The Book of Eleanor (16 page)

“Wow, you live out here? This is still part of the Fingers area, right?” I asked.

Angie came around the Jeep and took my hand, silently leading me across her front yard and to the far side of the house. From there, I could see, stretching off to my left, the true Fingers with their homes and condos reaching all the way to the water. Most of the homes had extensive decking that reached out into each wide channel. Waterfowl were everywhere, pelicans even roosting outside residential doorways. I noted that just about every home had a boat moored into a type of floating garage or dry dock below the building proper.

The area was like photos I had seen of Venice, Italy with narrow peninsulas of building crowded land stretching out into shallow waterways that were used like highways. It might have been smaller and shallower here perhaps, but I’d never seen the like in real life. I had a sudden urge to kayak between the homes. I laughed at the folly of that idea. I’m sure I would be topsy-turvy and underwater in no time.

I turned to Angie and saw her watching me, her eyes filled with a serene fondness. I leaned into her and kissed her. It happened without warning, without plan. I just felt drawn in and unable to help myself. There was something about Angie, something special.

The kiss was innocent at first, but one of Angie’s powerful arms went around my waist. I was crushed into her body and I suddenly wanted more. My mouth opened for her. I invited her to fill me with her essence.

The kiss deepened. The world disappeared, snatched away into the ever-present sea breeze. All I felt was Angie’s wind- roughened lips against mine. She smelled like the ocean and earth blended, a powerful aphrodisiac that shot through me, igniting feelings that had been dormant too long. My desire swelled, my body rising like the ocean at high tide.

I pressed against her, my breasts and pelvis soft cushions between us. My hands left Angie’s arms and roamed along her upper chest to feel the hard planes of muscle I had sensed there. I cupped her head in my hands even as her hands moved lower on my back, grasping my bottom and pressing me into her even harder.

A hiss of pain doused cold water on our union. I realized I had inadvertently touched the bruises on her neck. I stepped back quickly, moving to the distance of her outstretched arm. Her hand still held mine by the fingertips. Her eyes were dark pools of slate blue desire.

We were both breathing heavily. We studied one another for the better part of a minute as the world returned with boat sounds, people sounds, and the sounds of water and wind.

She smiled at me, an indulgent smile of promise. I know my face and neck had turned bright red. She grasped my hand more tightly and pulled me toward the cottage door. I hesitated.

“I’ll behave,” she croaked, seeing my doubt. “Promise.”

I followed her inside, wondering if
I
could behave.

Her cottage consisted of three large open rooms. I noticed right away that Angie lived very simply. She had only a few pieces of furniture including a sofa, which she pressed me into, an easy chair and a coffee table with only a candle on it. The kitchen was as neat and simple as the main room. She headed there and returned with two bottles of water from the small refrigerator.

“Wait for me. I’m gonna shower and change, okay?” she whispered.

I nodded. One of her hands gently brushed my cheek as she moved away. I keenly felt her absence and mentally shook myself.

Standing, I wandered across the room to the sliding glass doors. The bay stretched before me in its own particular glory. The waves heaved, with froth like white lace slapping against the breakwater below Angie’s private deck.

What was I thinking, trusting Angie? Surely this…was she seducing me? I whirled and looked at the interior of the cottage. So many things remained unexplained.

I wanted to take her at face value, but had to wonder what the money was for—a matter of financial need, or was she one of those con artists I’d read about who prey on wealthy tourists? Maybe she was a drug addict.

I strode into the kitchen and guiltily opened a few cupboards. Angie had the bare necessities only: a few dishes, a handful of mismatched silverware. A laptop computer rested on the bar separating the kitchen and living room. I noted a pet bowl and a small bag of cat food, but no cat that I could see.

I strode across the main room and peered into the bedroom. The double bed was made haphazardly, the clothes Angie had been wearing tossed across the foot of it. I saw a tall bureau and a mirror hanging on the partially open bathroom door, but that was all.

