Retreat to Love (5 page)

“Wren, can I sit next to you?” he asked, taking the bowls of sour cream and guacamole from her as she held open the kitchen door with her foot. “These two are too domineering for my sensitive soul.”

“From what I’ve heard, Wren is into domination herself,” Liz said, grinning as Wren stumbled on her way to fetch the platter of spinach quesadillas.

The banter slowed down once the others came in. Most of talk revolved around Angelica’s photos of her latest sculpture, a life size baby. It was a pure pink marble, and the infant was clenched in the palms of a woman’s hands; the tendons between her knuckles standing out, the smooth nails pressed into the baby’s ribs. The baby was curled upon himself, listless and pursed-mouthed.

“It’s modeled on my nephew Tommy. I wanted to express the strength my sister in labor and the fragility of his little preemie body.”

Theo’s eyes sparkled a little when he looked from the photos to her. “It’s amazing. You’ve really got something here.”

Wren and I glanced at each other. Her side-eye suggested she shared some of my doubts.

“That’s a gorgeous piece of marble,” Lizzy said, peering at the close-up of the infant’s clenched hands.

“I just looked for beauty, and this spoke to me. I knew it was right from when I started.”

We passed back the photos and moved on to general criticisms of Margie, who had kicked Theo out of the TV room in the middle of a documentary on Picasso. Caleb volunteered to help Wren haul the night’s dirty dishes to Rafael’s porch, but insisted she leave a note about their rebellion tacked to the newel post of Margie’s staircase. Lizzy winked at me and I had to pretend to be choking on the salsa to cover my laughter.

The week went on in the same vein. Theo and Angelica were never seen apart. Rafael was never seen, although the dishes did show up clean after the porch dump. I dyed three yards of percale with indigo and spruce swirls, and ordered more cut glass beads from my favorite online supplier. By Saturday morning the fabric was ready to rinse and set, and I strung a clothesline between two trees in the deer clearing to hang it out. One of Gran’s quilting legacies was a predilection towards working with sun-drenched cloth carefully ironed.

“Hey, that’s gonna scare away my subject,” Caleb said, coming out of the path towards the cabin. When I turned towards him, startled, he snapped three or four quick shots of me spilling the rest of the kernels on the ground. “Well, one doe is as good as another,” he shrugged.

“Not funny.”

“Point of view. Add your expression to the fact I’m taking some revenge for your ruining my morning’s shoot, and it’s enough to make me smile.”

“She doesn’t even come around this late.”

“I know; I’ve been stalking her. But I wanted some good daylight establishing shots, then this afternoon I was going to get her coming out. Which she won’t do if you’ve got some curtain thing flapping all over the place.”

“Too bad you don’t have a right to dictate the world the way you want it, isn’t it?”

“A haven for artists working side-by-side, isn’t it?”

I shook my head. “Pulling a Margie line isn’t gonna make me take it down. It needs to dry, and this is the only good place to hang a line. Take your pictures tomorrow.”

“I’ve got to set up downwind well before she shows, and your brother’s coming just past dusk. I sure don’t want to offend your and Wren’s delicate sensibilities by going to dinner in the sweaty work vest I spent hours crouching in.”

Yeah, Goddess preserve us from Caleb smelling bad in front of Wren. He crossed the clearing towards me, presumably without considering if his work vest reeked. It didn’t, but I was counting thoughts, not reality. I admitted, “I forgot about the dinner thing. And the cooking. What are we going to make?”

He pulled a spiral notebook out of a side pocket. “I made a little bit of a shopping list. Figured on eggs and pancakes or muffins in the mornings, maybe some soups like gazpacho for lunches. What do you think?”

I took it from him. His handwriting was all block capitals. His pencil was blunt. “You actually planned all this? Raspberry-cream cheese blintzes? I was thinking more like cereal and raisin toast.”

“It’s not hard. Some fresh fruit for smoothies, a few dairy products. There’s a food processor in there, we can make anything.” Oh, the confidence of a man who could cook. It knew no bounds.

