Twelve
Creatively, her week sucked. She had to move her workstation from the bedroom into one of the guest rooms—at least she could try it out as her potential studio—as they wanted to demo her bathroom. And since they were doing that, Kevin opted to have them demo all but one of the other baths on the bedroom floor.
The noise, even with earbuds in and music blaring, was horrendous.
She considered moving downstairs, but the painters held court in the living room, with the library next on the slate. She’d end up playing musical workstations, so she tried her best to stick it out.
By midweek she gave up and drove into the national forest with the intent of hiking with camera and dog.
Fresh air, a dry, sunny day, and lovely green-tinged light whipped annoyance away. She wished she’d brought her laptop, as she’d have found a handy stump, sat right down, and done her updates in the serenity of the forest.
She walked—the leash fixed to her belt, as Tag tolerated it now—through a stand of trees that looked as if they’d stood since time began. Towering columns with branches lifted to catch the sea of wind and send dapples and rays of filtered sun to the forest floor.
Wildflowers danced there through fans of young ferns, around moss-carpeted rocks. Snow-white trillium like fairy brides, and calypso orchids their colorful slippers.
She thought about taking a few days, camping out. How would the dog deal with that, now that she had a dog to consider? Two or three days, on her own again, away from the noise she’d brought on herself.
Maybe.
No question Tag enjoyed the forest, puffing himself up by threatening squirrels or prancing along beside her. He even sat patiently enough when she paused to take pictures, no matter how long she took.
“It could be fun. Just you and me, and all this.”
As they meandered she began to think getting a dog—or being got by one—had been a fine idea after all.
A couple of hikers came her way, leading a handsome little beagle. Before she could give them the fellow-hiker nod of greeting, Tag let out a yip of terror and literally leaped into her arms. And knocked her flat.
The hikers—a couple of guys up from Portland for a few days—rushed to her aid. But the friendly and harmless beagle only had Tag squirming on top of her as if he could worm his way straight through and under her where it would be safe.
Since her camera was cushioned between her body and the dog’s, no damage done. But she’d seen stars—and felt their sharp little points in her ass.
“You’re a disgrace,” she told the dog as she walked stiffly back to the car. “Definitely no camping for you. A teacup poodle might come along and try to rip you to pieces.”
Tag crawled into the back, hung his head, and said nothing.
Since her butt ached, she tried the seat warmer on low and found that it soothed her considerably on the drive back. And with relief she saw only Kevin’s truck in front of the house.
He walked out as she gingerly eased out of the car.
“Hey! I just left you a note. We made some good progress today. How was the hike?”
She watched Tag rush over to greet Molly like a long-lost friend.
“He’s fine with her.”
“Sure.”
“If there’s a cat or a Pom or Pekinese, whatever, in the vet, he shakes like he’s walking into the seventh circle of hell. He runs at squirrels, or barks at them, but we ran into a couple of guys with a damn beagle on the trail, and he freaked. Jumped on me, knocked me flat.”
“You okay?”
Automatically she rubbed her sore ass. “It rang my bell, I’ll tell you that, and he’s all but clawing me open to climb inside, away from the terrifying beagle who licked at my limp hand in sympathy.”
To her shock, Kevin stepped straight up and started running his hands over her head. “You’ve got a little bump. I can run you to the ER.”
“It’s just bumps and bruises. And extreme pissed-off.”
He cupped her chin, looked hard into her eyes, and did something she thought no one could at that moment. He made her smile.
“Bumps and bruises only, Dr. Banner.”
“Headache?”
“No. Ass ache.”
“Ice bag, warm bath, a couple of Motrin. That’ll be two hundred dollars.”
“Put it on my account, because that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“A good dinner you don’t have to cook over at Xander’s should polish it off.”
“I . . . It’s Wednesday.”
“All day, half the night. You take it easy,” he added, giving her a gentle poke. “And I know it looks torn up in there, but it’s good progress. Tell Xander I’ll see him tomorrow at Loo’s.”
“Right.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. She started in as Kevin got into his truck.
She had a perfect excuse—reason, she corrected—to cancel dinner at Xander’s. Sore, cranky, out of sorts—all for good reason, she thought, and headed straight back for that ice pack.
Then she turned straight around and walked back to stand and stare at the living room.
The painting wasn’t finished—as the ladders and drop cloths attested—and she could see where touch-up was needed.
But oh, it was going to be just lovely.
She’d gone back and forth, around and around on color, and had worried the soft taupe would come off as dull and boring.
It didn’t.
Settled, she thought. For some reason the tone said settled to her.
