The Turning Season (17 page)

“What do
you
want?” Celeste says in a hard voice.

“How about an apology?” he answers. He gestures at his face, and we can see the thin red scars of multiple scratch marks across his cheek. Much faded, but maybe never to go away.

“The way I remember it, you attacked me,” Celeste says. “So you're the one who should be apologizing.”

He's shaking his head in angry admiration. “I never did see such a prick-teaser in all my life.”

She puts her hands up in a gesture that might simply signal she's done with the conversation—or might be designed to remind him that she's capable of clawing his eyes out. “Look. We don't like each other, so let's just avoid each other from here on out. I'm walking away.”

She turns aside, but before she can take a step, he plants himself in her path, crowding her off the sidewalk. “Maybe I don't feel like avoiding you,
Celeste
,” using her name like it's an insult. “Maybe I think you owe me a little something for treating me so bad.”

She stares him down. “If you think I'm too ladylike to start screaming bloody murder in a public place, boy, have you got me wrong,” she answers. “Get away from me.
Now.
”

He backs up just a step. “Maybe you won't be in a public place next time I see you, Celeste.”

“And maybe you'll be in jail the next time I see
you
,” she shoots back.

This time, when she tries to brush past him, he makes no move to stop her, and the two of us hurry down the path fast enough for him to figure out he's rattled us. “You have to tell Sheriff Wilkerson,” I say.

“I already filed one report about him. They already know he's a creep.”

“Yeah, but he just threatened you! And he knows your
name
! What if he comes to your apartment?”

“I didn't tell him my last name. I'm not that stupid.”

I glance somewhat fearfully over my shoulder and see Bobby Foucault in conversation with the pretzel man. Maybe he's just buying the mustard special. Or maybe he's getting exactly the information he needs.
Oh, that pretty lady? That's Celeste Saint-Simon.

“I don't like it,” I mutter.

Celeste shakes her hair back and consciously shakes off the mood. “You worry too much,” she says, and gives me a big smile. “I'll be fine.”

T
he second date with Joe starts out exactly like the first one. We meet at Paddy-Mac's at six on a Saturday night, I order cider while he opts for beer, and we talk as easily as if we have known each other since we laid our mats side by side during naptime in kindergarten.

I don't change shapes, though. Nothing at all goes wrong. We stay through dessert, we linger through coffee (in his case) and decaf tea (in mine). We decide the cool evening isn't too cool to make the thought of a walk enjoyable, and we stroll at a dawdling pace past every single establishment in the Square. We pause for five minutes to talk to the guys who are checking IDs at Arabesque; we think about stopping at one of the quieter bars to get another nightcap. But we're hooked instead by the music boiling out of Black Market, a Train tune that has both of us executing little dance steps right on the sidewalk.

“You wanna?” Joe asks with a grin and I giggle and nod.

Inside, it's a chaotic swirl of too many bodies and not enough lights, and, of course, there isn't a table free in the whole place. But I find a rack to hang my coat on and I sling my purse strap across my body so my handbag won't get in my way, and we head directly to the dance floor. It seems the set has just begun, so we romp through eight or ten songs, barely needing to take a break between numbers. The band mixes it up, old songs segueing into new ones, but we're happy either way; we just want a danceable beat. I'm not quite sweaty but I'm certainly a little heated by the time the lead singer pauses at the mike and says, “Now we're going to slow things down just a little bit.”

“Damn,” I say, just as Joe says, “Wish they wouldn't do that.”

But the song they pick is “You Send Me,” one of my favorites, and I can't help an involuntary
oh
as the crooning starts.

“Well, this one isn't too bad,” Joe decides, holding out his arms. “Should we try it?”

I adjust my purse so it's behind my hip, and I step into his embrace.

It's like the longest and best hug I've ever had in my life. We move with the music, slowly, barely taking a step in one direction and then another; we're swaying more than dancing. His arms are around my back and my head lies on his chest, and it's not too much to say I feel cradled against him, a sensation I had never expected to find so delicious. I can smell the detergent he's used on his laundry, the deodorant and aftershave he's used on his skin, and the faint scent of perspiration caused by exertion, all of them unexpectedly enticing, comforting, familiar. That's it exactly—he seems familiar to me. And yet I still barely know him.

