Fire and Water Page 4

  Perusing the small town as it passed, Diane watched for a decent place to eat. She was famished. Grabbing nothing but gas station snacks and greasy burgers on her way up the coast, Diane desired something substantial. Drifting farther north on Route 2, there was nothing piquing her interest. She groaned and prepared her stomach for another day old, cellophane wrapped sandwich—until a silver food truck appeared ahead, shimmering in the sun like an appetizing oasis.

  Wayworn and stiff, Diane stretched and peeled herself from the driver’s seat, stepping into the line, jutting from the truck. With quilted steel sides and a bright teal awning—matching the umbrellas shading the scatter of picnic tables in the grass—the roadside restaurant was delightfully fetching. Though Diane was skeptical of the pot-bellied farm animal stamped on the side of the truck, and the unusual restaurant name —The Bloated Goat. Diane chuckled. Wary of whatever cuisine that title entailed, Diane was surprised as she scanned the menu, finding the choices all local and fresh and organic—everything she’d been craving for the last several hundred miles.

  “Hey.”

  Startled, Diane threw her attention towards the strong, fruity voice flowing from the window above. She fell into a pair of warm, hazel eyes greeting her. “Oh,” she said, shaking her head a little flustered. “Hi.”

  “You look lost.” The younger man folded his arms on the counter and rested his chin. He flashed her a sweet and genuine smile behind his straggly, auburn-colored beard. His long hair was pulled back high in a tight bun, and his fair cheeks were nearly as red as the bandana fixed across his forehead from the exhaustive heat. “Need some pointers?”

  “That would be helpful,” Diane laughed. “Everything sounds delicious. But do you have something light? With a lot of flavor?”

  “I have just the thing.” He perked up and drummed his hands on the counter. “Hang tight.”

  As he hustled at the prep table, Diane spun and studied her surroundings. She’d only just arrived, but she had a good feeling about this place. The main road was bustling. But behind the sprinkling of variety stores, passing traffic, and cyclists speeding by, the lake glistened in the August sun. The backdrop of the Green Mountains peaking in the distance was a sweeping reminder of the tranquility she could tap into there. Vermont was stunning, and Diane felt the spark of something special in the air, standing there silently, soaking it all in.

  “All set,” he said, sliding the basket of food across the counter as Diane turned around. “Grilled goat cheese with slices of fresh avocado and sweet, buttery Valencia tomato, topped with fresh basil between a five-grain bread, and garnished with a homemade dill pickle.”

  Diane’s eyes grew wide. “You read my mind perfectly,” she said, pulling her wallet from her purse. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Have you eaten here before?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “First is on the house,” he said.

  Diane blinked. “Really?”

  “Island hospitality.” He smiled and stuck out his hand. “I’m Sawyer St. Gelais. Owner of The Bloated Goat. It’s nice to meet you…”

  “Diane.” She shook his hand. “Hollenbeck.”

  “Well, Diane Hollenbeck, if you’re sticking around, consider my little truck here the next time you need a bite,” Sawyer said, plopping a bottled water next to the food. “And keep hydrated. It’s hot out here.”

  “I certainly will,” Diane said. “Thank you.”

  Settling at one of the picnic tables, Diane relaxed under the shade of the umbrella, and took her first bite. The sharp, sweet flavors of the tomato splashed over her tongue, and the cheese melted into her mouth. She never tasted anything this good. An unstoppable moan rolled through her throat. The island, the food, the atmosphere, Diane could get used to this.

  Except it was all ruined.

  The serenity was ripped to shreds by the blaring rock music and the set of burly tires, tearing through the parking lot, sending a storm of dirt and dust into the pristine, summer air.

  Diane choked on her lunch.

  Soothing her hard swallow with a swig of water, Diane glared at the owner of the vehicle as she fixed her hair in the rearview mirror, the electric guitar still screaming from the speakers. Good grief. Diane rolled her eyes. She tried to get back to her lunch, but as the woman hopped down from the black Jeep and strutted towards the food truck, Diane’s hunger halted getting her first full look at the inconsiderate driver.

