Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

MARY

I’m used to things running through my head on repeat. Usually, they’re unpleasant things. This one is different.

You’re a beautiful, sexy woman, Mary O’Shea.

Jace has turned an excruciatingly embarrassing afternoon into something different. His words have woven into me, just like the sensation of his fingers brushing along my neck, and I can’t gather myself enough to walk out to the kitchen and act like nothing has changed, like it’s business as usual to sit and have hot chocolate with Aidan and a man who makes me feel like I’m the star on top of a Christmas tree. Glenn never once made me feel that way. No, I realize now that Glenn made me feel competent. That’s what I’d wanted at the time. But now…

Jace makes me want things I have no business wanting, one of which is to feel like the beautiful, sexy woman he claims to see in me.

So I watch him leave my bedroom, taking in the muscles moving beneath his shirt and the way his jeans hug his butt like they’re fond of it— Mary, control yourself!

Taking a steadying breath, I pace in my bedroom, picking out its flaws—(a) the boring beige, (b) the practical panties, and (c) the blank walls—and I wonder if this really is what I look like inside. God, I hope not.

Then my gaze catches on the corner of the box Maisie gave to me, the one I haven’t been able to bring myself to open. I go to the door, listening, and hear murmurs from the other room. Reassured that no one will catch me—a ludicrous thought! I’m an adult, opening something that belongs to me—I return to the box and tug at the tape. Maisie already opened it, so it gives easily, opening with a puff of dust that makes me cough, but there’s a scent that lingers at the end—vanilla with a hint of lemon and musk—my mother’s scent, and the realization puts tears in my eyes.

So much of who I’ve become was shaped by her, good and bad.

Emotion, hot and cold and uncomfortable , wells inside me as I pick up one of the pointe shoes and run my fingertips over it. There’s a neatly folded green leotard underneath and a wrap dance skirt. The wanting I feel in this moment is nearly as powerful as the frankly ridiculous urges I have whenever Jace is around.

My reasons for giving up dance seemed so convincing at the time. Now, I feel a gaping sense of loss for all those years I could have been soaring and chose to sit in a chair instead. Not that I regret becoming a lawyer—I like what I do—but I could have at least allowed myself to dance for fun. I didn’t need to strip it from my life entirely, as seamlessly as Glenn stripped away his plus-two. Now, though, it’s too late. Or at least it feels too late.

I use the treadmill in the basement after Aidan goes to bed. I go for walks. I sometimes do yoga at a studio run by Maisie’s sister-in-law. But I don’t dance.

Aidan calls my name, startling me out of my thoughts, and I stuff the shoe back into the box as forcefully as if it were a second vibrator. Then I push the box back into its corner and head to the kitchen.

“Mom, we’re finished!” Aidan hollers, his voice much louder than it needs to be. “We finished the hot chocolate and the snack. You were in there for a long time. Did you have a stomachache?”

My gaze skates to Jace, whose eyes are full of heat. Glenn has blue eyes too, and I always thought there was something cold about the color—that it prevented them from showing emotion—but Jace’s eyes aren’t like that. They’re like the hottest part of a fire.

“Aidan reminded me that he’ll be at his grandparents’ house this weekend,” he says.

Something shivers down my spine. Anticipation. Fear. Desire. But he hasn’t finished yet, and he continues, “If you’re willing”—I can hear Nicole’s dark chuckle in my head, as if she’s become my inner demon—“I’d really like to build that model with him. Maybe you can get back to me about a good day?”

“Uh. Yeah,” I say, wondering if I’m imagining the hint of insinuation or maybe just wanting to hear it. But no. There was no misinterpreting what he said to me, or the way his fingers felt, tracing the line of my jaw. “We can talk about it this weekend.”

“I’d like that,” he says smoothly, no pause at all. “You can call me anytime.”

“Can I call you anytime too?” Aidan asks excitedly.

Jace’s eyes flick to me before settling on him. “If you have your mom’s permission. It’s always important to ask for permission before calling another adult.”

It’s a perfect answer, or at least I think so. Aidan is scowling a little.

