Shelter in Place (Page 101)

She’d join his face with the others, all the others, and cast them in bronze as she had Reed. Cupric nitrate, she thought, for the subtle and beautiful greens and blues, to mirror the water.

She could do this, would do this, not only because she’d finally found it inside her, but because the man she did love helped her open the rest.

She put on her gloves, turned back to the sculpture of Reed.

Hours later, her shoulders stiff from the final steps of sealing—waxing and buffing—she went down to CiCi’s studio.

Through the glass she saw her grandmother at her framing station, so she walked in.

“I wondered if you’d surface.”

“So did I, but I— Oh, CiCi, I love it. Reed’s house, the lupines like a sea of color, the woods, the light! Fairies in the woods, just a hint of them in that dappled shade.” She murmured, “And Reed standing on the widow’s walk with Barney, with me.”

“That’s how I see it. I’m going to give this to him—and, as I see it, you—for Christmas. You’ll be living with him by then unless my granddaughter’s an idiot. Which she’s not. I think this would work in the master bedroom.”

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” She took CiCi’s hand. “Can you stop for a minute, come outside?”

“If there’s an adult beverage involved, I can.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Give yourself and Reed a break,” CiCi said as they walked out and across to the patio. “Go to his place tonight. You’ve both been working crazy hours. You’re both tense waiting for that next shoe to drop since that last ugly card arrived. Go, crack a bottle of wine, and have a lot of sex.”

“I’m on that same path because, you see? I finished him.”

CiCi’s breath caught—the artist and grandmother felt her heart soar. “Oh, oh, Simone.” She walked to the counter where it stood in the late afternoon light. “It has life, a pulse, a soul, and more. Oh, the patina, such light and depth and movement. The detailing, the flow.”

She let the tears burning her throat free. “Get me that wine, baby, and a tissue. I’m overwhelmed.”

She took a breath, moved around the sculpture as Simone opened a bottle. “Years ago, back in Florence, at your first show, your use of Tish, your Emergence, grabbed me just this way, brought me to tears this way. You do beautiful work, Simone, some of it stunning. But this, like Emergence, has your heart and soul in every line, curve, angle.”

She took the glass, the tissue. “He’s magnificent. He breathes. You won’t have to tell him you love him when you show him this. Unless he’s an idiot. Which he’s not.”

“I’m ready to tell him.”

“Then go do it.” CiCi drew Simone close. “Go get your man.”

* * *

In her beach cottage, Patricia used the second bedroom for weapons—guns and ammo, a night-vision scope, poisons, syringes, knives. Her HQ, she thought. She would put up maps of town, document her target’s routines, his close associates. She’d learn where he drank his beer, ate his lunch, who he fucked.

She’d keep the door locked, tell the housekeeper her husband was territorial about his office space. No entry allowed.

She set men’s toiletries in the master bathroom, put men’s clothes in the master bedroom closet, the dresser. Later in the stay, she’d leave men’s shoes here and there and other items carelessly tossed around.

She set out a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, which she’d dog-eared and marked up in advance. Hiking gear that read male, a bottle of top-shelf gin, which she’d pour out into the sink a bit now and then, her unblended scotch—which she’d drink herself—a couple bottles of fancy wines and craft beers, the food supplies she’d bought at a stop at the market.

Satisfied, she went out for her first stroll through the village.

Easy to mix and meld with groups and crowds, simple to wander into a shop and buy a few trinkets—including a pair of bathing trunks and a Light of Tranquility T-shirt she told the shopkeeper her husband would love.

She spotted Reed within a half hour, holding a dog on a leash while he—from the looks of it—gave a bunch of people some directions.

You’ve come down low, big-shot detective, she thought.

She didn’t follow him directly. She strolled, crossed the street, window-shopped. But she kept an eye on him all the way back to his rinky-dink police station. And considered it a good start.

* * *

After Simone’s text, Reed decided, for once, he could go home before dark. Maybe the day only seemed quiet after the craziness of the holiday, but it was quiet enough.

He walked Barney toward home. The itch between his shoulder blades had him circling a little, scanning a lot, but he saw nothing and no one that drew his attention.

“Can’t let the waiting psych us out, Barney. Take it a day at a time.”

Seeing Simone’s car parked in front of the house lifted him up. Seeing her sitting on the porch, sipping wine, finished the job.

“You’re early.”

“Pretty quiet today. The chief of police is taking the night off.”

“That’s handy. So am I. I’ve missed nights off with you.” She pulled a chew bone out of her pocket. “And you, too, Barney.”

“Just sit right there. I’m going to get a cold beer, and we’ll sit awhile.”

“Actually, I have something to show you.” She took his hand. “And things to say,” she added as she drew him inside.

She’d found a stand for it at the flea market—knowing he’d appreciate that sentiment, too. It stood in the entryway, a statement, to her mind: He’d protect all within.

And there, the bronze caught the early evening light just as she wanted.

He stared, speechless, and she saw on his face what she’d hoped to see. The stunned wonder changed to something else when he looked at her.

No, she thought, he wasn’t an idiot. And still, cautious.

“I … I need a second. Or an hour. Or a month. It’s hard to take in. I never expected—I don’t know why I never expected … when I’ve seen your work.”

“It’s different when it’s you.”

“That, yeah, but…” He just couldn’t wrap his brain around it. “It’s— You put Barney in it.”

“I thought at first I’d use a woman, or a child. And then I watched you with him, him with you, saw how his trust in you has changed his life, his world. Like mine for you has changed mine.”

“It’s the most amazing thing. You made me look—”

“Exactly as you are,” she interrupted. “Every hour I spent on this work showed me more and more of who you are. More of who I am. And we are. I didn’t fall in love with you during the work.”

She laid a hand on his heart. “You can give Barney some credit for when I did, how I fell when I saw you, the first time with him, washing that poor, skinny, scared dog, laughing when he soaked you and licked at your face. I fell realizing you had that inside you.”

He closed his hand over hers. “Say it, okay? I don’t care if he gets the credit. I’ll buy him caviar Milk-Bones. But I really want you to look at me, Simone, look at me and say the words.”

“This is who you are to me.” She touched the sculpture. “This is who you are,” she repeated, pressing her other hand on his heart. “This is the man I love. You’re who I love.”