Whiskey Beach (7 page)

“Hi. Don’t mind me. You just stand there while I drag all this in by myself. No, no problem at all.”

She’d nearly managed it by the time he crossed over. “I’m sorry. I meant to get in touch, to tell you this just isn’t a good time.”

She leaned back against the door to close it, let out an audible
whew
. “Too late,” she began, then her easy smile faded when she focused on his face. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing.” Not much more than usual, he thought. “This just isn’t a good time.”

“Do you have another appointment? Are you going out dancing? Do you have a naked woman upstairs waiting for hot sex? No?” she answered before he could. “Then it’s as good a time as any.”

Depression spun into annoyance on a finger snap. “How about this? No means no.”

Now she blew out a breath. “That’s an excellent argument, and I know I’m being pushy, even obnoxious. Chalk it up to keeping my promise to Hester to help, and the fact that I can’t stand seeing anyone—anything—in pain. Let’s make a deal.”

And damn it, that reminded him of his earlier one with his grandmother. “What are the terms?”

“Give me fifteen minutes. If after fifteen minutes on the table you don’t feel better, I’ll pack it up, get out and never bring up the subject again.”

“Ten minutes.”

“Ten,” she agreed. “Where do you want me to set up? There’s plenty of room up in your bedroom.”

“Here’s fine.” Stuck, he gestured toward the main parlor. He could push her out of the house faster from there.

“All right. Why don’t you start a fire while I set up? I’d like the room warm.”

He’d intended to light a fire. He’d gotten distracted, lost track of time. He could start a fire, give her ten minutes—in exchange for her leaving him the hell alone.

But it still pissed him off.

He hunkered down by the hearth to stack kindling. “Aren’t you worried about being here?” he demanded. “Alone with me?”

Abra unzipped the cover on her portable table. “Why would I be?”

“A lot of people think I killed my wife.”

“A lot of people think global warming is a hoax. I don’t happen to agree.”

“You don’t know me. You don’t know what I might do under any given set of circumstances.”

She set up her table, folded away the cover, movements precise and practiced—and unhurried. “I don’t know what you’d do under any given set of circumstances, but I know you didn’t kill your wife.”

The calm, conversational tone of her voice infuriated him. “Why? Because my grandmother doesn’t think I’m a murderer?”

“That would be one reason.” She smoothed a fleece cover on the table, covered it with a sheet. “Hester’s a smart, self-aware woman—and one who cares about me. If she had even the smallest doubt, she would have told me to stay away from you. But that’s just one reason. I have several others.”

As she spoke she set a few candles around the room, lit them. “I work for your grandmother, and have a personal friendship with her. I live in Whiskey Beach, which is Landon territory. So I followed the story.”

The lurking black cloud of depression rolled back in. “I’m sure everybody did around here.”

“That’s natural, and human. Just as disliking, and resenting, the fact that people are talking about you, reaching conclusions about you, is natural and human. I reached my own conclusion. I saw you, on TV, in the paper, on the Internet. And what I saw was shock, sadness. Not guilt. What I see now? Stress, anger, frustration. Not guilt.”

As she spoke she took a band from around her wrist and, with a few flicks, secured her hair in a tail. “I don’t think the guilty lose much sleep. One other—though as I said I have several—you’re not stupid. Why would you kill her the same day you argued with her in public? The same day you learned you had a lever to dump some dirt on her in the divorce?”

“First degree wasn’t on the table. I was pissed. Crime of passion.”

“Well, that’s bullshit,” she said as she retrieved her massage oil. “You were so passionate you went into your own house and prepared to take three items—arguably your property? The case against you didn’t stand, Eli, because it was, and is, weak. They proved the time you entered because you switched off the house alarm, and have the time of your nine-one-one call, and because people know the time you left your office that evening. So you were in the house for less than twenty minutes. But in that small window of time you went upstairs, into the safe—taking only your great-grandmother’s ring—came down, took the painting you’d bought off the wall, wrapped it in bathroom towels, killed your wife in a fit of passion, then called the police. All in under twenty minutes?”

“The police reconstruction proved it was possible.”

“But not probable,” she countered. “Now we can stand here debating the case against you, or you can just take my word that I’m not worried you’re going to kill me because you don’t like hospital corners on your bed or the way I fold your socks.”

“Things aren’t as simple as you make them.”

“Things are rarely as simple or as complicated as anyone makes them. I’m going to use the powder room to wash up. Go ahead and undress, get on the table. I’ll start you faceup.”

In the powder room Abra shut her eyes, did a full minute of yoga breathing. She understood perfectly well he’d lashed out at her to push her out, scare her off. But all he’d done was annoy her.

In order to expel stress, dark thoughts, frustrations with massage, she couldn’t hold on to any of her own. She continued to clear her mind as she washed her hands.

When she stepped back in, she saw him on the table, under the top sheet—and board stiff. Didn’t he understand that even that weighed on his innocence for her? He’d made a bargain, and though he was angry, he’d keep it.

Saying nothing, she dimmed the lights, walked over to turn on her iPod to soothing music. “Close your eyes,” she murmured, “and take a deep breath. In . . . out. Another,” she said as she poured the oil into her hands. “One more.”

As he obeyed, she pressed her hands on his shoulders. They didn’t even touch the table, she noted. So stiff, so knotted.

She stroked, pressed, kneaded, then slid her hands up along the column of his throat before she began a light facial massage.

She knew a headache when she saw one. Maybe if she could bring him some relief there, he’d relax a little before she began the heavy work.

It was hardly his first massage. Before his life had shattered he’d used a masseuse named Katrina, a solidly built, muscular blonde whose strong, wide hands had worked out tensions built up from work, strains generated from sports.

With his eyes closed, he could almost imagine he was back in the quiet treatment room of his club, having his muscles soothed after a day in court, or a couple hours’ competing on one.

