Romeo Fails (14 page)

The basement was quite large as it mirrored the footprint of the house. Sarah glanced curiously about her. The bare white walls and blue-gray indoor/outdoor carpeting weren’t too impressive. Neither was the first view of the basement, which was strictly utilitarian. The visible half of it was one large open area, with the furnace, washer and dryer dominating the space. Several of Dorsey’s completed projects were stored down there as well—a bookcase with glass-fronted doors, a Stickley-style recliner, a china hutch, various tables (sofa, end and coffee, among others), a door and at least a dozen large picture frames. Except for the projects she’d built from scratch, all the pieces had first been restored to their original splendor, then “re-imagined” in some way. Some pieces now had exotic wood inlaid with the original. For some, she’d taken a crucial design element and completely revamped it, like the legs on two of the tables. Whatever changes she’d made, her one rule was that the revitalized piece had to somehow artistically flow from the original. The results were arresting—sometimes quirky, sometimes downright odd, but beautiful and unique in their own way. At least Dorsey thought so.

“Wow,” said Sarah, stopping in her tracks. “It’s like an art gallery down here. This is amazing, Dorsey.” She walked up to the china hutch and ran her fingertips over the hand-polished wood. “I can’t believe people aren’t lining up to buy this stuff from you.”

Dorsey laughed, embarrassed but pleased. “Yeah, well, I’m so popular I’m starting to run out of room down here as you can see. Guess I need to make some more friends so I can at least give it away. You should take a piece with you when you leave town.”

“Leave town? I’m not going anywhere,” Sarah declared.

“Yeah, right,” Dorsey said with a smile. “Like you’re here to stay in good old Romeo ‘Fails’? I don’t think so, Sarah.”

“Well, either way, I’d love to have one of your pieces someday when I have a place of my own again. I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Whatever you want,” Dorsey said, gesturing at the room. “Plus there’s a dining room table and six chairs in the woodshop that I’m working on now. But it’ll be a while before they’re done.”

“Tell you what, for right now, I’ll settle for a glass of wine,” Sarah told her. “But this can’t be your room, can it?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.” Dorsey led her to a door in the wall that bisected the basement.

The other side was a whole different world. Hollis Larue had insulated and “finished” the basement in his lifetime, but Dorsey had done a lot of the work over the years on what was now her suite. It was originally intended to be a guest bedroom, complete with its own bath and a small living room as well. She had started by laying hardwood floors throughout. She’d acquired the wood for free when a century-old farmhouse deep in the countryside had been demolished. The furniture, of course, was all of her own devising. The plumbing and wiring she’d wisely left to the experts, although she’d learned a lot from hanging around and observing them at their crafts.

She was glad the cleaning lady had been there earlier in the day. The living room was gleaming and she knew the bathroom would be spotless too. She was neat and orderly by nature, but it was nice to know it was “company clean” for Sarah’s unexpected visit.

“Very nice,” her visitor said approvingly as she stepped over the threshold.

“Have a seat,” Dorsey said, closing the door behind her. She joined Sarah on the sofa, but made sure there was at least a foot of space between them. She was still wrestling with her resolve to end things with Sarah. She just didn’t know if she had the strength to do it now, with Sarah right there, sitting in her room. She’d imagined her—well, imagined the Naked Silver Lake Goddess—there so many times, the reality threatened to overwhelm her.

“Won’t Maggie be worried about you?” she asked Sarah as she poured them each a glass of white zinfandel.

“No, I left her a note that I was going out. Besides, she knows I sometimes go for a walk late at night if I can’t sleep. And she can always call me on my cell phone if she needs me.”

“So you walked over here?”

“Yeah,” Sarah replied. “I figured a bright red Beetle in front of your house would get the neighbors talking.”

“Uh, yeah, you got that right.”

They both paused to take a sip of wine. Dorsey thought of the things she wanted to say. The things she needed to say. But she’d never been very good with words… She’d always been better with her hands. Sarah’s eyes met Dorsey’s.

Sarah said, “What were you going to do tonight if I hadn’t shown up?”