Jace must see it too, because he says, “I’m looking forward to building a model together, buddy.”

Aidan claps and jumps out of his chair. “This was a good visit, Jace. I’m glad you came, even if you’re not very good at Race to the Treasure. I had to explain the rules a lot .”

Jace doesn’t seem remotely offended. In fact, he’s grinning as he stands from his chair, the height and heft of him so big it makes our “cozy” kitchen feel like an Amazon box with a door. Not in a bad way, though. For a man who takes up so much space, he does it in a way that doesn’t make you feel claustrophobic or small.

“Yes, it was a good visit,” he says, looking at me, and I find myself wondering if I will call him.

Can I work up the nerve?

Aidan and I walk him to the door, trailing him like a couple of groupies.

“Goodbye, Aidan,” Jace says, and to my surprise, Aidan darts forward and hugs him. It’s not that Aidan avoids touch—in fact, he loves being tickled—but it usually takes him a while to get there with someone.

Emotion clogs my throat, and I see something flash in Jace’s eyes too. This means something to him.

“Mary,” he says with a nod, the sound of my name in his voice projecting everywhere, like the roots of a weed.

And then he turns, and he’s gone.

I don’t need to look at Aidan to know he feels it too—something bright has been snatched from us.

His face falls. “Mom, I forgot to ask him about decorating our tree.”

“If we ask him, I think he’ll do it,” I say.

Because I’m starting to believe that.

It takes me a long time to get to sleep that night. The empty walls seem to be staring at me with accusation. So I grab my laptop and start Googling for underwear and bra sets (the ones I have looked incredibly sad in Aidan’s tiny hands, like they belonged to someone’s great-grandmother), and after I buy a few—okay, five—I move on to looking for a new duvet cover. The leotard in the box was a deep emerald green, and I find myself drawn to a duvet cover that’s a similar shade. On impulse, I buy it. Then, remembering my depressing gray phone case, I order one that’s a bright, deep blue.

It still doesn’t seem like enough.

It’s the walls in this room. The emptiness of them felt almost like a blank slate when we first moved in, but we’ve been here for over a month, and they’re still as blank and white as the day we arrived. I could put up a few of the framed prints from our house in Charlotte, or even the inappropriate needlepoint Molly gave me (“make today your bitch”). But none of those choices feel right. I have the weirdest urge to buy a painting. Not a print, but a legitimate, paint-on-canvas painting.

As part of Maisie’s wedding weekend, a group of us went on an Art Walk. Glenn stayed behind at the hotel to work, but Dottie offered to babysit, and on a whim, I let her. (When I picked Aidan up, he’d acquired a cat sweater—we’ve never had a cat, but according to Dottie we will someday—and a copy of I Am a Rainbow: A Children’s Guide to the Chakras .) I didn’t go on that Art Walk with the intention of buying anything. And I didn’t, other than a small gift for my sister. But being there, seeing so much talent on display…I felt a spark kindle inside me. I was so stirred by it that I asked Glenn to go back with me before we left and, shockingly, he did. Through his eyes everything had looked smaller. Amateurish. Gaudy. Cheap. The spark had been doused. But what would it be like now that I was free?

My life is falling apart—no, it fell apart months ago—and I want to buy a painting.

The strange thing is that once that revelation lands and settles, I fall asleep quickly.

The itch still hasn’t faded the next day, so I take myself to the River Arts District during my lunch break. It’s unlike me to take a long lunch twice in one week, but when I tell Hilde what I’m after, she grins. “You might want to pop into the glass store. They have some lovely ornaments.”

As she says it, her gaze lands on the naked tree beside my desk. At least I’ve remembered to water it. That’s something, right?

I get a fizzy sense of anticipation as I drive to the River Arts District, the buildings painted with murals that remind me of Jace’s hidden tattoos. The sensation only builds as I park my car and approach a building that houses several studios.

Something significant is about to happen—or maybe it’s already happening.

It doesn’t take me long to find it. If I believed in any of Dottie’s talk of energy and fate and crystals, I’d have to conclude I was drawn to it, magnet to metal, but I don’t. Or at least I never have before.

