Waters Fall (7 page)

“Your work is incredible, Tristan.” She had to say something, even if just to be polite. “You're truly gifted.” She turned her back to him again, berating herself for sounding so mundane, and let her eyes rest on the painting again. She reached up and
hovered her fingers over the contours of a coiled wire protruding from a thick patch of cerulean blue, not quite touching it. “The way you use... stuff....”

“They call it 'trash' these days.” He chuckled softly, probably over her hesitance to speak openly anymore.

“The way you use trash to create something so beautiful.” She turned toward another painting, this one shadowed and disturbing. “Or so terrible.”

“Thank you.” Tristan glanced down at his watch. “Do you have some time, Miss Nora? I'd like to show you something.”

It was a little after one. “I probably have about an hour.” Her heart fluttered inside her chest at her lack of caution. Maybe she should have asked what he wanted to show her first.

“My studio is just a few blocks away. I'd love for you to see it. And Janelle can vouch for me,” he added, almost as an after-thought. “I'm not going to kidnap you or anything. In fact, you can follow me in your own car.”

Nora hesitated. How inappropriate could it be? His studio was his work place, not his home. It would be like him stopping by her office, wouldn't it? Just business. Besides, she liked his work, and she'd be able to promote him better if she knew more about him.

I'm justifying this,
she admitted to herself, and her expression must have given her thoughts away.

“Come on. Be reckless. Make Seth Adams proud that you claim his song.” He stepped back to allow her to pass. “In fact, Ms. Reckless, ride with me in my car. I'll have you back in forty-five minutes, I promise.”

“I... I should probably get back. I don't want to be late.” Red lights were flashing behind her eyes, sirens screaming in her ears.

“Late for what?
You said you have an hour. Where do you need to go?”

“I'm picking up my children from school. I can't be late.”

“I won't make you late, I promise.”

8

She didn't ride with Tristan in his car. She might be
reckless, but she wasn’t crazy. She did, however, follow his roaring, teal-blue, 1970s Camaro four blocks away, to a lovely old Victorian where he housed his studio. He was out of the car and waiting for her by the time she pulled in the driveway behind him.

Now more curious than afraid, Nora entered the house as he held the door open for her. Just inside the front entry was an ornate circular staircase, and she followed him up two flights to a turret-room that was all windows, darkened by drawn curtains. He pulled open the panels of one section of windows to let the light in, and she gasped as she gazed around the octagonal room. Canvases and easels, pedestals and palettes, all were scattered about in organized chaos. Everywhere she looked, she also saw small piles of trash, pieces of junk in which Tristan saw potential. Half-finished sculptures, incomplete paintings, pages and pages of pencil sketches tacked to what wall space there was.

“Oh, my.”

Tristan chuckled.
“That’s what you said when you saw my
Isolde
. Does that mean you like this, too?” He slowly wandered through the space, rearranging a few things, straightening, adjusting, his fingers drifting over canvases and brushes, as though greeting everything personally. She watched, feeling a tiny bit intrusive, like she was watching a private moment, as he interacted with his tools. He stopped on the other side of the room and propped himself against the ledge of a window, hands braced on either side of him. He gazed at her, his eyes bright, waiting for her reply.

“This room seems made for an artist. You fit perfectly here.” Well, that sounded forward and assumptive, she chided herself. But the big man just grinned and nodded, watching her from his perch at the window.

She was just beginning to feel awkward under his scrutiny when he spoke again. “I have a confession. I had an ulterior motive for bringing you here—”

“Oh, no,” she interrupted. Her heart began to race, and her hands went instantly damp, as she turned to find the door. What on earth had she been thinking? Here she was, alone with a very large, and very attractive stranger, who had somehow climbed right past all her defenses in the last hour. And no one knew where she was, not even Janelle. Tristan had simply called out “We’ll be back!” as they headed out the door of the art studio together, and Nora hadn’t insisted on any more than that.

“No! No, Nora. Please don’t go.” He was across the room in a moment, his hand gentle on her arm. “That didn’t come out right. It’s not that kind of motive. I’m sorry I alarmed you. Please.”