I heard the shower running. Steam had already frosted the face of the tall, thin mirror. A huge trusting part of me wanted to go join Angie in the shower. But that other part, the part that told me about my vulnerability since Mary’s death, kept me paralyzed.

The noise of the water switched off abruptly. I rushed back to the sofa, my breathing ragged.

We drove back to Grey’s house slowly on a meandering, sight-seeing path. I wanted Grey to see Port Isabel from a native’s viewpoint. We went out North Shore and came back in along Trout and up Island Avenue so she could get a good feeling about all the Fingers.

I drove along back roads, showing her secret inlets that the tourists knew nothing about. We stopped and watched a congregation of egrets and a tall, dour, great blue heron as he high-stepped among them. We searched for dolphins off Pompano, but didn’t have much luck.

It was fun racing along the wind with her, and fun having an entire Saturday off work.

 I was still warmed by that incredible kiss we’d shared and I was flying high. She seemed subdued, though. I hoped she wasn’t already regretting that moment of bliss.

I figured she was thinking about Mary. I had felt her sadness about Mary’s death, so I knew it still affected her, but I was patient. I would wait for her to heal and certainly would not push for anything more in the meantime.

It was late afternoon by the time we got back to Grey’s house. We had stopped at Pirate’s Landing for shrimp baskets, which we ate sitting out on her deck as the sun made ready for bed.

“Why do you think Mary is doing this to me, Angie?” Grey asked quietly. The ruddy glow of the lowering sun rested on her fine features when she turned her face toward the water.

I lifted an ankle and rested it on my opposite knee, chewing as I gave her question some thought. I took a large gulp of water so I could more easily swallow with my still smarting throat.

“I’m not sure,” I finally said. “You say your relationship was a good one. Maybe she
is
angry that you are living on. Doesn’t understand it.”

“But why attack you, though?”

“Jealousy?” I offered.

She stood and carried her basket into the house. I followed, puzzled by her abruptness. I tossed the remains of my meal in the trash bin and opened my mouth to speak, to ask what was bothering her. She spoke before I could get my words out.

“I need to work. Need to repair that panel. It has to be mailed out on Monday morning.” The grimness of her mouth put me off.

I decided to retreat and give her some space. “Sure. I’ll spend some time in the Bookmark, see if I can pick up something,” I whispered.

“Good idea,” she said, turning and perching on the high stool at the drafting table.

I retrieved the poetry book from the coffee table. If there were any answers, I believed they were connected to this book somehow. I needed to open to it to see if I could glean some information.

The Bookmark glowed with a dim ruby sheen from the sunset over the bay. I closed the door to the apartment, but was surprised when Grey snatched the door from my hands.

“Angie. Be careful,” she said, her eyes searching my face. “If anything happens, call out or make a noise. I’ll hear you, okay?”

I nodded and laid a palm on her shoulder for reassurance. Nothing penetrated to me through the fabric of her T-shirt, but I could see the poorly hidden concern in her gaze. She pushed the door closed, but left it ajar about two inches.

I moved into the room and switched on several lamps before taking a seat in an easy chair in one of the conversation areas.

I have to admit that I had a moment of flashback, remembering the attack of the previous evening. I steeled myself, knowing that running from my fear would be as productive as teats on a boar hog, as my Mama liked to say. Grey could not have a normal life until this issue was dealt with, and as far as I was concerned, the faster life returned to normal, the better.

I reconsidered my earlier thought. When life returned to normal that meant I would have to return home. Not that home was a bad place, but I was certainly enjoying this rarefied time alone with Grey. The thought of it ending tore at me.

My hands moved up to touch my throat. This was a dangerous situation. I needed to resolve it somehow, and quickly, before more havoc hurt one of us more permanently.

Sighing, I placed the book on my knees and scrubbed my palms against my denim shorts. It was time.

I lifted the book and held it flat between my palms. I took a deep breath and opened to it.

