Page 103 of Fault Lines
“Mrs. Cooper is sweet, but I don’t think she listens very well,” he said, settling into the chair beside mine.
I laughed. “She’s too busy talking to listen.”
It was true. The Coopers ran the B&B; they were an older couple, friendly as could be, but Mrs. Cooper had a gift for chatter. She never slowed down long enough to take anything in.
“I asked for black coffee three times,” Cam said, tipping his mug so I could see the milky color, “and she just kept talking while she loaded it with sugar and cream.”
“Is it undrinkable?” I grinned at him.
He took a long sip and made a face. “Pretty much. But I need the caffeine. Did you see the breakfast spread when you grabbed your coffee?”
I shook my head and glanced back at the woods. “No, nothing was out yet. I was up pretty early, I guess.”
“They’ve got it ready now. Looks way better than this coffee. I thought we could grab something quick before we head out. There’s a little art museum in town—I looked it up, opens at ten. Maybe we can check it out?”
“Sounds good,” I said, draining more of my own disappointing coffee. I’d grown used to the rich lattes I whipped up at home or on the way to work; this was weak stuff in comparison.
We dressed and headed down to the breakfast room, scooping up pastries discreetly—the kind you could eat with your hands. Mrs. Cooper was deep into a conversation with another guest, which gave us the perfect excuse to escape before we got trapped.
“It’s walking distance,” Cam said, reaching for my hand as we left, leading me down the sidewalk.
The town was lovely this time of day, quiet, old buildings painted in faded pastels, everything neat and familiar. The locals nodded as we walked by, and I realized how much I liked it.
“I could get used to living somewhere like this,” I said.
“A small town?” Cam shot me a look.
“Yeah. It’s calm. Peaceful. Doesn’t feel overwhelming.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s a nice place to relax, but the city is where all the opportunities are. There’s no corporate ladder to climb here.”
“There’s more to life than money,” I replied.
He squeezed my hand. “I know.”
At the museum, Cam paid for our tickets, and we slipped inside, letting the hush settle around us. He seemed more interested in the statues, walking slowly from one to the next, but I was drawn to the wall art. A painting of a lake caught my eye—a translucent lake, layers of blue and green so clear you could see every fish, every piece of plant life stretching up for the light.
“It’s pretty,” I said as Cam sidled up next to me.
“Different,” he agreed.
The artist’s name was on the little plaque below—a local, apparently.
We drifted along to the next piece, something abstract: a naked woman but all her body parts out of order, breasts high, arms twisted, legs wrong. Cam stared at it, interested.
“Now this,” he said, “this is art.”
I rolled my eyes. “You just want to look at her boobs.”
He laughed, not even denying it. “A woman’s body is a work of art. Even if the pieces have been rearranged.”
Something about his words made me uneasy. Did he look at me and see something all out of place? Was that why he was always searching for more? I tried to shove the thought away.This was supposed to be a good weekend. I didn’t want to ruin it with old doubts.
He took my hand and pulled me onward. The next room was all little figurines, angels and animals and strange, delicate shapes. Cam spent extra time with the terracotta angels. It was funny; neither of us was religious, but he’d always liked angel imagery for some reason.
The next doorway, I hesitated. The art inside was for children—the walls splashed bright with paintings of babies and animals, little hands and soft faces everywhere. I stopped at the threshold, but Cam tugged me forward.
He stopped in front of a piece: a small boy flying a kite, a puppy chasing behind. He stared at it with a longing so deep it made my heart hurt. Tears pricked my eyes. I would never be able to give him that, no matter how much I wished I could.