Handing back the notebook, I said, “I’m game, as long I don’t have the smell of bacon frying every morning to deal with.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way. Unlike your little project here, which I’d really like to get rid of now.”

“Look. I know it’s thrown a kink in your works, and I'm sorry, Caleb. But I can't just not dry the cloth now, it has to set properly. Can't you take your shots in a couple of days?"

He kind of growled, quietly. "Sure, it's okay for you to progress at your so-important pace, but my stuff just gets shelved. No problem."

"Relax. Doe probably wouldn't have shown tonight anyway."

"Yeah, she's so inconsistent."

"You seriously want me to ruin my whole dye job for this one shot? There’s not other pictures you can take in the meantime?”

"You're drying it, right? Like, same thing you could do in the laundry room?"

"And waste all that electricity? I'm sure the founders wouldn't approve." I was flippant, but I’d calculated the overall look of the cloth based on a slow dry time, not the heat-set it would get with a tumble in the dryer.

"Thanks a hell of a lot, Ashlyn, damn considerate of you," Caleb's Hershey kiss eyes went narrow on me before he turned sharply and strode out towards his cabin. Except, somehow, he didn't start exactly on the path, and a black willow branch snapped at him. "Fuck!" he yelped out.

"Goddess, you okay? What happened?"

He limped back towards me. "Fucking tree attacked me." His hand gripped his upper thigh.

"Are you bleeding?"

"Uh, crap, yeah, I think so."

I reached him and pulled him back into the clearing. "Come on, let me help." The eyes judged me briefly, almond-round once more, and he leaned on me a bit as I helped him up my steps.

We limped to the love seat. "Let me look." Reluctantly, he lifted his palm. "Wow. Good thing you're not a couple of inches shorter, you'd never have children."

"Ha, ha, hardy ha."

"You're going to have to take those off, you know, so we can clean it."

"Are you enjoying this? I'm hurt here."

"I know, I know. Poor Caleb. Aren’t you glad you don’t have to crouch on this thigh for hours later today?” Poor Caleb’s thigh. It looked bad. Well, not the thigh itself; the thigh was lean and solid under my hand. I wondered if Wren was into scars.

He released a slow breath. “You’re completely hilarious.”

“Come on, drop trou. Maybe it'll seem funny to you tomorrow."

"Right." He stood, carefully, and growled at me again when I tried to help him unbutton his khakis. Blue boxers, nice. "Stop staring."

Cocking my head at him, I asked, "Was I staring?"

"Damn, you're funny. I'm finding this a little embarrassing, if you want to know the truth."

Smiling, I said, “I love the truth. Here's the bad news, speaking of the truth. This cut's deep. I don't think nature loves you as much as you love it. And your pants, well, they're kaput."

"Just get me a wet washcloth," he said, sinking back to the couch. "Sorry. Please get me a wet washcloth."

"That's fine for getting the dirt out, but you're going to have to abrade this, running water, the works."

"What are you, Nurse Nell all the sudden?"

"No, I'm just not an idiot. A deep wound, you have to clean it out, not just scrub at it. Can you make it into my bathroom?"

"I get a sponge bath now?" His smile was less strained with pain.

"I think you're enjoying this as much as I am. No, I just want you to hold it under the tap for a minute while I go get a bandage and antiseptic."

Grumbling, Caleb let me help him up and into the tub. No way would he clean the thing without getting naked or getting the boxers wet, but I decided to let him deal with that problem on his own. As it was, I was collecting images of some damn fine legs to savor at a later time. Not trying to edge in on Wren or anything, but when providence throws damn fine legs your way, you have to pay attention.

"Use soap on it," I commanded as I left him, half-crouched on the rim of the tub, a fresh towel beside him.

Margie's first aid kit had every necessity. I stuck it on my mini-bar and tapped at the door. "You decent?"

