Page 3 of Fast Currents
The woman was a local legend. Ollie Reyes, I didn’t recognize.
“Who’s Mr. Reyes?”
Karen tilted her chin coquettishly. “He’s a bonafide curmudgeon and the Fenwicks’ neighbor.”
“Do I want to know their history?”
“Only if you like stories with lewd lawn ornaments, shotguns, and the sheriff.”
I sucked air through my teeth. “Tempting. But if I don’t know about it, Lucy can’t roast my balls for whatever it is later.”
Karen shook her head. “It’s your funeral.”
I stacked the boxes from Lucy’s on the tables for the afternoon art classes, leaving Karen to serve as hostess for the exhibits and gift shop.
Lucy arrived promptly at four, her dark hair pulled back in two low pigtails on either side of her neck. Her thick brows swooped over intelligent eyes. A strong nose paired with a generous mouth gave character to her heart-shaped face. She moved with the strength of taut wire, all tension and resilience, but in unguarded moments, something softer shimmered beneath. Like a pent-up sigh, ready for release. She hid it well, that softness. Maybe that was why I kept looking.
She’d dressed in black from head to toe for class. Dark and sleek like a wolverine. And just as dangerous.
Choosing cordiality over chaos, I welcomed her with a smile. “Hey, Lucy. I’ve got your boxes staged by the tables over here. Would you like any help setting up?”
“I’ve got it, thanks.” Her tone was brusque. Distant.
That damned independence again. Did I hate it because I needed to help, or because I saw too much of myself in her refusal? Wanting help, needing it, and still pushing everyone away.
She pulled a stack of small canvases from one of the boxes, laying one every few feet along the tables. If I insisted, she’dlash out. Claim I was in her way. And she’d be right. She didn’t need me underfoot. But I hated to miss an opportunity to study her. She was so guarded. Private. And it left me speculating who made her this way. Prickly. Reserved.
Out of excuses, I left her to it. Karen had the slow trickle of visitors handled, leaving me at loose ends.
“I’m going to do a quick patrol,” I called to Karen, adding for Lucy, “I’ll be back before the end of your first class.”
Lucy dipped her chin, which I took as her version of an enthusiastic goodbye. I ambled toward the memorial plaque for a long-dead American Camp lieutenant and turned left toward South Beach. A middle-aged couple nodded a greeting as I passed them.
Grasses rippled in the wind, the occasional weed catching on my boots and pants. The waters of the Salish Sea undulated in gentle waves, belying how rough the waters could get. A red fox darted in the distance, heading for the shelter of its den.
The fresh air helped clear my head. For a grown-ass man of thirty-five, one who’d been married and widowed before thirty, letting a slip of a woman like Lucy Millen get under my skin felt like failure. But I let her do it every damn time. Even something as petty as not saying goodbye provoked me. Like she assumed there’d always be another chance. That was what got to me. No one knew when the last goodbye was coming.
The fading wildflowers crunched beneath my boots, a gentle soundtrack to the sea and wind. Jen would have loved it here. My wife was a sweet woman. Calm, even after the crushing reality of her diagnosis. We never fought. Maybe because her heart literally couldn’t take it. Born with a rare heart condition, she’d remain forever twenty-nine in my memory. My first love.
The wind and the waves worked their magic, reminding me that grief fades. And life never stops throwing you challenges. Like Lucy.
I couldn’t understand my attraction to the rough-and-tumble Lucy at first. She’d caught my attention from the moment I spotted her at a trailhead with her friends. Dark and sharp, with a mouth that wouldn’t quit. She said whatever came to mind, no filter. Like radical candor was her default, damn the consequences.
At first, it rubbed me raw. But then I realized it was brave.
I’d spent years burying my pain. My anger. Jen had needed my strength. Peace. Not my rage at the unfairness of it all. After she died, I convinced myself that quiet was healing. That if I could go minutes, hours, days, weeks without thinking of her, it was a good thing.
But Lucy didn’t do silence. She challenged everything. Me. The world. Herself.
Her sharp tongue made me feel alive again. Like I didn’t have to keep everything locked down. I could laugh. Argue. Snap back. Anything I dished out, she’d return in spades. Blow for blow.
And letting myself feel and react without judgment, without always having to be the strong one, was fucking amazing.
It wasn’t the slow awakening my grief counselor suggested. It wasn’t the pain of loss fading and new tendrils of hope unfurling. I snorted. Lucy was nothing like that gentle imagery. She was more like tripping and landing on an electric fence. Invigorating and traumatic, all at once.
But damned if I wasn’t tempted to touch that fence over and over again.
Chapter 3 – Lucy
