Текст книги "A Different Blue "

Автор книги: Amy Harmon

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Three

I had refused Thanksgiving and Christmas and all the trappings that went with the holidays, but when Tiffa called and begged me to come to her annual New Year's party and told me her mother would be watching Alice's boys and Melody somewhere else, I relented. I told myself it had nothing to do with the fact that she had arranged for Wilson to be my date because Pamela was in England for the New Year.

I imagined a classy party with a live orchestra and cocktail dress and heels. But Tiffa surprised me by saying, “Wear something comfortable! And colorful! We have a contest who can wear the most color, and we Wilsons like our New Year's parties raucous. Don't wear anything that will show your knickers if you bend over in case we end up playing the brown bag game. Alice complains about it every year, but it wouldn't be New Year's without it.”

I thought I was colorful enough in hot pink skinny jeans and a spangled bright blue blousy top. I even had purple feathered earrings in my ears and attached in my hair and glittery eye shadow and red lips, but Tiffa had me easily beat with tie-dyed leggings, a blinding neon-striped shirt, high-heeled orange platforms, and a rainbow clown wig. Wilson even got into the spirit of things with a shirt that wasn't blue, grey, or black. It was a long sleeved v-neck in a soft pale green. Not very loud, but at least he tried. He wore black jeans and black boots, and looked very un-professorish.

It wasn't a huge party – maybe thirty people – but everyone seemed to know each other well. There were ten or twelve other couples, in addition to Tiffa and Jack, Alice and Peter, and Wilson and me. Most of the others were Tiffa's British associates from The Sheffield. I would have expected all of them to drink their champagne with their pinkies raised, considering how proper they sounded in conversation. But they were all quite boisterous and easy-going, especially after a few drinks.

The night started with a game called Ha Ha Ha – that's what Tiffa called it. Every party-goer had been given a bracelet, which was made of a roll of stickers in all different colors. The goal was to make people laugh using a big fake “ha ha ha.” If you were successful in making a person laugh, that person had to reward you with a kiss and a sticker. If a girl made another girl laugh, she could give her a sloppy smooch, or choose a boy for that girl to kiss, or vice verse. The Ha Ha Ha champion was determined at the end of the night by the number of stickers accumulated, as well as how many you still had on your bracelet roll. I was relieved to see that the kisses were all friendly pecks on the lips and cheeks with lots of “Happy New Years!” thrown in. No one seemed to take advantage and lay a wet one on an unwilling recipient. Most people were intent on collecting stickers. The game continued throughout the night, even when other games were being played, and I became a bit of a target because the Ha Ha Ha's directed at me weren't terribly funny, and I had yet to lose a sticker . . . or give a kiss. Tiffa and Wilson kept going back and forth at each other, trying to get the other to break – occasionally cracking into guffaws that were promptly rewarded with a chaste kiss to the forehead, followed by a sticker. Tiffa quickly looked like she had the pox, her face was so dotted in stickers. Alice's Ha Ha Ha was so grating that people laughed as they cringed, which got her several kisses and stickers as well.

I don't know what I expected from a New Year's party with a bunch of Brits, but it wasn't Ha Ha Ha, and it definitely wasn't the brown bag game. The brown bag game consisted of standing on one leg like a crane, leaning over, and without touching the floor or the bag, lifting the bag off the floor using only your mouth. Each round, an inch or two would be cut off of the brown bag until there was only a thin lip of bag left. Alice ended up getting a bloody nose when she face planted into the floor. Tiffa was like a long giselle, easily bending herself in half and swooping the bag off the floor like it was a dance move she had mastered years before. Jack was out after the first round. Alice's husband Peter farted every time he made an attempt at the bag, his embarrassed “Pardon me's” almost funnier than the constant toots. Wilson attacked the brown bag game with a single-minded concentration that his sisters claimed was how he played every game, but he was out of his league after two or three rounds.

Apparently, the brown bag game was a Wilson family tradition and not an English tradition at all. The late Dr. Wilson had been the one to introduce his children to the game, and they had played it for as long as any of them could remember. It had been just over two months since I had a baby, and I could easily have begged off, claiming that I was not up for such a physical game. But I didn't want to pique the other guests curiosity or invite questions, so I joined in and found my distaste for alcohol was a real advantage, as my balance was still intact when everyone else was teetering. The final round was down to me and Tiffa, and Tiffa was talking trash, sounding like Scary Spice, as she glided in for the win.

“Ha ha ha!” she said to me, nose to nose, her eyes crossed comically, as I conceded the victory. This Tiffa was such a contradiction to Tiffa-the-Art-Connoisseur that I giggled and pushed her away.

“You laughed! You laughed at my ha ha ha!” Tiffa squealed and pranced around waving her hands in the air. “Give me a sticker, Blue Echohawk! You have succumbed to my wit! Now I must assign someone to kiss you and kiss you good! Wilson! Pucker up, luv!”