  Starting on the woman’s thick, ash brown ponytail, Diane’s eyes fell quickly. Over every inch she could see. Diane watched her, gazing at the subtle curves of her frame and the smooth stride of her step. This woman had her undivided attention, but one feature stood out the most. One feature seared Diane like no other, shocking her with a hot flash of heat.

  Ink.

  Vibrant colors covered the woman’s entire right arm, scrolled over every inch of her warm beige skin down to her wrist. Her left bicep was embellished in equal detail, with intricate, black swirls and a large bird with outstretched wings. Even from the considerable distance between them, Diane could tell those arms were put to good use—with the strong curves of her biceps, and the planes of tight muscle of her triceps. Diane imagined all the ways they must have kept their shape, and it sent a bolt of excitement speeding through her, from her chest down to her toes, hitting every sweet spot in between.

  Diane willed herself to look away, but her body downright refused, fusing her eyes to the intoxicating bend of hard muscle and artful skin. Before she had a chance to prepare, the woman came straight towards her, shooting Diane a stern look. Diane swallowed hard. She knew it was a little weird—okay, completely and utterly inappropriate—gawking at a stranger like she was. But Diane couldn’t control herself. This woman had it going on. Unlike herself. Who was not only spiraling out of control, but backwards in time apparently, looking at this much younger woman, not like a mature and sophisticated fifty-year-old, but a teenager. A lust-fueled, sex-crazed, horny adolescent.

  God, what is wrong with me?

  Plenty, from the way the woman scowled at her as she sat down at the table nearby. Diane’s cheeks reddened. She offered the woman an innocent wave and smile, hoping to make it less awkward—failing miserably. The woman was not having it. She chomped into her sandwich with a scowl and cracked open her can of root beer.

  “Can I help you with something?” she growled, her mouth full of food.

  Diane’s smile slid off her face. “I’m sorry—”

  “Your staring is rude.”

  “I didn’t mean to, honestly,” Diane voice shook. “I-I was admiring your tattoos.”

  The woman paused. She tore her eyes from Diane and swallowed another bite.

  Fiddling nervously with her napkin, Diane waited a few minutes, debating making small talk about the weather, or how good the food was, or—

  “Do you enjoy making people feel uncomfortable while they eat?” The woman smacked her hand on the table. “Or what? Tell me.”

  Diane flinched. Her heart jumped into her throat. From what Kelly Ann told her about Vermonters, they were notoriously welcoming and neighborly. But apparently Diane had the pleasure of running into the one person who didn’t fit that description. The one human who couldn’t hit friendly if it were on the broadside of an old horse barn.

  “Of course not,” Diane said, blushing. “I’m sorry. Again, I—”

  Shoving the final wad of sandwich into her mouth, the woman stood up and, with her left cheek bulging with her hasty lunch, she took off. The woman tossed her food wrapper into the trash, threw Sawyer a curt nod, and climbed into her Jeep. The door slammed. The music blasted from the stereo. And the vehicle took off just as loud and brash as it arrived, leaving a flurry of filth and ferocity in its wake.

  Diane slumped in her seat. “What in the world just happened?”

  ***

  Driving through the town of Grand Isle, memories of Diane’s childhood in South Carolina rushed forward in her mind. Quiet back
roads. Old, white churches. Broad willow trees and patches of bright wildflowers. It’d been forever since Diane lived in a place with wide open spaces, and she drove slowly, admiring the picturesque scene, and savoring the scent of cut grass as it hitched to the passing wind. Like all the other roads in town, the houses on the last leg of her journey were separated by vast acres of land and towering corn fields. Diane sat up straighter. Her heart fluttered anxiously. The idea of escaping to Vermont was certainly appealing, for a variety of reasons. But truthfully, now that she’d arrived, Diane was taken aback by how far from everything she’d be, how overwhelmed she’d felt, driving deeper into this lake-locked landscape.