Besides, in a few minutes, the deal would be met, and the woman who wasn’t the sturdy Katrina would be gone.

Her fingers stroked along his jaw and pressed under his eyes.

And the screaming violence of the headache quieted.

“Try another breath. Long in, long out.” Her voice melted into the music, just as fluid and soft.

“That’s good. Just in, then out.”

She turned his head, worked those fingers up one side of his neck, then the other, before she lifted his head.

Here, the firm, deep press of her thumbs brought a quick, stunning pain. Before he could tense against it, it released, like a cork from a bottle.

Like breaking up concrete, Abra thought, an inch at a time. So she closed her eyes as she worked, visualized that concrete softening, crumbling under her hands. When she moved to his shoulders, she increased the pressure, degree by degree.

She felt him relax—a little. Not enough, but even that slight yield equaled a victory.

Down his arm, kneading the tired muscles all the way down to his fingertips. Part of her mind might have smiled smugly when that ten-minute deadline went by unnoticed, but she focused the rest on doing the job.

By the time she lifted the face rest, she knew he wouldn’t argue.

“I want you to turn over, scoot up and lower your face into the rest. Let me know if you need me to adjust it. Take your time.”

Zoned, half asleep, he simply did as he was told.

When the heels of her hands pressed into his shoulder blades, he nearly moaned from the glorious mix of pain and release.

Strong hands, he thought. She didn’t look strong. But as they pushed, rubbed, pressed, as her fists dug into his back, aches he’d grown used to carrying rose to the surface, and lifted out.

She used her forearms, slick with oil, her body weight, knuckles, thumbs, fists. Every time the pressure hovered on the edge of too much, something broke free.

Then she stroked, stroked, stroked, firm, rhythmic, constant.

And he drifted away.

When he surfaced, floating back to consciousness like a leaf on a river, it took him a moment to realize he wasn’t in bed. He remained stretched out on the padded table, modestly covered by a sheet. The fire simmered; candles glowed. Music continued to murmur in the air.

He nearly closed his eyes and went under again.

Then he remembered.

Eli pushed himself up on his elbows to look around the room. He saw her coat, her boots, her bag. He could smell her, he realized, that subtle, earthy fragrance that mixed with the candle wax, the oil. Cautious, he pulled the sheet around him as he sat up.

He needed his pants. First things first.

Holding the sheet, he eased off the table. When he reached for his jeans, he saw the damn sticky note.

Drink the water. I’m in the kitchen.

He kept a wary eye out as he pulled on his pants, then picked up the water bottle she’d left beside them. As he shrugged on his shirt he realized nothing hurt. No headache, no toothy clamps on the back of his neck, none of those twinges that dogged him after his attempts to get some exercise.

He stood, drinking the water in the room soft with candlelight and firelight and music, and realized he felt something he barely recognized.

He felt good.

And foolish. He’d given her grief, deliberately. Her answer had been to help him—
despite
him.

Chastised, he made his way through the house to the kitchen.

She stood at the stove in a room redolent with scent. He didn’t know what she stirred on the stove, but it awakened another rare sensation.

Genuine hunger.

She’d chosen grinding rock for her kitchen music, turned it down low. Now he felt a twinge—of guilt. No one should be forced to play good, hard rock at a whisper.

“Abra.”

She jolted a little this time, which reassured him. She was human after all.

When she turned, she narrowed her eyes, held up a finger before he could speak. Stepping closer, she gave him a long study. Then she smiled.

“Good. You look better. Rested and more relaxed.”

“I feel good. First, I want to apologize. I was rude and argumentative.”

“We can agree there. Stubborn?”

“Maybe. All right, I can concede stubborn.”

“Then, clean slate.” She picked up a glass of wine, lifted it. “I hope you don’t mind, I helped myself.”

“No, I don’t mind. Second, thank you. When I said I felt good . . . I don’t remember the last time I did.”

Her eyes softened. Pity might have made him tense again, but sympathy was a different matter.

“Oh, Eli. Life sure can suck, can’t it? You need the rest of that water. To hydrate, and for flushing out the toxins. You may feel some soreness tomorrow. I really had to dig down. Do you want a glass of wine?”

“Yeah, actually. I’ll get it.”

“Just sit,” she told him. “You should stay relaxed, absorb that for a while. You should consider booking a massage twice a week until we really conquer that stress. Then weekly would do, or even every other week if that doesn’t work for you.”

“It’s hard to argue when I’m half buzzed.”

“Good. I’ll write the appointments down on your calendar. I’ll come to you for now. We’ll see how that goes.”

He sat, took his first sip of wine. It tasted like heaven on his tongue. “Who are you?”

“Oh, such a long story. I’ll tell you one day, if we get to be friends.”

“You’ve washed my underwear and had me naked on your table. That’s pretty friendly.”

“That’s business.”

“You keep cooking for me.” He angled his chin toward the stove. “What is that?”

“Which?”

“The thing, on the stove.”

“The thing on the stove is a good hearty soup—vegetables, beans, ham. I gave it a mild kick as I wasn’t sure how spicy you can handle. And this?” She turned, opened the oven. More scent poured out and stirred that burgeoning appetite. “Is meat loaf.”

“You made a meat loaf?”

“With potatoes and carrots and green beans. Very manly.” She set it on the stove. “You were out over two hours. I had to do something.”

“Two . . . two
hours
.”

She gestured absently at the clock as she got down plates. “Are you going to ask me to dinner?”

“Sure.” He stared at the clock, then back at Abra. “You made meat loaf.”

“Hester gave me a list. Meat loaf was in the top three. Plus I think you could use some red meat.” She began to plate the meal. “Oh, by the way. If you ask for ketchup to put on this, I’ll hurt you.”