I want to groan out loud when the music stops, and this time he's the one who says, “Damn.” The lead singer shouts into the microphone, “Thank you all very much! We're going to take a quick break now, but stick around and we'll be back in fifteen minutes!”

Joe lets go of me—with some reluctance, or so it seems—and I look up at him. “Want to stay or want to leave?” I ask.

“Hardly seems like we could top that,” he answers.

“I agree. Time to go.”

Once we step outside, I realize it's both much colder and much later than I'd thought. In fact, it's edging up toward 1
A.M
.; it'll be close to two before I make it home.

“I feel like I'd be pushing it if I tried to convince you to go for a drink somewhere,” Joe says. “But I really don't want you to leave.”

“Pretty much exactly what I was thinking,” I say.

“We could get coffee,” he offers. “Make sure you're awake for the drive.”

I shake my head. “I'll be fine. But I do need to be on my way.”

We turn in the direction of Paddy-Mac's, where we left our vehicles, but we walk really slowly. “I can't help feeling this is bad planning,” Joe says. “You having to make such a long drive after we've had such a great night. Could you—I mean, if you wouldn't feel weird about it—would you feel comfortable staying at my place?” He glances down at me. “I'd sleep on the couch.”

“It requires a little more planning than that because of all the animals,” I explain. “If I'm going to stay in town, I need to make sure someone can come in and feed them.”

He nods and then asks, “What happened last week? When you were sick?”

I don't miss a beat. “Bonnie called a guy named Daniel, who lives down my way. He's the one who usually covers for me in emergencies.”

Joe stops me with a hand on my arm. “I think it's an emergency,” he says, and bends down to kiss me.

It's better than the dance that seemed like a hug. Better than hard cider or ice cream or my first human meal after shifting back from animal shape. Better than oxygen.

“Yeah, wow, maybe,” I murmur when he finally pulls away. “I can see where an emergency might be right around the corner.”

“So you want to stay?” he asks, his voice husky.

But I'm not ready, not yet, not so soon. Pleasure and desire are singing an operatic duet in my head, but I need to think this through. I'm a shape-shifter, for God's sake. How can I even consider falling in love with a human man? Or letting him fall in love with me?

“Not this time,” I say, my voice still almost a whisper.

He lifts a hand to stroke my hair, the side of my cheek. “I could come out to your place,” he offers. “Follow you there, or just take one car. You'd have to come back to town tomorrow morning if we did that, though.”

I swallow a laugh. “Not this time,” I say again. “But maybe we can figure something out next time.”

He kisses me again, just a swift little reminder kiss, a placeholder, maybe. “All right. But you have to call me when you get home so I know you're safe. That's a long, dark drive.”

I take his arm as we recommence walking even more slowly back to our cars. “You don't need to worry. I've made that drive more times than I can count.”

“I can worry if I want to. So call me. Promise.”

“Promise.”

Another block, and we're at my car. Another kiss and then I pull away, a little shaky, and make myself climb into the Jeep. “Talk to you later,” I say.

“See you soon.
Really
soon,” he answers, and I laugh and drive away.

Though all my thoughts remain behind in Quinville.

*   *   *

N
aturally, Ryan is not happy about recent developments—the ones in my life, the ones in Celeste's. I hadn't thought he would be in a position to approve or disapprove of anything I've been doing, but apparently Celeste has been filling him in on a regular basis.

I find this out Tuesday afternoon when I'm in Quinville getting supplies and Celeste meets me for coffee at the only Starbucks in town. You'd have thought a Nordstrom had moved in the way Celeste celebrated its arrival a few years ago. Whenever I'm in town and she's not at home and she doesn't answer her cell phone, I come here. She's usually sitting in one of the big soft chairs, venti double espresso latte in one hand, iPod in the other, blissfully drowning in music and caffeine.

On this particular day, it's where she suggests we meet, though she doesn't mention that Ryan will be joining us. Still, I'm over Ryan, right? I'm thinking about hooking up with a new guy. I shouldn't feel this sudden breathlessness followed by an adrenaline rush. I shouldn't be thrilled or panicked or—who knows?—maybe both.

“Hey,” I say coolly as I join them. They're sitting at a cozy round table made for two, but they've borrowed a chair from a nearby table to make a place for me.

Ryan's on his feet almost as soon as I'm seated, and I can't tell if I'm relieved or disappointed that he's leaving so soon. But I am not so lucky.

“I need a refill,” he says, briefly laying a hand on my shoulder. “What can I get you?”