Growl. "Come in already." Poor Caleb was on his ass in the tub, leg sticking up by the window, attempting to get the wound close to the faucet. He’d left his shirt on, but shoved it under his armpits, and wrapped his hips in the towel, more’s the pity. He wasn’t looking happy.

And probably I was looking too happy. I was getting an eyeful of slim muscled torso as he twisted to position his leg. His feet were bare and his thighs flexed strong and he was basically writhing half-naked in the tub I’d spent a little time writhing fully naked in myself. My next bath was going to be even more stimulating, I could tell.

Caleb’s grumbling recalled me. “Fucking water hurts like hell."

"So you didn't use the soap?"

"If the water hurts this much, it's getting all the crap out on its own."

"Nice try. You going to do it yourself, or do I have to lather up your leg for you?"

His hand went back to covering his groin. "Just hand me the damn soap."

I grinned. Clearly, he was going to be fine, so it was time for me to start having some real fun.

"Fuck!" he hissed as the water ran over the wound.

"Poor Caleb." I pat his shoulder and got another towel. "Now rinse it real good and let me help you up."

"I can get myself up."

“You’ve left me in no doubt about your ability to get yourself up, Caleb, dear. But just this once, okay? The tub's slippery and I wouldn't want your towel to fall askew."

"Now I know you're enjoying this. And it’s all your fault. Stop enjoying my pain.”

Did I deliberately put my arm around his body so my palm stroked his bare, warm side? Maybe. Was his quick indrawn breath because of my touch or because it hurt to stand on his wounded leg? Only the hardening erection he wasn’t managing to hide knew for sure. “Sure, as soon as possible. Come on, back to the other room. And you'd better let me put the ointment on."

"Are you crazy?"

"Nope. But look what a wimp you were about the soap. The ointment is gonna hurt even more. You wouldn't do it right."

He rearranged the towel carefully as he sat down. "I am not a wimp."

"Course not.” I spread his knees so when I knelt between his thighs I could still see the wound. Maybe it was because he’d removed his work vest, but he certainly didn’t smell bad. “Now hold still. If you're a good boy I'll get you a sucker later."

"Such wit. Fuck!"

"Be still!" I trapped the cut leg between my ribs and my arm.

"Ow, fuck! Ash!"

"Almost done. There." I leaned forward to blow on the wound, the way Gran always did to take the sting away. I swear I didn't mean for my cheek to brush the towel. And I'm pretty sure Caleb's groan was one of pain.

"Do you want me to tape down the bandage, or?" I was a little hot in the face. "Or, you could do it, and I'll try to sew up your pants."

Caleb wasn't looking at me. I think it was the injury. "You'd do that?"

"Sure," I shrugged. "I have needle, I have thread, it's a natural."

He cleared his throat. Twice. “Um, yeah. That’d be great. Thanks."

So I took his pants into the studio, leaving him on the love seat with the gauze. The gash was actually a little large, I'd need to put a patch on it.

"So you think you'll walk again?" I called over the low wall between us.

"One day very soon," he confirmed. "Though I guess you do win the turf war—no way I'm hunkering down for photos tonight."

Mentioning his territorial aggression was his tactical error. I shuffled past the muted calico I'd landed on and chose a left-over scrap from a baby quilt. Lavender, with duckies. A nice orange thread to accentuate their little beaks, and the pants were better than new.

He was sporting about it, at least. He quacked when he saw them. I cursorily inspected his bandage, patted him on the knee, and promised I'd stay in my room while he got dressed.

Whew.

I had to flop on my bed hugging on my pillow a little. The man had a mouth on him, in addition to the damn fine legs, on top of the moment in the clearing when his eyes said clear as day, "You, I'll trust.” And the heat. His arm across my neck as I’d helped him to the tub had branded me. And the quack.

Timing, humor, communion.

Snap the hell out of it, Ash, he's taken
. Or, kinda. He's staked out. Whatever the situation, I needed to snap the hell out of it.

"Ash?" The liquid timbre of his voice did not help me snap. "Ashlyn?”