She paused, her back to him, trying to regain her composure before facing him. She was confused and embarrassed, feeling completely out of her element, yet drawn to him in that flushed way she hadn
’t experienced in many, many years.

Even though she didn
’t want to admit it, she really liked the way she was feeling. She liked the way her heart was pounding, so differently than it had the night before when her inebriated husband had tried to kiss her. She liked the way Tristan's eyes made her awkward in a newly-aware kind of way. But she knew there was only one place this would all lead if she gave in to her feelings.

“I should go.
Now.” Her voice sounded much more stable than she felt.

“No. Please don’t go,” he said again. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” Tristan removed his hand from her arm, and she took another step toward the door. “Just hear me out, okay? When you first saw my
Isolde
, there was something in your face, something in the way you were looking at her, and I wanted to try to capture it on paper. I just want to do a quick sketch, okay? You can even stand right by the door, and I’ll work over there.” He indicated a drafting table across the room. “It will just take a few minutes, I promise.”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to be sketched.
Especially today. You know, I’m not thinking very clearly. I feel a little... well, a little… lost, I think, and I really should go.” She finally looked up at him, only to find his features in shadows, back-lit by the afternoon sun streaming in the window behind him. “I need to leave, Tristan. I’m sorry.” She pushed open the door and stepped from the hypnotic embrace of the turret studio, hurrying down the stairs and out the front door.

She was fumbling with her keys, her fingers trembling and clumsy, when she heard his footsteps behind her. He reached around her and covered the car door handle with his hand. She noticed flecks of chartreuse and cobalt paint on the backs of his knuckles. She stepped back, placing enough distance between them so she could breathe her own air.
“What are you doing, Tristan?”

“I’m really sorry about how this has all gone down.” His voice was low, soothing, and she braced herself against the seductive assault to her senses. “Maybe it was that vulnerability and lost feeling you were talking about up there that caught my eye when we were at the gallery. I wanted to capture that, and I was afraid if you walked away, I’d forget
what it looked like. I didn’t mean to take advantage of you and whatever you’re going through, but I think that’s exactly what I’ve done.” He removed his hand and stepped back from the car. “I’m being honest, Nora. I’m not a creep, and I’m not accustomed to having to convince people of that fact. Give me a little grace here, okay?”

She took a deep, steadying breath.

“Okay.” Looking up at him finally, she could see sincerity in his face, and his words made her feel a little ashamed she’d assumed the worst of him. “I’m sorry I got all weird on you up there. I thought I was having a bad day, then I thought I was having a good day, now it seems like I’m having a bad day again. I can’t keep it straight. I’m all extremes and opposites today.” She smiled a little. “I feel like your
Isolde
.”

Neither of them spoke for a few moments, her words hanging between them. Nora desperately wished she could draw them back inside, as her imagination ran wild with what it might mean to belong to this man, to be his. She could only guess what he was thinking. It might have been a while since a man
’s awareness made her notice, but she knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this man was extremely aware of her as a woman.

She heard Vicky
’s voice in her head. “Don’t for one second think you’re safe just because you’re a Christian, Nora. Satan is a liar and a deceiver, and he wants to destroy you and your family. Traps are real, my friend. Run like mad in the other direction.”

Nora had laughed the advice off.
“You don’t have to worry about that, Vicky. This isn’t about another man. One man is more than enough for me to deal with.”

Traps are real. Run like mad. Traps are real
. The words paced back and forth through her head.

“Look, Tristan. I’m not very good at games, and I feel like this might be one. I need to leave before I say anything else that might mislead either one of us. Thank you for showing me your art and your studio.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m especially glad that I got to… to experience your
Isolde
. She’s beautiful. She’s exquisite.”

He looked at her for a few moments, some internal struggle going on behind his gaze, but he seemed to accept that her mind was made up, and he took her hand in both of his.
“Well, I apologize again for my behavior. But I will tell you that I’m even more sorry for how this encounter is ending. If this is a game, then obviously I’m not very good at playing, either. I hope the rest of your day turns good again. I really do.” He released her hand and took her car keys from her. “Allow me.” He unlocked the door and held it open.

“Thank you.” She smiled weakly as she climbed in. “And thank you for the strangely awkward, yet stimulating hour I’ve spent with you.”

