her kiss him deeper still, pulling him nearer, as if that were possible. Amy takes his hand in hers, entwining their fingers as his mouth moves to her neck, her throat, her shoulder.
And she thinks that being with George in the dark, with no illumination in the unfamiliar room, is the same as trying, trying to remember the missing details of one day; she was there, yet still searches. Like now, with the weight of him moving over her, she feels enough of his strength to know him, to love him, and yet the darkness covers something, somehow. He pulls his hand away then and takes her arms, pressing them up on the sofa beside her head, and raises himself over her. When she starts to reach for his shoulder, his hands quickly slide up to her wrists, holding her arms down.
And when he lowers his mouth to the soft of her neck, not releasing her arms, she knows that all of life is like that damn sketch. Love is sketched in too, in the moment she says she loves him, in the seconds after he loosens his hold when she moves her hand over his heart and he stills, in the memory she has of his thumb tracing over her lips before his fingers cover them when she starts to talk. It’s never really complete, the lines of love and worry and doubts and love yet again all crossing the other, sketching, sketching further with each breath we take, each touch we give.
* * *
When Amy’s fingers entwine with his again, he gets angry. Not at her, but angry that the thought has to be there at all, the thought that she’ll recognize him from the mere feel of his God damn hand. That one memory can bring the realization of exactly who he is at any moment, even right now as he moves over her. And so George takes her hands, and with his anger, clenches them, gets them away from the scene of the crime once and for all when he raises them higher and presses them into the sofa. And he’s mad, too, that he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t take the out she offered. When she arrived earlier, it was the perfect window through which he could escape, leaving this all behind. He could’ve told her he understood her doubts and that it would be best if they went their separate ways. That their history was too painful for this to work.
Instead he feels every bit of the length and curve of her body beneath him now, every molecule of her skin and soul pressing against his, his every touch sparked with that anger still. Because why couldn’t he just buy that bike and hightail it out of Addison for a while, at the very least, taking off with Nate and choosing a different way of living. One without Amy Trewist tormenting a part of every day, every thought.
And so it’s all there—the anger at a bankroll behind tiles in the next room, at a brother who dragged him into this, at a father who instilled in him a conscience, at a priest telling him to seek absolution as if he God damn knows. At a beautiful woman who crossed paths with him one fine spring morning and changed the direction of every single thing he does, so that whatever he does now puts her at more risk. And
that
gets him mad, that he can’t love her freely. And so his hands tell her
this
is how it’ll be, pinning her bare arms down, pushing his hand beneath her back, lifting her to him until he’s brought to tears that this is how love came to him, on someone else’s terms, and so tonight, one time, that love is on his terms, physically, and he’s sure she knows it.
Afterward, she lies silent beside him. And he has to look away, to shift his position, raising his arm so that it crosses over his eyes. Time passes, a minute or ten, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that it passes in her silence, and he’s also damn sure she’ll leave in another few. Just pick her dress and denim vest up off the floor and quietly slip away to be done with him after what he just did. Maybe it’s what he wanted, to give her an out too, with the force of his touch. Instead her hand eventually rises, again, to his heart, feeling the beat of it, he knows.
As soft and gentle a touch he’s ever felt. And his breath releases, slowly leaving his lungs and leaving him depleted.
“George,” she whispers in the dark now, so very close beside him on the couch, her legs against his. “Before, I didn’t mean—” she begins, but he reaches over and presses back her blonde hair, his fingers sliding along her gold chain to her initial pendant, and shakes his head, no. “What?” she asks.
“Don’t,” he says, his hand reaching behind her neck, her skin damp with perspiration, his mouth kissing hers gently. “It’s okay. Don’t talk, don’t explain.” He shifts on his side and kisses her again. “We both understand this night for what it is.”
She looks at him and her own fingers trail along his face, drop to his shoulder and pull him closer so that they make love once more, certain now. At least he is. Certain that they’re both in this, come what may, no matter what hand they’re dealt. Later they have dinner beneath a dim light near the slider, which he opens so they sit at the edge of a night that’s cooled little outside.
