“Why?”
“Laurel…” I consider leaving the explanations to Michael, but something in her eyes, the love for him I see there, emboldens me. “Because he couldn’t fix the doll.”
She picks up the leg, holds it against her chest thoughtfully. “But he’s calling tomorrow—”
“I know, but see, he couldn’t fix the doll, Laurel. And you could,” I explain, watching sadness darken her features.
Without a word, she sinks into the chair beside me, bowing her head. “I never even thought…”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“I love him, Rebecca. I just can’t figure out how to reach him.”
Nodding, I have to laugh. “I know exactly what you mean.”
She tosses a wayward tendril of dark hair over her shoulder, glancing back toward the house. “Was it because she wanted me to put her to bed?”
“He’s in a lot of pain.” I’m voicing the thought that’s been coalescing for me tonight. I’ve known it, of course I have, but it seems his heartache has become clearer to me this evening than before.
“I’m sure he told you that some of that’s because of me.”
“No, he hasn’t.”
We fall silent, sipping our wine together as I wonder what she’ll share. But all she whispers after a long time is, “He took down every one of my paintings. Did you know that? There were so many here, and now they’re all missing. I wonder if he destroyed them?”
“I can’t imagine he’d do anything like that.”
Digging into her beaded pocketbook, she pulls out a pack of cigarettes, her fingers tremble as she lights up. “Well, you don’t know how he feels about me then. I love him and he despises me, Rebecca. You’ll learn all that soon enough.”
Questions burn within me, begging to be asked, but I refuse—I have to hear Michael’s version first.
“I better go after him,” I say. “I’m worried.”
“Thank you.” When she looks at me, there’s such gratitude in her clear eyes that I have no doubt she’s been telling the truth. She loves him, of that I’m certain—and maybe even in ways that she shouldn’t.
There’s no sign of Michael out in the front yard, and finally I walk to the end of his driveway and search his street in each direction. A couple of blocks up the way, I spot a rangy shadow loitering beneath the streetlamp. Quickly I cover the distance between us, and the shadow’s edges fill in, become recognizable.
“She send you after me?” he asks when I come near.
“I was worried.”
“I’m okay, so go back.”
“Like I’d leave you out here?” I laugh, as he begins to walk, his back to me. “How could I do that?” I’m following him slowly up the sidewalk, trying to match his lengthy strides without pushing too hard.
“She’s such a snobby bitch sometimes. That whole Wellesley-cum-hippie thing bugs the shit outta me.”
“She loves you, Michael,” I say. “That’s really obvious.”
He pulls up short, spinning to face me. Heat and anger are in his towering gaze as he rumbles, “Loves me? Really? You’re basing that on what, Rebecca? One night around us all?”
I stay calm, staring up into his eyes. “She’s upset that you’re so upset, Michael.”
He makes a grunting sound of denial, but says nothing.
“What happened between you two?” I ask, trying to touch him, needing to be closer, but he backs away. It hurts, him shaking me off, and it hurts that he feels like a stranger. “You’re not going to answer me,” I state flatly as he marches up the sidewalk, farther and farther away from where I stand rooted, waiting.
“I want to.” He turns back to me. “I want to tell you everything, Rebecca.” His hands open, reaching, and I rush into his embrace. Strong arms wrap around me, squeezing me close, and neither of us speaks. We stand there beneath the luminous streetlamp, holding one another, utterly safe.
“Then tell me, Michael,” I say after a while, rubbing his lower back. “Tell me everything, just like you want, okay?”
“I meant what I said earlier, Rebecca. About falling so hard for you.” His heartbeat quickens, speeds anxiously against my chest. I’m scared, too—terrified really—as slowly I disentangle and look up into his eyes.
“You’re just feeling that way because Laurel’s here.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No, that’s not true, Becca. I meant it ’cause I feel it.”
Reaching, I touch his jaw, stroking it slowly with my fingertips. “Michael,” I whisper urgently, “I feel it too. But let’s give it time.”
“Is it because of Laurel?” he asks. “Is that why you’re so cautious? Because she’s here?”
“Of course not—why would it be?” His face darkens, becomes troubled, and it’s a warning flag. “Should it be a problem for me?”
“Rebecca, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?”