4. Chapter 4 – Clay
L ucy weighed my invitation. Her eyes narrowed.
I held up my hands. “Just dinner. I want to say thank you for volunteering for this art series. I couldn’t do it without you.”
“I’ll drive myself.”
She said it grudgingly, but she’d agreed. Pleased, I smiled. Baby steps.
“Sure. Do you want to meet me in town? I’ll lock up behind us and then meet you there. What sounds good?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “A gummy and two hours in front of the TV.”
“How about dinner and a beer at the brewery instead? They’re still open.”
“Deal.”
Lucy waved me down from a table as I entered the brewery. The chaos was at a minimum on a Wednesday night.
“I was hungry, so I ordered for you,” she said.
“Thanks. What am I having?” I half-expected her to say crow.
I should have stayed for her classes. Hiding in my office wasn’t part of our deal. But I needed time to adjust to the realization that she’d given me an unhealthy penchant for electric fences. Gaining her trust without taking a few thousand volts would be a challenge.
She rolled her eyes. “A burger, medium well, hold the onions, with ranch for your fries.”
A flicker of hope licked through me. I clutched a hand over my chest, giving her my most charming grin. “Awww, you’ve been paying attention. Thank you.”
“Don’t get too excited, Robertson. It’s easy when you order the same thing every time. Don’t you ever get tired of burgers?”
“Nope.” I leaned closer, enjoying the way her dark eyes widened slightly as I entered her space. “I’m competent enough in the kitchen, but every time I make burgers, my patties shrink.”
The corner of her mouth twisted, amusement lighting her up. “It’s not every man who’ll admit his meat shrinks.”
“What can I say? Meat doesn’t make the meal. My other dishes are mouthwatering.”
“Yeah? What are you known for?” The dare in her eyes made me grin. Did she realize she was flirting with me? She held up a hand. “And if you say spotted dick, I’m cancelling your order.” She pointed toward the counter. “And banishing you to the bar.”
Chuckling, I relaxed against the back of my chair. Twiddling a coaster between my fingers gave me time to think. “Well, I make a pretty mean Better than Sex cake.”
“I’ve always felt conflicted about those recipes. On one hand, I love cake. But on the other, if it’s better than sex, are you doing it right?”
“Okay, maybe not my best example. I also do a really great dirty rice recipe.”
“Ooh. Now you have my attention.”
Distracted by the way her pink lips parted on the ooh, it took me a moment to respond. “Mission accomplished. Dear Diary: today Lucifer said something nice to me. ”
She snorted, shaking her head. “Knock it off, Robertson. You do not keep a diary.”
“I most certainly do.”
“Why? And if you say it’s all about me, you’re getting a face full of beer.”
Telling her the truth might jeopardize our playful partnership. Talking about death was a real buzzkill. But she needed to know I wasn’t always joking.
“My therapist recommended it.”
She blinked. “You’re talking to a therapist because I tease you?”
I chuckled. “Relax, Lucifer. You’re not that bad. I’ve been seeing a therapist and journaling since long before I met you.”
“Well, shit. I can’t mock you if it’s therapy. I’m a bitch, not a total jackass.”
“You’re neither.”
“ Right . I bet if your journal ever became state’s evidence, it would prove you’re a liar.”
“Ouch, Lucifer. You think I don’t tell you the truth?”
She arched one dark brow. “Exhibit A: the marriage proposals.”
She wasn’t ready to hear that they weren’t a lie. Or a joke. I’d learned the hard way not to wait for the good things in life.
“Tell you what. Someday, I’ll let you read my journal from the first day we met.” Her expression went from confident to nervous. I winked. “But we’re not ready yet.”
Our dinner arrived, and conversation turned to more innocuous topics: why a trail of hot dog buns was discovered along the main road, if the ferries would ever be fully staffed for an entire month, and general island gossip.
As a relative newcomer, I was still figuring out the who’s-who.
“How long have you lived on the island?” I asked.
Lucy shrugged. “I started my residency five years ago and took over the studio full-time three years after I started.”
“Where are you from originally?”
“The Olympia area.”
“You still have family there?”
“Yep. What about you?” she asked.
“I’m an only child. My folks are retired and live near Denver, where I grew up.”
“Does the Parks Service move you around a lot?”
“I have permanent status. At this point, I can choose to stay or request a transfer.”
“Did you choose San Juan?”
I hid a smile. Her curiosity revealed more than she realized.
“Yes.” I weighed my words. “My wife passed away, and, ultimately, I decided I needed a change. Colorado held too many bittersweet memories.”
Something flashed in her eyes. Maybe the world’s fastest am-I-the-asshole calculation as she thought back to our traded barbs and marriage proposals.
Her hand stretched toward mine. For a moment, I thought she’d graze my fingers. At the last second, she curled her fingers under, bypassing my hand for the water carafe, refilling my glass and hers.
“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine,” she said softly.
There was true remorse in her tone. For a second, I wished I hadn’t told her.
That she could continue viewing me as her happy-go-lucky asshole of an art partner who was too charming for his own good.
With no more depth than a rain puddle and no real feelings.
Watching her recognize in real-time that she’d misjudged me wasn’t as satisfying as I’d thought.
“What was she like?”
Her simple question made me pause. So many of my thoughts of Jen were shadowed by her illness. But there were happier times, especially in the beginning.
“There was a lightness to her that made everything seem easy. We met in high school.”
“Let me guess, she was the head cheerleader?” Lucy asked it with a tiny smile. No sign of scorn.
“No. Yearbook and cross country. I used to joke that she ran until I caught her.”
“She sounds like she kept you on your toes. I bet it was good for that giant ego of yours.”
My laughter surprised me. Most of my memories of Jen were wrapped in sadness. It was nice to talk about the good times.
“What about you? What brought you to the island?”
My question hung in the air. Her gaze swung to meet mine, the new somberness there making me wish again that I hadn’t told her about Jen.
My attempt to change the subject and dig into her background at the same time was painfully transparent.
But I could always count on Past Lucy to take the bait, even if she swam with the line and tangled me in the rocks as punishment.
“My aunt Patricia owned the studio here and offered me a residency to learn from her and eventually take over.”
A real answer.
“So you weren’t a blown glass artist before?”
Lucy chuckled. “Not exactly. I’d done a residency with the Pilchuck Glass School.”
“I have no idea what that is, but it sounds fancy.”
“Sure. About as fancy as knowing the Latin names for the foxes.”
I clucked my tongue. “I don’t know how you do it. I’m too klutzy to work around liquified glass.”
She laughed softly like she didn’t believe a word. “Clay. You work around cliffs and wildlife and other assorted dangers. You’d do fine. Just like the parks, I have safety protocols.”
Whether she’d meant to or not, she’d presented me with an opening. “Will you teach me sometime?”
She twirled one of her dark pigtails, arching her left brow. Her mouth quirked to one side as something playful danced in her dark eyes. “You sure you trust me around glass that’s more than 2,000 degrees?”
“Any time.”
My words were simple, but heartfelt. Probably more honest than she’d believe.
“I didn’t have you pegged as a risk-taker, Robertson.”
Slowly, I let a grin stretch my cheeks. “I like making deals with the Devil.”
“Be careful, you might not like what I ask in return.” Her eyes flashed. “But you’re on.”