No one really paid much attention to the frozen look on Wilson's face. We were there together, after all, a couple, so to speak. Tiffa's guests were more entertained by her gloating than by the fact that Wilson had stood and was approaching me with the intention of delivering a kiss.

Alice, however, was watching with glee as Wilson leaned in and pressed his lips to mine in a kiss that was mostly air and mostly over before I'd even had a chance to prepare.

“Oh, Cor! That was pathetic, Darcy! What are we, five?” Alice groaned loudly. “This whole party is pathetic! I haven't seen a real kiss all night! All these pruny pecks and stickers and the bloody brown bag game. Cor!” Alice harrumphed loudly. She sat up and pointed to a nice looking guy most of the women had swarmed to when the Ha Ha Ha game started.

“Justin! You're not married, and you're absolutely scrummy. Go give Blue a real kiss, will you please?” Alice was a tiny bit drunk, I suspected. The man named Justin looked at me with interest.

“Now, Peter and I could show you how it's done, couldn't we Peter?” Alice elbowed her husband who had fallen asleep after failing at the brown bag game. He responded with a quiet little snore. Alice shoved him in outrage. “Cor! Puffing and snoring! What romance! Help me, Justin!”

“Help us all, Justin!” Tiffa added emphatically, nudging Justin forward. Everyone burst out laughing, everyone but Wilson, who stood stiffly at my side, his eyes trained on the hunky Justin who had decided to give Alice what she wanted and was heading toward me.

Wilson turned on me suddenly, and his hands cupped my face, his fingertips sliding into my hair. With his eyes on mine, he ducked his head and brushed his lips against my mouth, once and then again, as if afraid that Alice would start “Cor-ing” if he pulled back. His lips were firm and smooth, and his breath tickled my lips. My heart pounded in my throat and my mind screamed at me, demanding I catalog every detail of the event I had dreamed about but never dared hope for. Wilson was kissing me!!

And then I couldn't think at all. His lips were more insistent, his hands pulling me forward and into him as his mouth moved against mine, and then into mine, opening my lips gently, his tongue seeking entrance. And I let him in. And then his arms were wrapped around me, and the kiss became something else. It wasn't a game, it wasn't a show, it was ours, and the room around us did not exist.

We parted on a shared sigh. The room erupted in whoops and clapping as Alice jumped up and down and giggled like a little girl about to sit on Santa's lap.

“That was lovely! Darcy! If you weren't my wee little brother I'd stand on line! Peter! Wake up, man!” Alice turned on her tired spouse who had missed the entire spectacle.

Tiffa was staring at us with a small smile on her lips, as if she'd known it all along. Wilson's hand slid down my arm and captured my fingers in a clasp. His ears were red, but he didn't speak. He held my hand for the rest of the evening, and I swore my heart had swollen in size. I was breathless and thrilled and anxious to be alone, anxious to explore this new development.

As midnight neared, Tiffa turned on the television and passed around noisemakers and confetti. Apparently, another British tradition was watching Big Ben strike twelve, which Tiffa had tiVo-ed when it had actually occurred in London so that everyone would feel like they were right at home . . . in England. I didn't mind giving up Times Square for Big Ben. Or giving up American boys for a nerdy English school teacher. At the moment, I was completely enamored with all things British.

We counted down and then watched as the big clock welcomed the New Year into our corner of the world. Shouts of “Happy New Year!” and hugs and cheers and noisy revelry broke out around the room. Tiffa and Jack had tears on their cheeks as they kissed and held each other, obviously moved by the year they had had and the years that were to come. And I had helped give them that. I turned to Wilson with a smile, but he looked away, watching the room erupt without joining the celebration.

“Let's go,” he said suddenly, “Are you ready? I want to go. We'll sneak out. I'll call Tiffa in the morning and thank her for the party.”

“Oh. Okay,” I nodded as he hustled me toward the door. He grabbed our coats and was trying to slip out when Tiffa rushed over to us, calling out for us to wait. Wilson winced, and I wondered why he was in such a hurry to leave all of a sudden.

“Darcy, wait! Don't whisk Blue away yet! The fireworks are unbelievable from up here. You missed them on the Fourth of July too! And we haven't crowned the Ha Ha Ha champion!” She descended on us, wrapping her arms around our shoulders.

“I think Justin has that all locked up, Tif.” Wilson's voice sounded strange, and a look passed between brother and sister that made my chest feel tight and my face burn hot.

“I see,” Tiffa said softly. I wished I did. She leaned over and kissed my cheeks and squeezed my hand. “Thank you for coming, Blue. Jack and I consider you part of our family and always will. When you're ready, you should come see Melody. It would be good for all of us, I think.” Her eyes shot to Wilson and back to me. “Happy New Year, luvs.”