“I keep thinking I’ve made a mistake with this place.” Sighing, she laid her hand on Tag’s head as he leaned against her leg. “Then I see the next step or stage, and know I haven’t.”
She looked down, smiled. Then narrowed her eyes. “I’m mad at you,” she reminded them both, and went back for the ice bag.
She argued with herself as she soaked her aching butt in the ugly baby blue tub in the single bathroom left to her upstairs. She could call off dinner without a qualm. She’d had an incident.
But calling it off tonight really equaled postponing.
Better to do it—get it done—and work on a way to shift whatever this was with Xander into the kind of friendship she had with Kevin.
The kind where being touched made her smile instead of tense.
And that, she admitted, would never happen.
Too much heat.
She got out of the tub, pleased the ache had lessened—and displeased to see she had a palm-sized bruise on her posterior.
She opted for leggings—softer on the ass—and a pale gray hooded sweater. She considered skipping makeup altogether but deemed it too obvious, so she kept a very light hand with it.
At quarter to seven she started out—though she felt Tag didn’t deserve a second outing. Then she walked back in and grabbed a bottle of wine.
It wasn’t a strawberry torte, but she’d been raised too well to go empty- handed.
She made the drive easily, then let the dog out but gave him the cold shoulder. As instructed, she took the steps up and rapped a knuckle on the door.
“Yeah, it’s open! Come on in.”
Naomi pushed the door open to see Xander in the jut that formed a kitchen, opening a bottle of wine.
Jeans, a chambray work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, at least a day’s worth of scruff on that toughly handsome face.
She’d break down, she thought, and ask him to pose for her. “I could have been a trained assassin with her vicious hellhound.”
“A locked door wouldn’t stop a trained assassin or her vicious hellhound.”
He had a point. Tag strolled right in and wagged his way over to Xander.
And Naomi stared, with wonder and delight, at the living room wall of books. “Wow, the rumors of book lover are true. That’s quite a collection.”
“Part of it.”
“Part? You’re a serious man, Xander.”
“About books, anyway.”
She glanced around. “Very efficient space, and that is one of the best uses of a wall I’ve ever seen. Color, texture, dimension.”
“Not to mention words.”
He walked over, offered her a glass of wine, took the bottle from her.
“Yeah, words. I like to read as much as the next guy—unless you’re the next guy.”
“That’s the plan.”
She laughed, waving him off as she walked up and down the wall. “But this is art. You’re smart enough to know your furniture is absolute crap. You don’t care about that. You’ve arranged your space for efficiency and highlighted a passion. And by highlighting it, created art. I want pictures of this.”
“Sure, go ahead. I don’t care.”
“Not now, not with my phone. I mean serious pictures. I want to come back with my camera. And with big daddy Hasselblad.”
“Whose daddy is he?”
She laughed, but continued to study the wall of books. “Film camera. Medium format. I could do a nice panorama, too, and—”
“Bring your camera when you want. But why don’t we sit outside and have this wine?”
“You’re having wine?”
“It’s not so bad now and again. You smell great.”
He cupped her chin, but not like Kevin had, and took her mouth.
No, she thought, no, not like Kevin. Not in the least.
“Bath salts—it was medicinal.”
“Yeah, I heard. Small-dog fear.”
“What?”
He took her hand, tugged her into the bedroom, felt her resist. “I’ve got a deck through the door in here.”
And more books, she noted. A big-screen TV, crap furniture, and more books.
He opened the door to the small square of deck with a half-rusted table and a couple of folding chairs. “I can get you a pillow to sit on.”
“You talked to Kevin.”
“I’m supposed to keep an eye on you, which I’d planned to do anyway.”
“I’m fine.” She sat, carefully. “Mostly. But to the issue: There’s no such thing as small-dog fear.”
“Microcynophobia.”
On a laugh, she sampled the wine. “You’re making that up.”
“Cynophobia’s fear of dogs—add the micro. You can look it up.”
Though she had her doubts, considering his collection of books, she didn’t argue the term. “Why would he—and he’s eighty-five pounds now, a lot of it muscle, I can attest—have microcynophobia?”
“Can’t say. Maybe he was traumatized at an early age by a Chihuahua.”
He reached behind her head, gently tested. “Ow.”
“That’s what I said once I got my breath back. My ass hit harder than my head.”
“Want me to check it out for you?”
“I’ve taken care of that, thanks.” She studied his view. “You can sit here and watch the ball game.”
“And do, if I’m too lazy to walk over.”
“Little League?”
“T-ball, Little League, Pony League, and some sponsored adult leagues. Keaton’s sponsored the Whales—currently battling their way out of the basement.”
“Do you play?”
“Not much anymore. Not a lot of time for it. You?”
“No, I never did.”