“You know, George, I never want to feel again what I felt before.”
“And what’s that?” he asks, sipping a glass of wine, thinking that she’s referring to his own contention earlier on the sofa. Warm July air drifts in beside them, the crickets chirp lazy.
“That feeling that I can’t eat. That’s what happened. I was so afraid I’d lose you, I couldn’t eat.” She spears a forkful of spaghetti and he nudges her salad closer. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asks, motioning her fork to his full plate.
He looks down and moves it aside. “I had a late lunch. I’ll pick later.” Though he knows he won’t. Every damn voice in his head has ratcheted up the volume now.
When they have coffee, they sit out on the deck in the velvet black night. Not a breeze stirs any leaves; the heat hangs heavy; a distant train whistle winds through the quiet. And things have changed between them, he feels it and thinks she does, too. She’s looking up at the night sky.
“There are no stars tonight, George. Look.”
He does. No stars glimmer above; no silver moonlight falls on the earth. “Amy,” he says then. He had an out earlier, one that’s long gone now. She tips her head, waiting. He waits, too. Has been all summer long. He shifts his position in the deck chair, looking up at the sky above for a long moment. “They’re out there. We just can’t always see them.”
Twenty-six
AMY WALKS THROUGH HER SHOWROOM at Wedding Wishes with two long gowns draped over her arm. Everything about the day feels perfect. The sunshine after a morning shower makes things sparkle; twinkling lights in her shop hint at stars; returning to working with her gowns brings in two morning consultations. Sometimes life is just as it should be.
“I love this one,” the bride-to-be stepping out of the dressing room tells her. Embroidered lace netting overlays a satin underslip on the sleeveless sheath gown.
“It’s perfect,” her sister says from the velvet settee where she sits with their mother.
“Are you sure?” Amy asks. One look at the mother-of-the-bride’s misty eyes tells her that yes, this is the dress. The tears give it away every time. “I’ve got a Victorian that might work. The sleeves are long, but they’re lace so you wouldn’t be too warm.” She hangs the two gowns on a nearby rack.
“Oh no. I’m getting married in the heart of summer. This gown is it.”
“When’s the date?” Amy steps behind the bride and fans out the brush train.
“The end of August,” she says. “In my backyard. We’re keeping it simple. We’ve got a gazebo and my mom’s flower garden will be in full bloom.”
The sheath gown with its straight neckline is sublime in its simplicity. “A garden wedding! Sleeveless really caught on in the 1970s, so you picked a great era to choose from.” Amy steps back and studies the way the gown falls along her body. “A few alterations and you’ll be good to go. Do you have a tailor?”
“We do,” the mom answers. “And what about a veil?”
“I think a birdcage, to keep that light, elegant look,” Amy suggests as the bride turns on the raised pedestal. “Maybe anchored with a special flower from Mom’s garden?”
They all tear up again just as the door to the shop opens and a copious bouquet of summer blossoms, of dahlias and hydrangea and larkspur and calla lily, is delivered by a florist from the next town over. “Is there an Amy Trewist here?” the deliveryman asks.
“Oh! That’s me.” Amy steps forward and takes the large arrangement. “Wow, these are gorgeous.”
“Can you sign please?”
“Yes, of course.” She dips her face close to the flowers, then sets the arrangement on the checkout counter and takes the clipboard. “Thank you so much.”
“Have a nice day,” he tells her as he walks out.
Amy turns to see the three women in her shop watching her with smiles on their faces.
“Hm,” the bride muses. “Maybe you’ll be looking for a gown for yourself soon?”
“Me? Oh no. We’re just dating,” Amy answers with a laugh. The bride looks from the flowers to Amy with a raised eyebrow. “Really,” she insists.