It’s an abstract painting, the colors neutral, except for one slash of color—red and orange and yellow—that seems to be whirling across it.

It makes my heart lift, unfurls a sense of wonder within me, and makes my feet itch to dance.

I glance at the plaque beside it and do a double take. The Fortune-Teller Series #3, Adalia Buchanan.

Adalia Buchanan is Maisie’s sister-in-law. I’ve met her a couple of times, including at Thanksgiving this year, but we haven’t exchanged more than a handful of words. She’s an artist, so it’s not surprising that I should find her work here, although I didn’t realize she painted. She’s known for her sculptures—huge hulking works of metal and trash made to look like other things. Did she really paint this?

“Mary!” The voice behind me startles me enough that I jump slightly.

A woman with bouncing blond curls, overalls, and a bright red headband materializes behind me. I feel a throb of self-consciousness. Adalia will tell Molly and Maisie about my visit to the studio, but then again, what’s the harm in that? They want me to be happy, and it’s not as if I can buy a large painting without them seeing it at some point.

“I’m thinking of getting myself a Christmas present,” I say, standing a little taller. “I didn’t realize you do paintings too.”

“Not usually,” she says. “But my big guys were too much for me when I was pregnant.”

I get a flash of Jace’s huge body, the bulk and weight of all that muscle, and wonder for what has to be the thousandth or hundred-thousandth time what it would be like to feel him against me. Inside of me.

My blush gives me away, again, and she laughs merrily and says, “Yes, I absolutely know how that sounded.” Her gaze lifts to the painting, and her smile stretches wider. “One of my favorites. You know, going to see a fortune-teller changed my life.” She lifts her hands as if to swat at my skepticism. “No joke. I used to think it was BS, but if it weren’t for that fortune-teller, Finn and I never would have gotten married.” She makes a face. “Or at least it would have taken significantly longer for me to figure out he’s not a stuck-up prick.”

She gives me a weighing look, as if I’m another potential stuck-up prick, and she hasn’t yet made up her mind about me. “What do you see when you look at it?”

The answer slips from my lips. “A dancer.”

Adalia seems to brighten, although she’s the type of person who’s so bubbly she’s always kind of bright.

“Is it supposed to be?” I ask.

“Not to get all mystical on you,” she says, “but it’s supposed to be whatever you want it to be.” She gives me one of those weighing looks again. “And it’s yours. Merry Christmas.”

Horror washes through me. “No, I couldn’t possibly. I came here to buy something. I would never expect you to give me something for free just because you’re Maisie’s sister-in-law. I value your work, and—”

“I can tell you do,” she says quietly. “And that’s why it needs to go home with you. Just call me Santa.” For good measure, she grins and adds, “Ho, ho, ho.”

A baby’s cry filters into the air, and Adalia’s eyes widen. “I have to leave now. Like, immediately—Lorelai is not patient—but if that painting is not gone when I come back, there will be serious consequences. I don’t know what they’ll be yet, but they’ll be dire.”

“But—”

“Take it, Mary.” She’s already backing away, smiling at me. “I made three paintings in the fortune-teller series. This is the last. I’ve given each of them to the home they’re supposed to go to. I can tell this one needs to go to you. And if you tell anyone I said that, I’ll tell Dottie you want one of her deep cleansing tonics. Trust me. You do not.”

Then she’s gone, and I’m left with a dilemma. Take it, or leave it.

My eyes narrow on that colorful streak whirling and twisting across the canvas. I take it.

On the way back to the office, I stop at the glass store and buy two ornaments. One for my tiny tree and one for the crappy tree at home. I have to have faith that Aidan will want to decorate it one day.

With or without Jace.

When Hilde stops by on her way out, she sees the spun glass bulb hanging from the tiny tree and smiles. It looks kind of ridiculous, given it’s the only one and also much too large for the small tree, but she says, “It’s a start.”

And, weirdly enough, it feels like I’ve finally made one. A start on me, that is.

I find myself looking forward to my drinks with Nicole. Will she be proud of me? Because I feel strangely proud of myself.