“What kind of feminist are you?”
“The non-sport-playing type. My brother played for a while, but basketball was his deal.”
“Is that right?”
“He played for Harvard.”
“Huh. Crimson. What position?”
“Point guard. I noticed you have a blacktop court and hoop out back.”
“Shooting hoops clears the brain. Used to play, back in high school. Mostly pickup games now.”
“What position?”
“Same as your brother. We’ll have to go one-on-one if he ever gets out here.”
“He will.” She’d have her family here, she thought, including her grandparents so they could see what they’d helped her have. Maybe by the fall, she’d have her family out.
“Are you any good, because, I can attest, he is.”
“I hold my own.”
She suspected he did, in many ways.
And he was right about the sunlight through the trees as it dropped toward the horizon.
“It seems like a good spot for a garage. Quick and easy access to the road, close to town, and a quick zip to 101. Is that why you picked it?”
“The place was here already. It used to be Hobart’s. He was looking to sell—getting up in age, and his wife took sick. We came to an agreement, and they moved to Walla Walla. Their daughter lives there.”
“Was it having your own business, or mechanics?”
“It was both. Is. I like cars. If I wanted a car—and I did—I had to learn how to keep it running. I liked learning how to keep things running. I didn’t mind working for Hobart—he was fair. But I like working for myself better. You must feel the same.”
True enough, she thought—but she preferred being by herself as much as working for herself.
Still . . .
“I worked as a photographer’s assistant for about fourteen months after college. I thought of it like an apprenticeship. He was not fair, by any measure. Arrogant, downright mean, demanding, and prone to toddler-scale tantrums. He was, and is, also brilliant.”
“Sometimes the brilliant think they’re entitled to tantrums.”
“Unfortunately true, but I was raised by a chef—a brilliant one—and brains and talent weren’t considered excuses for arrogance, for pettiness, but gifts.”
“No throwing spatulas or frying pans?”
The idea made her smile. “Not in Harry’s kitchen—home or restaurant. In any case, I’d planned on two years with Julian—the photographer—but fourteen months was all I could take. One of the happiest days of my life was punching him in the face and walking off the shoot.”
He glanced at her hand—slender, fine-boned. “That’s an interesting way to give your two weeks’ notice.”
“Two weeks’ notice, my ass.”
She shifted toward him—he wondered if she knew she rubbed her foot on Tag’s back, keeping the dog in quiet bliss. “Major shoot. Advertising—shampoo.”
“Shampoo is a major shoot?”
“Let me tell you, friend, there’s big money in ad photography. The model has a yard of glorious flame-red hair—she’s a joy to shoot. This guy, he’s a perfectionist, and I’ve got no problem with that. He’s also a vicious little dick. I’m used to the verbal abuse, at this point. The blame-casting, the castigating, even the throwing of objects. All of which were present during this particular shoot. He actually had the makeup artist in tears at one point. Then he claimed I handed him the camera with the wrong lens, I’d had enough, and pointed out I’d given him what he’d asked for. He slapped me.”
Amusement faded. “He hit you?”
“Slapped me like a little girl. So I punched him, just the way Seth—my uncle—taught me. Nothing in my life had ever felt that good. I think I actually said that while he’s screaming—again like a little girl—and the other assistants are scrambling around. The model walked over, gave me a high five. He’s holding his bloody nose.”
“Did you break it?”
“If you’re actually going to punch somebody in the face, it’s stupid to pull it.”
“That’s my philosophy.”
“I broke his nose, and he’s screaming about having me arrested for assault. I told him to call the cops, go right ahead, because I had a studio full of witnesses who’d seen him assault me first. When I walked out I promised myself I’d never work for a vicious little dick again.”
“Another excellent philosophy.”
Had he thought her interesting? No, not interesting, he corrected. Fascinating.
“So you broke a guy’s nose, then started your own business.”
“Sort of. Seth and Harry were friends with the owner of a gallery in SoHo, and they convinced him to take a couple of my pieces. They’d have supported me—in every way—while I tried to make a living in art photography. But I knew I could hold my own doing stock photography, getting some work doing book covers, album covers. Food shoots—I already did them for the restaurant. And clip art—it can be fun and creative, and it can generate income. I needed to get beyond New York, so I took the leap. Car, camera, computer.”
She stopped, frowned down at her wine. “That was a lot.”
“A microcosm,” he countered, pleased she’d forgotten her reserve, distrust, whatever it was, long enough to tell the story. “It tells me you’ve got guts and spine, but I already knew that. You do album covers?”
“I have. Nobody major. Unless you’ve heard of Rocket Science.”
“Retro-funk.”
“You surprise me.”