He cocked his head, his raised eyebrows making fine lines form across his forehead. “Is that a compliment?”

“Yes, in fact, it is. I haven’t been awkwardly stimulated in a long time.” Her eyes widened, and she covered her face with her hands to hide her mortification. “You know, I just need to close my mouth and drive away. Give me my keys before I say anything else.”

Tristan was laughing out loud now. He gently closed the door for her, waited for her to roll down her window, then handed her the keys. Leaning down so she didn’t have to crane her neck to look up at him, he tried one more time.

“Listen, Miss Nora. I was serious about wanting to sketch you. If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me, okay?” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out a business card. “Here’s my number. Just call and we can schedule a sitting. It doesn’t have to be in my studio if it makes you feel uncomfortable. I can meet you at a coffee shop, at your work, wherever you choose. My offer stands. I mean it.” He straightened, his eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. “Besides, I’ve never been accused of being awkwardly stimulating before.”

From the safety of her car, Nora felt a bit more composed and slightly reckless again. “Okay, now you’re just making fun of me. That’s no way to convince a lady of your good intentions.”

“Who said anything about good intentions?” He cocked his head and grinned disarmingly. Nora blushed. “Give me another chance, okay?” She hesitated a moment longer, then accepted his card. She glanced at it briefly and smiled up at him.

“Thanks again, Tristan,” she said noncommittally. As she backed out, she tried not to pay too much attention to the man in her rear view mirror, who stood in the driveway, hands in his pockets, watching her until she was out of sight
.

9

“Jake, do not go pick up the kids. I repeat. Do
not
pick
up the kids. I've got them. I'm just running a little late and I can't get through to the school. I don't want you driving anywhere with them.”

Jake listened to her message on his cell phone as he sat outside the house in his truck. He must have been brushing his teeth when she called. Hearing her tone, he was glad he hadn
’t picked up. She didn't sound any different than she had when she left; still angry and belligerent.

“Well, what should I do?” He asked the question out loud, testing his ears, the throbbing in his head, to see if he could handle extraneous sounds.
“Tolerable, at least.”

The school had indeed called his cell phone, then the home phone when he didn't answer. He heard Betty's familiar voice in the answering machine, and he hurried over to pick up before she finished leaving her message.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson. This is just a courtesy call to let you know that Felix is here in the office waiting to be picked up.”

“Thank you, Betty. I thought my wife was picking up the kids today. I must have misunderstood her. I'll be right
there.”

Not one to mince words, the secretary simply said,
“We'll see you shortly then, Mr. Anderson,” and hung up.

No call yet from Leslie's school, but if Felix was still waiting for a ride, then Les was too. They always picked her up after Felix because she was older and liked it when she was one of the last kids there.

Giving her the benefit of the doubt, Jake dialed Nora’s number. His call went straight to voice mail; maybe she was trying to get through to him again.

He continued to sit, debating whether or not to brave the chaos of the school office in his condition. He dialed Nora
’s number again and held the ringing phone several inches from his ear. This time, she answered.

“Jake. I'm on my way to pick up the kids. Just ran into some unexpected traffic on the freeway.” She sounded anxious and defensive. He knew she hated being late to things, especially when it involved the kids.

“Are you sure? I'm sitting in the truck only five minutes away. Do you want me to pick up Leslie at least?” As he said it, it occurred to him that he didn't really want to pick up Leslie, at least not by herself. He wasn't sure he could handle the weight of her questioning stare today, without Felix’ nonstop chatter as a buffer. He crossed his fingers, silently begging Nora to say no.

“I'll get them both, Jake. Don't even think about driving around with my children in your condition.”

“Our children.”

“Not when you're drunk, they're not.”

“I'm not drunk, Nor.”

“Whatever, Jake.
You're not driving around with them today. Not in your condition.”

He hated to admit it, but his relief was so great he actually smiled, albeit weakly.
“Fine. You pick them up. I'm going back to bed.”

“Get a lot done today, I take it?” Nora's snide remark stung, and he did something he'd only done one other time in
his life, and that time had been by accident when he dropped the phone into the toilet. He hung up on her and did not call her back to apologize.