“Um—how about tea and a cookie? Decaf.”

“I'll have a cookie, too,” Celeste says.

There's a certain amount of settling and desultory so-how's-it-going talk as we wait for our orders and rearrange ourselves around the table. But soon enough Ryan's blowing on his coffee and I'm watching my tea steep and all the preliminaries are abruptly over.

“So you've got a boyfriend,” Ryan says to me.

“I—what?” I shoot an accusing glance at Celeste, who just smiles. “I've had a couple of dates with someone, yes.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Oh, I'm sure Celeste has supplied all the relevant details.”

“I want to hear all about him from you.”

I make a big production of removing the tea bag, squeezing out the last drops, and placing it on a napkin, where it instantly stains straight through to the table. “Well, you're not going to,” I say sweetly. “And aren't you glad? That means I won't talk to
him
about
you
.”

He grins, but there's a calculating look in his eyes. Like he's trying to figure out what persuasion will work on me. “Well, I think I know the most important thing about him already,” he says. “He's not one of us.”

“One of our small circle of petty, judgmental, and gossiping friends?” I can't help asking.

“Hey, I'm not petty,” Celeste says. She's grinning, too. She thinks this is funny.

Ryan leans closer, easy to do considering our cramped quarters. “Not like us,” he says in a voice of quiet authority. “And you
know
what I mean.”

I sip my tea even though it's too hot. “Maybe that's what I like about him.”

Ryan shakes his head. “People like us should stick with our own kind. It's too dangerous otherwise.”

“Is that right?” I marvel. “Wouldn't know it by your behavior. You're forever picking up cute little chickies, brainless and beautiful, and I'm pretty sure you're not finding out how much they're
like you
before you start getting friendly.”

“That's different,” he says. “I'm not getting serious with them.”

“That's worse,” I say, in the exact same tone of voice. “It makes you an asshole.”

“Children, children,” Celeste chides us. “Do I have to separate you?”

“Maybe,” I say. I'd thought I was keeping my cool, but I am definitely ruffled. Who is Ryan to tell me what to do and who to date? “Or maybe you should just stop talking about me behind my back.”

Celeste shrugs, unconcerned. “I talk about everyone. It's what makes me such a delightful conversationalist.”

Ryan isn't ready to let it drop. “All I'm saying,” he insists, “is that people like us are different. We have to be more careful. We have to know our boundaries. We have to know where we can put our trust. And it's not with outsiders. The only ones we can
really
trust are each other.”

“That's a bunch of bullshit,” I say. “What about Bonnie and Aurelia? What about Janet? We've had plenty of
outsiders
as friends and they've never betrayed us.”

A girl at a nearby table gives me a curious look, and I wonder how much of our conversation she's actually overheard. I wonder if she's trying to figure out what qualities differentiate “outsiders” from “people like us.” Does she think we're gunrunners or drug smugglers or prison escapees? I take a moment to imagine her reporting us to Sheriff Wilkerson and trying to explain what, exactly, made us seem so suspicious. I can almost hear him saying:
Ahuh. And do you think they would consider
you
an outsider? And did you ever believe yourself to be in danger?

“We didn't meet Janet and Bonnie and Aurelia when our judgment was clouded by lust,” Ryan answers.

“Oh for God's sake,” I snap. I turn to Celeste. “Change the subject, or I'm leaving right now. And maybe I'll go straight to the home of my outsider boyfriend so I can pant my lust all over him.”

Joe happens to be in Joliet at the moment, attending a nephew's birthday party, but I haven't mentioned this to Celeste and am not about to say so right now.

She smirks at Ryan. “I told you it wouldn't be a good idea to give her a talking-to.”

He shrugs. “Had to say it. Friends speak up when they're worried about their friends, even if they know the conversation will make everyone angry.”

“That's it,” I say, and make a show of gathering up my purse and jacket.

“No, no, no,” Celeste says, placing a hand on my arm. “Stay. We'll talk about other things.” She nods at Ryan. “How are the injections working?”

He makes a visible effort to lighten his expression. “Good. I had a week of nausea, but then everything settled down and I haven't had any side effects.”

I'm still too annoyed to shift mental gears, but Celeste keeps the conversation going. “And you haven't had any of your usual—symptoms—since you started the shots?”
You haven't changed shapes as long as you've been using the serum?