  That was the purpose, though, wasn’t it? Embrace change. Reevaluate and recover herself without distraction. And most importantly, utilize the quiet unknown to complete her novel and enflame her passion of writing. Being accustomed to one way of life for the past twenty years, following Nora’s wants, her needs and expectations, this freedom wasn’t easy for Diane. Being alone never made her uncomfortable—she was a strong, self-assured woman, after all—but this new, uncharted solitude she’d gotten herself into here, made her whole body itch like it were trapped inside a tight wool straightjacket.

  Nearing Kelly Ann’s house, Diane prepared herself for the final turn of her tiring trip. As much as she loved her classic car, Diane was ready to kiss those white leather bucket seats—and the incessant back pain they caused—goodbye, until she came across something unexpected. Something artfully intriguing and enticing. Diane hit the brake. She stopped in the center of the road. The engine idled, and she read the black sign with gold script letters near the edge of the pavement, adorned with orange tiger lilies around its wooden posts.

  Northern Isle Hot Glass.

  Leaning across the passenger seat, Diane removed her sunglasses and studied the turn-of-the-century carriage house set back from the road. Her eyes traced the crimson red structure and drifted up to its peak, where a weathervane perched precariously on the cupola. The outbuilding appeared old and worn in places, but in an appealing and rustic kind of way. It was a stark contrast to the newer addition attached on its side. Diane leaned further. Through the storefront windows, Diane scanned the array of display cases, overflowing with diverse and vibrant pieces of glass.

  “Hm,” Diane mumbled curiously, reclining back in the driver’s seat.

  With an intense attraction to the arts, a pang of thrill zipped through Diane, noticing open house hours and glass blowing classes listed on the sign. Once she was settled, dropping in for a demonstration or two sounded exhilarating. A smile spread on Diane’s lips. Except when she eased the brake and coasted down the street again, gearing up to pull into Kelly Ann’s driveway across the way, Diane’s eyes fell to the old, white farmhouse on the same property, and the unforgettable Jeep from lunch parked annoyingly beside it.

  Wonderful.

  Diane not only hoped to forget that harsh encounter, but to settle into her temporary home without a snag. The disdainful look in that woman’s eye burned in Diane’s mind. The whole interaction ruined her lunch and left nothing but a hot ball of irritation, smoldering in her stomach. “So much for glass blowing,” Diane said, pulling up to Kelly Ann’s house. There was no way on earth she’d voluntarily interact with that unpleasant woman again. And hopefully, Diane thought, turning off the car and gathering her things, whatever bees were buzzing in her bonnet, they’d keep their sting far away on the opposite side of the street.

  Shaking the woman from her thoughts, Diane turned her focus on the simplistic, sea green Cape with white shutters, and a bright apricot door as flamboyant as Kelly Ann’s personality. Diane chuckled and walked up the small brick path towards the house. Aside from the bold entrance, the property didn’t seem like something Kelly Ann would consider owning. But she was relieved. The whole drive up, Diane imagined the worst: a gawdy mansion on the water with an impossible number of rooms to care for. But she was happy with what she saw, a modest, lakefront home with a white picket fence, evergreen shrubs, and a large back lawn, sloping softly down to the water.

  Unlocking the door, Diane stepped inside and examined the interior. Just as Diane expected, the space was impeccable. The furniture and decor tasteful, of course. And the layout was open enough, yet simple, with warm, earth tone walls and polished oak floors, and the corner stone fireplace by the stairs was an unexpected touch.

  Setting her bags near the staircase, Diane scoped out the dining room, and made a quick spin around the kitchen before opening the door and stepping out onto the deck. The view was breathtaking. Diane walked to the back steps and sat. The water was a dark, royal blue and sparkling, and Diane watched a collection of tiny, white sailboats in the distance, drifting across the lake.

  Diane closed her eyes. She wrapped her arms around her knees, and held tight. Inhaling. And exhaling. She focused on the sun on her face. She took in the sounds of the island: summer songbirds, the constant wind rustling the trees, and the rhythmic clunk of waves knocking the dock down below. She kept herself together long enough. Too long, really. So finally, with the privacy of the lake around her, Diane let her shoulders drop. She gave up and sank like an anchor into the darkness of her isolation.