Crawling under the covers, he couldn't help but catch a whiff of her familiar fragrance wafting over from her side of the bed. He breathed in deeply, a sense of forlorn longing in his gut. He loved it, her unique smell combined with the perfume that reminded him of coffee cake and morning love-making. She
’d worn it since before they met. It made his chest feel tight, thinking of her, and he turned onto his side, facing the wall.

The mess she'd made earlier when she threw the cup at him cleaned up quickly. He deserved a whole lot worse, if he was honest with himself. As he swept up the debris, he considered what it must have been like for her to come home and find him passed out in the bathtub. And he could only imagine what had been going through her mind this morning as she opened windows to clear the stench of his binging that tainted everything in their bedroom, their sanctuary. He even had an idea of how betrayed she must have felt last night when he reached for her, and she realized his drunkenness. He had a snapshot memory of the look on her face at that moment, and he wished the alcohol had taken it from him, too, the way it had taken his good sense.

“Where have you been, Nor?” he muttered to himself. He knew she hadn’t gone back to her office. Carl Halston, her landlord, had called looking for her. An electrician was coming in first thing in the morning to install some additional outlets for her, and he wanted to make sure she’d be there a little early to let him in. Jake promised to pass along the information and assured Mr. Halston that she would take care of everything like she always did. The man was more than happy to let Nora handle the service call. She'd rented space from him for almost four years now, and she was his favorite tenant.

Jake's phone jingled on his nightstand, and he lifted his head to look at the number. He didn
’t recognize it, but it was a local area code, so he answered it. “Hello?”

“Hello. Oh. Hello. I'm looking for Nora Anderson. I must have dialed the wrong number.” The woman on the other end of the line sounded a little flustered.

“This is Jake, her husband. Can I help you?”

“Oh. I thought I was calling Nora’s phone.”

“Her number ends with a 6, mine with a 9. Otherwise, they're the same. You probably just slipped and hit the wrong button.” It happened all the time.

“Oh! That's exactly what I did. Well,” the woman hesitated a moment as though trying to make up her mind about something. Then she continued. “Can you give your wife a message for me? Let her know that the day is almost over, and I still haven't heard from her. “

“That's it? Kinda cryptic, isn’t it?”

“Cryptic, yes.”
It sounded like she was smiling. “I’m trying to guilt her into calling me. And I’m Vicky.”

“Jake. Are you a client of Nora's?”

“No, just a friend.”

“Okay. I'll give her your message, Vicky.”

“Thank you. Goodbye now.”

Nora had never mentioned anyone named Vicky before. Some of Nora
’s regulars thought they were more like friends. That’s why they kept coming back; Nora made them feel special. But why did Nora need to call her by the end of the day?

He put the phone down and tried to relax, but he couldn't stop thinking about all that had happened over the last twenty-four hours.

Drunk again. Even he could hardly believe it. All it had taken was one drink and then there was no reason to stop. They told him it would happen that way at his Alcoholics Anonymous meetings so long ago, but after so many years? Last night, he’d convinced himself that he’d been sober long enough to be able to control his consumption. When the guys ordered that first round, he threw in his card and paid for them all, including one for himself. The cute little waitress smiled sweetly at him, acknowledging his generosity, and it made him feel good.

That first shot made him feel even better.

By the time they all parted ways, Jake was plastered, and even he knew it. He was always good at hiding his condition from other drinkers, especially when the alcohol was just beginning to have its effect on his system, and he convinced everyone he was fine and didn't need a ride. How would he explain the absence of his truck to his wife?

He was fumbling with his keys, trying to fit the wrong key into the door of his Blazer, when the waitress who
’d been so attentive all night approached him. “You okay, Jake?”

He wasn't sure how she knew his name, but she was awfully pretty, and her voice poured over him like cool water.
“Now that you're here, I am.” He reached over and tugged on a strand of hair that had come loose from the clip at the back of her head.

“Can I help you with that?” She came and stood right beside him, blocking the light from the lamppost behind them, her body casting a shadow on the lock.

“I can't see my keys now. You're blinding my light.”

“Blinding your light, huh?” She laughed, and Jake put his arm around her shoulder, leaning into her. “I don’t think you should be driving, big guy.”