“I don’t know, probably just take a shower and go to bed, I guess,” Dorsey answered truthfully and off the top of her head.

“Hmmm…so how can I help you with that?” Sarah asked with that devilish grin Dorsey was beginning to know so well.

Sarah’s brilliant blue eyes gleamed at her. Dorsey felt a flare of desire deep within. She stood, not knowing what she was doing. Just one night, her heart said. Just give me this one night… give
us
this one night together… Sarah rose gracefully from the sofa as well. As if in a dream, Dorsey moved forward to take her in her arms. Still, something made her hesitate as she trembled on the brink.

“Are we making a mistake?” she said.

Sarah gazed seriously back at her.

“I think we both deserve a little happiness,” she said softly. “Don’t you?”

“So is this just for tonight?” Dorsey asked her. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to hear. Did she herself want more than just one night?
You know you do
, her heart told her.
You belong together.
She’d never felt that way before about anyone. It scared her a little, but it felt so good.

Sarah said, “All I know is I want to be with you, Dorsey. In your shower, in your bed, wherever you want. That’s all I’ve wanted since that night at the festival—just to be with you again.”

Their lips met as Dorsey pulled her in tight.

“That’s all I want too,” she murmured as she gently laid Sarah back down on the couch.

* * *

Candles flickered in the darkness as the soothing, sensual warmth of the shower cascaded down upon them. After making love on the sofa and then the living room floor, they’d finally made it to the shower in the wee hours of the morning.

Dorsey loved the way Sarah was taking her time on not just the obvious stuff, but everything—the backs of her knees, the tips of her fingers, the small of her back. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so stimulated by a woman’s touch. Sarah’s wet hands slid up her waist to gently caress Dorsey’s breasts, her slick palms finding Dorsey’s rock-hard nipples, teasing them with slow circles.

“So skinny,” Sarah gently mocked her, eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “Your hips are like a boy’s.”

“Oh, yeah?” With a grin, Dorsey pinned her up against the wall of the shower. Sarah gasped at the coolness of the tile on her back. The gleam in her eyes deepened, her lips parting in surprise.

“I’m not a boy,” Dorsey told her.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You better show me.”

So she did.

* * *

Outside of Romeo Falls was open country, mostly fields with burgeoning crops of wheat, corn and alfalfa at that time of year. There were no streetlights out there. A car cruised slowly along the highway, its headlights the only illumination now that the moon had retreated behind a woolly blanket of clouds. There was no other traffic, not in the predawn hours of a weekday morning. The car, a nondescript family sedan, slowed to a stop in the middle of the road, its headlights converging on a sad little mound of fur. A dead possum. It was a big one, well over ten pounds by the look of it. The driver got out of the car, retrieving a shovel and a large plastic trash bag from the back of the vehicle. The possum was approached tentatively and poked first gingerly and then sharply with the shovel to make sure it really was dead. It was. The claws and the teeth were no longer any threat. There was little blood, but the neck was clearly broken, the pathetic little body clearly lifeless.

“I guess you’ll have to do,” the driver muttered, bending down with the trash bag.

Chapter Eight

Dorsey woke up at six like she always did, with or without the alarm clock. Although she’d only gotten a few hours of sleep, she felt marvelous. Refreshed, relaxed and energized, all at the same time. Her basement bedroom had a window near the top of one wall. A few stray beams of early morning sunshine were leaking through a gap in the curtains to spill across the sheet and patchwork quilt that covered her.

She’d forgotten what a pleasure it was to wake up the morning after having been so thoroughly touched, rubbed, stroked, caressed, licked, kissed and sucked to kingdom come the night before. So to speak.

So thoroughly
fucked
, she thought, stretching luxuriantly. She couldn’t recall when she’d last felt so happy. She hazily remembered Sarah leaving sometime in the night. No doubt she wanted to be properly back at Chez Bigelow before sunrise. Dorsey noticed a folded slip of paper on the nightstand. She sat up and reached for it with a smile.