My Anna

You are

abandoned

Forgive my lie

My love lives on

Yet I weep

My world is

Darkened

Without your

Smile

I decided to jot the poem down on my notepad before I blotted it out of my cartoon strip. Just in case we needed it. I read the phrases line by line as I whited them out with correction fluid. I tried to make sense of them. Someone named Anna had been abandoned, but is still loved by someone who misses her. I wondered suddenly if Mary had had another girlfriend when she was alive. Was she looking for her even after death?

“What do you think, Ossie? Would Mama Mary have done that to us?” I looked into the cat’s sleepy golden eyes, resting at half-mast, and she twitched her tail at me in answer. “Yeah, I don’t think so either but I have to tell you, I’m a little perplexed by this whole poetry thing.”

She closed her eyes. I took that as a clear reprimand to get my butt back to work.

I studied the panel. Part of Mister Marks’s face was obliterated, as well as his thumb, and the outer corner of Suzy’s desk would have to be replaced. Luckily, I hadn’t done shading or background work, or I would have had to redo that whole panel, if not the entire strip.

I pulled together my tools as I idly wondered what Angie was doing. I shook my head to clear it. Seemed like every other thought was about Angie now. I was getting a little rankled. The best course of action would be to keep her on task until we discovered what it was Mary wanted. That way she could go back to her bewildering life, and I could get on with the business of healing and getting Mary’s Bookmark off the ground.

I suddenly remembered the grand opening and made a mental note to draw the flyers and put them around town in all the local businesses early next week. Spring break was starting. I hoped to generate a little interest among the college crowd who were used to coffeehouses filled with books—probably a useless endeavor as most of them come to South Padre to stay blitzed out of their minds for an entire week. Still, I counted it a good starting point.

I turned my attention back to the strip. I’d never had such a hard time focusing on my work. Even after Mary’s death, I had been able to pay attention and get the job done. I chewed my bottom lip. Between Mary’s ghost and Angie’s distracting presence, I wasn’t doing too well.

I pushed the disturbing thoughts away. Using my ruler, I crafted straight lines that would combine to form the usual backdrop for Sassy Suzy’s office.

Her office was glassed in, and in the background was a busy secretarial pool full of cubicles and busily moving people. I sketched them in, using well remembered movements to create well remembered characters. Even though the work was repetitious, I still loved cartooning. I liked coming up with clever jokes that fit my characters’ personalities. I liked placing props in strategic locations. I liked the artistic processes of crafting space and time to convey an idea to my readers. I’d discovered nothing else in my life to date that quite matched the satisfaction I gleaned from my chosen profession.

I opened my watercolors and took my favorite brush from the slotted jar of water on my worktable. I shaded Suzy’s skirt with a subtle wash of color, swiping across each of the five panels for consistency. I tended to stick pretty close to the CMYK color model consisting of cyan, magenta, yellow and black. I usually used a stock cerulean for the blue. I couldn’t reproduce magenta, so I would overlap the blue and yellow when needed.

I used blue for the skirt, so I chose yellow for the cardigan. Mister Marks’s suit would be my usual blue mixed with some black. I had just finished the last wash of the boss’s suit when I felt eyes on me. I smiled and leaned back.

“So what do you think? Looks pretty good. You can’t even tell where I had to fix it.”

When there was no response at all, I suddenly knew it wasn’t Angie behind me. My breath hitched in my throat and I felt adrenaline flood my system. Thankfully, I had closed the dining room drapes, so there was no reflection in the windows to further torment me. I couldn’t turn around, even when the breath coming from my mouth condensed to a white cloud in the frigid, frigid air surrounding me.

“Please,” I whimpered. “Please go away. I can’t love you like this, Mary. I just can’t.”

The presence lingered a moment longer, and then thankfully moved away. I heard a volley of unintelligible whispers and a wail before I felt alone again. I slowly turned to the door of the Bookmark and saw jerky movement behind the vertical parting between door and jamb.

I steeled myself and stepped off the stool. I approached the door cautiously, smelling cigarette smoke.

“Angie? Everything okay in there?” My voice sounded the way I felt, choked up and terrified. “I just had kind of a…weird...”