“I haven’t even started. The band’s working on another CD.”
“Another?”
“We did one a couple years ago. Mostly for tourists, or when we do a wedding, that kind of thing. How about it?”
“You’re looking for a photographer?”
“Jenny’s cousin’s friend did the last one. It wasn’t bad. I figure you’d do better.”
“Maybe. Let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll see. How long have you been playing?”
“With the band or at all?”
“Both.”
“With these guys, about four years. Altogether, since I was around twelve. Kevin and I started a band—Lelo on bass, just like now.”
Obviously surprised, she lowered her wineglass. “Kevin?”
“Do not ask him to play his Pearl Jam tribute. Trust me.”
“Does he play the guitar?”
“You can’t really call it playing.”
“That’s mean,” she said with a laugh.
“It’s truth. Let’s eat.” He took her hand again, this time tugging her inside. “We did some local gigs—school dances, parties. After high school, we lost our drummer to the Marines, Kevin did the college thing, Lelo stayed stoned.”
“And you?”
He pulled the takeout from the oven, where he’d kept it warm. “I hit trade school, worked here, picked up some gigs. Some with Lelo when he realized he wasn’t going to get the girls, and couldn’t play worth crap when he was stoned.”
She thought of the wall of books, looked over at it again. “No college for you?”
“Hated school. Trade school, that was different. But regular school. They tell you what to learn, what to read, so I opted out, learned from Hobart, learned from trade school, took some business classes.”
“Business classes.”
“If you’re going to have your own, you have to know how to run a business.”
He divided the salad from the take-out box in the fridge into two bowls, transferred the eggplant parm to plates, and added the breadsticks the pizzeria was locally famous for.
“This actually looks great.” She sat, and smiled when Xander pulled a rawhide bone out of a cupboard. “Smart.”
“It’ll keep him busy. What was your first picture? You had to have a first.”
“We had a long weekend in the Hamptons—friends of my uncles. I’d never seen the ocean, and oh God, it was so amazing. Just amazing. Seth let me use his little point-and-shoot Canon, and I took rolls and rolls of film. And that was that. What was the first song you learned to play? You had to have a first.”
“It’s embarrassing. ‘I’m a Believer.’ The Monkees,” he added.
“Oh, sure. Really? It’s catchy, but doesn’t seem your style.”
“I liked the riff, you know . . .” He diddled it out. “I wanted to figure out how to play it. Kevin’s mom used to play old records all the time, and that one kept circling around. His dad had an old acoustic guitar, and I worked on it until I could more or less play it. Saved up, bought a secondhand Gibson.”
“The one in the bedroom?”
“Yeah. I keep it handy. I figured out, by the time I was fifteen, that if you had a guitar and could even pretend to play it, you got the girls. How’s the parm?”
“You were right. It’s really good. So you got the girls, being as you can more than pretend to play, but none of them stuck?”
“Jenny might have.”
“Jenny?” She set down her fork. “Jenny-Jenny?”
“Jenny Walker back then, and I saw her first. New girl in school, just moved up from Olympia, and pretty as a butterscotch sundae. I asked her out before Kevin. Kissed her first, too.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s Keaton/Banner history. I was about half in love with her, but he was all the way in love with her.”
“And there’s bros before hos.”
Grinning, he picked up a breadstick. “You said it, I didn’t. I ended up playing Cyrano to his Christian, finally got his guts up to ask her out. And that, as we’ve said, is that. I’m still half in love with her.”
“Me, too. And the package along with it. They’re like central casting called for a great-looking, all-American family, dog included. If you’re waiting for another Jenny, you’re going to be out of luck. I’m pretty sure she’s one of a kind.”
“I’ve got my eye on a tall, complicated blonde.”
She knew it, wished hearing it didn’t set off those flutters low in the belly. “It’s not smart to aim for the complicated.”
“Simple’s usually surface anyway, and wears off. Then the complications are annoying instead of interesting. You’ve got my interest, Naomi.”
“I’m aware.” She watched him as she ate. “Nine times out of ten I’d rather be alone than with anyone.”
“You’re here now.”
“I’m twenty-nine, and I’ve managed to evade, avoid, and slip around any sort of serious relationship.”
“Me, too. Except I’ve got three years on you.”
“Since I left New York six years ago, I haven’t stayed in any one place over three months.”
“You’ve got me there. I’ve lived here all my life. But I have to repeat myself, you’re here now.”
“And right now, this feels like my place. Things start up with you, screw up with you, it affects that.”
“I don’t know how you manage life with that sunny, optimistic nature of yours.”
She smiled. “It’s a burden.”