“I’m fine,” he slurred, squinting down at her, but her face was too close to focus on.

“No, you’re not fine,” she giggled. “How 'bout I drive you
home, and you can call me a cab from your place in the morning?” Jake let his arm fall away from her shoulders, then brought his hand up to her cheek, his thumb caressing her bottom lip.

“I don’t think my wife will like that.”

“I don’t know. Maybe she will.” Her voice came from somewhere low and beckoning, and he tipped his head to listen to it, not really caring what words she spoke. “Give me your keys, Jake.” She had turned so that she was leaning back against the driver’s door, facing him. She reached for the keys dangling from his fingers, but instead of taking them, she grabbed his hand and pulled him up against her. He didn’t resist. “Or we could go to my place and I could have you all to myself.” Then she reached up and pulled his head down, pressing her pretty lips to his mouth.

He felt a tremor course through his body; it was an unexpected shock to his system, like bumping up against an electric fence. He jerked his head up, staring down at her upturned face.

“I'm married. I love my wife.”

“Of course you do. I'm sure she's great. Come here and kiss me again.” She slid her fingers into his hair and pulled him toward her again, standing up on tiptoe now to meet him halfway.

The second kiss lasted much longer than the first, her mouth open and wanton under his; the third and fourth one blended together with the fifth as he leaned into her, pinning her up against his truck.

“Come on,
Jakey,” she murmured. “Let’s get out of here.”

The name hit him like a bucket of cold water, and Jake lurched backward, stumbling a little in a pothole in the pavement.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. What am I doing? Oh, God, help me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. No, no, no. I can't. Oh, I'm so sorry...” He didn't even know her name. “I'm so sorry for this. I have to go. Please, please forgive me. My wife. I love my wife. Oh, God, forgive me.” His throat was tight with shame as he none-too-gently gripped her by the shoulders and moved her aside. He clambered up behind the wheel, scrubbing the back of his hand across his mouth.

Jake pulled his pillow over his head now, his stomach churning as the memories of his night played over and over in his mind. How could he let that girl kiss him like that? How could he kiss her back?

And then he drove home! He didn't remember anything after pulling out of the parking lot. Nothing. How did he get home? How did he make it here alive? Without killing anyone else? Shame washed over him in wave upon wave, and he groaned into the pillow.

If she hadn
’t called him Jakey, who knows what might have happened.

~ ~ ~

Dinner that night in the Anderson home was a
lighthearted event. Jake stayed in bed, claiming the flu, and the kids were empathetic. Nora, still basking in the after-glow of the surreal afternoon spent with Tristan, was thoroughly enjoying the antics of her children. She glanced at Jake's empty chair a few times, but every time she did, the thought popped into her head that perhaps his absence was the reason it was so pleasant tonight.

Nora had the kids help her clean up after dinner,
then they set up a board game on the table. Not having a fourth person determined which games they could play, and she thought there might be a problem when Felix really wanted to play one that required equal teams. But they compromised and played Sorry, a family favorite.

“I don't think it's fair that a guy has to go back home if another one lands on the same square,” Felix muttered, having had his game piece sent home for the third time.

“That's the reason it's called 'Sorry' Felix.” Leslie had no qualms whatsoever about booting someone else's piece.

“Well, I don't get it. In Candy Land, we share the spot. In this adult game, we fight over it. Doesn't that say something about being an adult?”
             

“
Hm,” Nora murmured, nodding her head. “You know, I think you might have a point there.”

“Yes. Yes, you do. In fact, I think I see it!” Leslie jabbed at the top of Felix's head.
“Right there! It's poking through your hair! Disgusting!”

“Cut it out! Mom, make her stop poking my head.”

They read together on the sofa before bed every night, except when Nora didn’t get home in time. The latest book, a story about a stow-away on board a pirate ship, was full of adventure and mystery. Even though Leslie claimed she was too old to need a bedtime story, she enjoyed the tradition just as much as Felix did. So did Nora.

She and Jake often read together in the first year of their marriage. He was an avid Tolkien fan, and she was happy to oblige, as Tolkien was a favorite of hers, too. She began reading out loud to her children when they were still in utero, and hadn't stopped since.