  She’d needed an escape from all the stress and heartbreak her life had thrown her, yet it wasn’t until that moment, sitting in that striking solitude, that Diane realized how much she needed it. She did her best, putting on an unshakeable front for her friends and colleagues to witness. Sure, they all knew she was hurt and embarrassed, but—except for Kelly Ann and her keen, attentive eye—they had no clue how deep her divorce cut her. How damaged her relationship with Nora left her. They saw Diane as a brilliant and distinguished teacher of the arts, and a promising author on the horizon, who wasn’t letting a bump in the road stop her. And that’s exactly how she wanted them to see her. Unshakeable. But now that she was absolutely, and undeniably alone, she could finally tear down her walls and confess how starting over at fifty shook her confidence, and made her feel devastatingly and irrevocably broken.

  Tears formed in her eyes, and Diane was relieved when her phone rang from inside, clearing her out of her smog of self-pity. She hustled into the house, answering the call.

  “Hello?” Diane said, swiping the wetness from her eyes.

  “Hi, sugar,” Kelly Ann said, her voice bubbly and light. “I was hoping I’d catch you. Did you find the house all right?”

  “I did,” she said, clearing her throat softly. “Only a few moments ago.”

  “Oh good,” Kelly Ann said. “It’s stunning there, isn’t it?”

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  “And your trip? Everything go okay?”

  “Yes. Everything’s perfect.” Diane sniffled and endured the long pause on the other end.

  “Are you crying?” Kelly Ann asked.

  “No, no. Of course not,” Diane said, blinking away the wetness. “Adapting to all the delightful farm smells here.”

  Kelly Ann chuckled. “There’s certainly a lot,” she said. “Have you had a chance to look at the house? Is it to your liking?”

  “It’s incredible,” Diane said. “Thank you again for letting me stay here.”

  “You’re very welcome. Anything for you.”

  “How are things with you?” Diane wandered into the living room and plopped on the couch. She shook her hands in her hair. “Everything coming along with the new location?”

  “Same ol’ bureaucratic bullshit,” Kelly Ann laughed. “Just need to cut through a little more red tape. It shouldn’t be much longer.”

  “I can’t wait to see everything when I get back.”

  “You hush,” Kelly Ann said. “I don’t want you thinking about what’s going on down here. You focus on you, understand?”

  The feeling of optimism and hope when she first arrived was long gone. The more Diane looked around the empty house, the more her chest ached with dread. She chomped into her bottom lip to keep from crying. Focusin
g on herself was exactly the problem. It was all she could think about. Maybe she had the naïve belief that once she made it to Vermont, it wouldn’t all seem so bad. But now that she was there in Kelly Ann’s empty house, everything became so depressingly real. She shook her head, and wiped away the silent tears streaking down her cheek.

  “I’ll do my best,” Diane said.

  “That’s my girl,” Kelly Ann said. “I’ve got to skedaddle and finish up for the day. I’m glad everything is in order up there. Call me if you need anything. Now, go enjoy that lake and write me a beautiful bestseller.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A rush of cool night air swept in through the living room window, rolling over Diane’s bare shoulders and the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She hummed with the relief and listened to the peaceful orchestra of crickets, harmonizing outside. The first, hot day in Vermont drew to a close, and after an evening of unpacking, light cleaning and organizing, Diane was happy to strip down to a tank top and cotton shorts, and put her feet up for the night. With her moments of doubt and anxiety behind her, Diane settled into the reading chair with a book and some local red wine. She took a deep breath and tipped the last of it into her mouth, enjoying its earthy undertones, feeling more at ease in her new home as the night carried on.

  Diane didn’t expect the wave of emotions to hit as hard as they did today. Stepping into this empty house brought her back to when she moved to Tampa—dejected, worn and lonely. She knew it would take some time getting used to an unfamiliar house, in an unfamiliar place. The startling quiet affected Diane the most. To be nearly two thousand miles away from her friends, her work, and her life was more overwhelming than she anticipated.