Dear Dorsey,
she read,
I’m watching you sleep as I write this and you’re so beautiful. I don’t want to leave, but I have to. Until I see you again, all I’ll be able to think of will be your skin on my skin, your lips on my lips…

The note ended there. Breathlessly, she read it again. She even held it to her face to see if any lingering scent of Sarah remained behind. It didn’t. She laughed at herself for acting like such a fool and jumped out of bed to get dressed and face the day. As she put on her jeans, the thought came to her that Sarah hadn’t signed her note. That pulled her up short for a second. She read the note a third time. Then sighed. Was she already picking apart her moment of happiness, looking for signs and symbols that probably weren’t there? She thrust the note into the back pocket of her jeans and resolved to be happy in the moment as best she could.

Goodman had already left and Shaw was not in evidence as she ate a bowl of cereal at the kitchen table. She wondered if he was still asleep upstairs. He was due at the store at seven thirty per the schedule on the refrigerator, so he’d better get a move on, she thought, wherever he was.

As if in response, the outside door to the kitchen opened and Shaw strolled in, looking mighty pleased with himself. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on the day before and hadn’t shaved. Clearly, he’d been out all night.

“Well, where have you been, buddy boy?” She felt a sisterly obligation to bust his chops at least a little bit.

Shaw shrugged and gave her a smile, but no reply. She grinned back. He went to the sink to wash his hands, then selected a bowl out of the drainer on the counter.

“So what’s her name?” she persisted, more than a little curious. Hopefully not that youngest Lucchese girl, she thought. Shudder.

Shaw set down his bowl and picked up the two wineglasses that were in the sink. Dorsey had brought them up from the basement, intending to wash them with her breakfast dishes. He looked at the glasses speculatively, holding them up to the light and twirling them slowly. After shooting her a look, he set the glasses back down and joined her at the table, pouring cereal into his bowl.

“I guess I might ask you the same question,” he said cheerfully.

The rest of breakfast time passed in a mutual and peaceful silence.

* * *

“So what do you think, Chief?”

Luke Bergstrom stared grimly at the hood of his police cruiser, which was parked in the driveway in front of his house. Officer Gargoyle’s question didn’t register. He was still engrossed in the fact that someone had defaced his vehicle in front of his house. While he was asleep in there, with his wife and his children. Luke prided himself on his professionalism and he wasn’t showing anything but a bleak detachment to his subordinate, but he was deeply angry. Enraged, in fact.

“Chief?” Officer Gargoyle asked him again.

Both of them stared at the road kill gruesomely displayed on the hood of the car. It had been a possum, but was now more a collection of gory body parts. The severed head, the gutted torso, the tail and the extremities had been placed in the four quadrants defined by a large red X which was raggedly spray-painted on the hood. Flies buzzed around the sickening mess.

“Get the camera,” Luke told her, rolling up his sleeves methodically. “Get it all—pictures, prints, bag the evidence, you know the drill.”

“You got it,” she said. She was as incensed as he was by this insult to their department, but she was excited as well. This was different than the usual moving violations, drunken fights and petty thefts she normally dealt with.

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it, Luke?” she asked him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Like somebody is working up to something.”

“Like what?” Gargoyle said.

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes narrowed, his face like stone.

“I wish I knew,” he said.

* * *

The next seven days were the happiest week of Dorsey’s life. She and Sarah found many opportunities to spend time together, both with and without Maggie, who’d been reluctantly pulled into teaching a few days of summer school classes for a sick colleague. On one of those days, Sarah joined Dorsey out at the Bartholomews’ place, where the deck was nearing completion. The freedom of knowing they were alone and no one else was around for miles was exhilarating. They made love in the hayloft above the barn as an afternoon rain shower softly fell.

“Is that big goofy grin all for me?” Sarah teased her as they lay in each other’s arms afterward, contentedly spooning on a blanket and listening to the raindrops on the roof. She was propped up on one elbow, gazing down at Dorsey’s face.

Dorsey turned to her. “It’s for you,” she agreed. “And for me too. I just feel so happy when I’m with you.”

Sarah charmingly blushed and pulled Dorsey in close. “You make me happy too,” she said, making Dorsey’s heart skip a beat.