Knowing the risk, he pushed a bit deeper. “Ordinarily I’d assume you had some crappy relationship or marriage behind you. But that’s not it. You’ve got a solid family under you, and that’s foundation.”
She nudged her plate away. “Think of it as internal wiring.”
“No. I’m good with wiring. You’ve got enough self-confidence and sense of self-worth to punch an asshole, to head off on your own to go after what you wanted. You’re complicated, Naomi, and that’s interesting. But you’re not wired wrong.”
She rose, took both their plates to the counter. “There was a boy who loved me—or thought he did the way you can at twenty. I slept with him, and studied with him, worked with him. When he told me he loved me, asked me to live with him, I broke it off. Right then and there. It was hard for us both to get through the rest of college. Easier for me, no doubt, because I didn’t have those feelings for him. So I could just walk away.”
“But you remember him.”
“I hurt him. I didn’t have to.”
Maybe, Xander thought, but he doubted anybody got through the labyrinth of life without hurting someone, whether or not they had to.
“I guess you’re counting on me falling in love with you and asking you to live with me.”
“I’m pointing out the problems with relationships when they go south and people live and work in close proximity.”
“Maybe you’ll fall in love with me, ask me to live with you in that big house on the bluff.”
“I don’t fall in love, and I like living alone.”
Xander glanced at Tag and decided not to point out that she’d fallen for the mutt and lived with him.
“Then I know that going in—unlike the college boy. I’ll get those. I know how it works. Want more wine?”
She turned away from the sink. “Better not. Water’s better since I have to drive.”
“It’s a nice night. Once I clean this up we can take a walk, work off dinner. Let the dog stretch his legs.”
“He could probably use it.” She took the water he offered, wandered back toward the wall of books. “I really do want to take some shots here. Is there any time that works for you?”
“Why don’t you come over Friday—anytime. The door’s open if I’m working down below. But if you came later in the day, you could go over to Loo’s after. We could grab some dinner before we play.”
“You’re playing Friday?”
“Nine to midnight. Ish. Kevin and Jenny can probably come, if you want.”
Not really a date so much as a get-together, with food and music. And she did like the music. More, she wanted to get back in here with her camera and . . .
Everything went blank and cold as her gaze latched onto a single spine in the wall of books.
Blood in the Ground: The Legacy of Thomas David Bowes, by Simon Vance.
They’d changed the title for the movie—the title and focus—as they’d wanted the drama focused on the young girl who’d discovered her father, who’d saved a woman’s life, who’d stopped a murderer.
After her mother’s death, once she’d believed she could face it, Naomi read interviews by the director, the screenwriter, so she knew why they’d turned the book into Daughter of Evil. But this was where it had started, this held all the horror and the cold-blooded years of one man’s murderous secrets.
“Naomi?” Xander tossed the dishcloth aside and started for her. “What’s wrong?”
“What?” She turned, too sharply, and she’d gone pale so her eyes burned dark. “Nothing. Nothing. I . . . A little headache. I probably shouldn’t have had the wine after rapping my head.”
She sidestepped, talking too fast. “This was really great, Xander, but I should go pop a couple more Motrin, make it an early night.”
Before she could get to the door, he took her arm, felt it quivering. “You’re shaking.”
“Just the headache. I really need to go.” Afraid the shaking would turn into a panic attack, she laid a hand over his. “Please. I’ll come back Friday if I can. Thanks for everything.”
She bolted, barely waiting for the dog to catch up.
Xander turned back, eyes narrowed on the books. Was he crazy? he wondered. Or had something there put the fear of God into her?
He walked over, scanned the titles. Then adjusted, estimating where she’d been looking. Her position, her height.
Baffled, he shook his head. Just books, he thought. Words and worlds on pages. He pulled one out at random, put it back, tried another. She’d been looking right about here when he’d glanced back, when he’d seen her freeze as if he’d pointed a gun at her head.
He frowned, drew out the nonfiction book—serial killer, he remembered, back east. It had fascinated him as a teen when it buzzed all over the news. So he’d bought the book when it came out.
West Virginia, he remembered, looking at the grainy photo of the killer in the cover art.
Couldn’t have been this. She came from New York.
He started to slide it back in, and then, as he often did with a book in his hand, opened it to skim the flyleaf.
“Yeah, West Virginia, some little podunk town. Thomas David Bowes, cable guy, family man. Wife and two kids. Deacon in his church. How many did he kill again?”
Curious enough, Xander kept skimming.
“Hot August night, summer storm, country dark, blah blah. Eleven-year-old daughter finds his murder room, and . . . Naomi Bowes. Naomi.”
He stared at the book, once again saw her pale, stricken face in his head.
“Son of a bitch.”