When the appointment ends and the bride lifts her gown, all wrapped and zipped in a garment bag, Amy stops her. “Wait,” she says as she pulls a pink and yellow dahlia from her bouquet. She sets it in a sprig of baby’s breath and entwines it all in a silver barrette, then pins it in the bride’s hair. “You’ll have a beautiful day, I’m sure. And don’t forget to add your wedding wish to a star on the Wish Wall before you leave. Then after the wedding, bring me a photograph and I’ll replace your wish with it. Everyone loves seeing the wishes come true.”
With the wish posted, the women head out to Whole Latte Life, intending to celebrate in the coffee shop with lots of coffee and plenty of cake. Amy closes the door behind them and finally has a moment to call George at work. Listening to the ring, she knows he is walking to the wall phone, wiping his hands on his black apron before picking up. Strains of Sinatra meet her ear before his voice does. “Main Course,” George answers.
“George?”
“Well hello, sweetheart. How are you today?”
“Even better now,” Amy tells him. “Is it busy there?”
“Little bit. Dean’s up front. How about you? Feeling good this morning?”
“Yes,” Amy says, smiling. “I just sold a gown, too, and wanted to thank you before my next appointment gets here.”
“Thank me?”
“For last night, and for the flowers. They’re very beautiful.”
There is a long moment then with only Sinatra in the background singing of the moon and stars, his voice lifting you there.
“George?”
“When did they arrive?”
“Just now. Really, you didn’t have to.”
“I didn’t.”
“What?”
“I didn’t send flowers, Amy. They’re not from me.”
“But the card—”
“Did you read it right? Could they be from someone else? For a birthday, or a thank-you from a bride, maybe?”
“No.” She pulls the card from the center of the bouquet. “It clearly has your name on it.” Suddenly all she wants to do is grab the bouquet and fly actually, the same way Sinatra is singing about flying. Except instead of flying to the moon, she’d fly out her shop’s door, chase down the delivery van and refuse them. She’d throw the whole thing back inside the van, fling it with all her might, snapping the stems and destroying the pretty blossoms.
“Amy.”
“God damn it, he even signed your name.”
“I’ll be right over.”
“Wait,” she says, turning and looking out the shop window onto The Green across the street. People stroll past, wooden barrels overflow with geraniums and summer vines, the wishing fountain spews water high into the sky. Everything here is fine. But is Grace okay at home, rearranging her refrigerator magnets, her tiny voice bringing the plastic pieces to life and not vanishing in the grasp of a kidnapper’s arm? Did someone send the flowers to get her on the phone with George, to get her vigilant eyes and ears and thoughts off of her child? To distract her?
“I’ll just be a few minutes,” George says.
“No.” She pauses, thinking quickly. “That’s okay. I’ll be fine. I’m
not
missing my next consultation. The bride is so excited to see the new dresses that came in.”
“Amy.”
“No, George. What I’m going to do is act like this never happened. I think that’s best. Whoever is behind this will see that I’m not playing. I’m staying in my shop and women will be trying on gowns all morning, exactly like I planned. And then I’ve got a therapy session scheduled later. I’ve got to live my life and not let this stop me.”
“Your mother is home with Grace?”
“Yes. I’ll call her right now and check on them.”
“Nate’s stopping here for lunch. I’ll tell him to drive by on his way back to work, just to be sure everything’s fine.”
“Okay. And I’ll let Detective Hayes know, too. George?”
“What is it?”
“Do you think the flower shop has a record of who did this?” She hears him take a long breath. “No,” she answers herself. “No, I guess they wouldn’t.”
“I’m sure he covered his tracks. But give me the name of the florist and I’ll look into it. And be very careful for me today, okay?”
* * *
George waits to hear her disconnect the call before slamming the handset onto the phone cradle on the wall. It bounces right off, clattering to the floor before he picks it up and throws it against the wall, the impact neatly cracking it in two.
“Son of a bitch,” he says under his breath.
Dean looks into the back room. “What the hell’s going on here?”