We descended to the parking garage in silence, the elevator surprisingly full, considering the fact that it was barely midnight and most parties were in full swing. I pressed back into Wilson as floor after floor added a few more occupants all going down. Wilson kept his hand in mine and watched as the numbers ticked lower and lower. My mood descended just as rapidly as I wondered if the trip home would be filled with apologies for a kiss that had lit me up like the Fourth of July . . . or New Year's Eve, to be more exact. Tiffa was right. The fireworks from her balcony would have been unbelievable. I wished we would have stayed to see them, to share another kiss as crashing colors filled the air before reality swept the magic away.

Vegas was a party town, and the crowds were heavy, making navigating away from Tiffa's building slow as the strip was lined with people swarming from one hotel to the next, soaking up the bright lights, endless food, and glitz of a city that catered to celebrations in the extreme. Luckily, The Sheffield was on the south end of the Vegas strip, making it easier to side step the thickest intersections as we climbed up and onto the beltway that would swing us east toward Boulder City. Wilson had been quiet as he maneuvered his way through the crush of traffic and people, but as the city and her lights fell away behind us, the silence was more than I could stand so I decided to make light of the whole thing.

“You kiss like an old woman, Wilson.”

The car veered wildly, rocking us slightly as Wilson swore and righted the vehicle, his head swiveling between me and the road.

“Bugger!” Wilson sputtered, and then laughed and groaned, running a hand down his face in obvious agitation. “Well, you don't.”

My heart fluttered and my stomach dropped at his words. “So what's the problem?”

“That's the problem.”

“So if you kissed me and it felt like kissing one of The Golden Girls, all would be right in the world? Because that's what it felt like for me, and I feel fine, while you obviously do not.”

“The Golden Girls?” Wilson obviously didn't watch American re-runs.

“Well . . . maybe not one of them. Maybe . . . Prince Charles,” I teased.

“But not Camilla? Please tell me it wasn't like kissing Camilla,” he insisted.

I snickered. Poor Camilla. “Was kissing me like kissing Victoria Beckham?” I poked at him. “Tiffa told me you had a major crush on her when you were seven.”

“Oh, yes. Since I know exactly how it feels to kiss Victoria Beckham.”

“Did you think about Victoria Beckham when you kissed me? That's almost as good.”

“No, Blue. I didn't. Unfortunately, I was very aware of whom I was kissing and why I shouldn't be kissing her.”

My attempts to avoid serious examination of “the kiss” had obviously failed. Wilson kept his eyes forward all the way home, and I stifled the urge to ask him to explain himself, to justify his blunt rejection. If he was struggling with his feelings for me, he would have to figure them out. I refused to feed his regret – or even argue with it. I sat in stony silence for the remainder of the ride. He pulled up in front of the house and put the car into park, turning the key and turning to me at the same time.

“I've crossed so many lines with you so many times. I was your teacher, for God's sake! My sister adopted your child! It's all so convoluted and complicated, and I don't want to make things messier than they already are. The friendship we have, the incredibly intimate moments we've shared, the fact that you are my tenant . . . I can rationalize all of that away. I can justify all of it . . . as long as there is no romance. Tonight, when I kissed you, I crossed the line from friend, teacher, adviser, bloody father figure,” he spat this last line out, clearly disgusted, “to something else entirely, and I owe you an apology. I don't know what I was thinking, letting Alice manipulate me that way.”

“Father figure?! Holy Crap!” Now I was horrified. “That's how you see our relationship? Yuck, Wilson!” I slammed out of the car and stomped up the steps, not waiting for Wilson. I really didn't want to kill him, but at that moment, strangling him would not have been a stretch. I heard him behind me, and I swung on him as we climbed the front stairs.

“For the record, Wilson. You were my teacher. Once! You've become my friend. I am not a child, and I am not your student. I am a grown woman, not even three years younger than you are. You not only kiss like a stuffy old woman, you're acting like one! Kissing you was no big deal! It was not inappropriate, it was a silly party game. Get over yourself!”

I prided myself on my honesty and here I was, lying through my teeth. The truth is, the kiss was a big deal. It was a huge deal. And Wilson definitely didn't kiss like an old woman. But he wasn't getting that truth. Not now. Not after he had ruined everything.

Wilson's eyes were on my mouth, and I could tell he was fighting an inner battle whether to establish his kissing prowess or let me calm his guilty conscience. He really couldn't have it both ways. Either the kiss was a very big deal and we were in an entirely different relationship than he was ready to admit, or the kiss was just a game among friends and he could go on pretending that everything was tidy and uncomplicated and he was just the good guy who looked out for Blue Echohawk.

He approached me, moving deliberately. He stopped just below me so I was only one step above him. Our eyes were now level, as were our mouths.

“It was no big deal?” he said softly.

“Just a silly game,” I answered, just as quietly.

“So why do I want to do it again?”

My heart was pounding so hard that it echoed in my head.

“Maybe you just need to prove to me that you aren't an old woman?”

“Ah . . . that's probably it. I just need to show you that I am indeed a man, capable of delivering a kiss that won't make you think of crochet needles and baggy stockings.”

“And talcum powder and dentures.”

Wilson's mouth was a breath away. “That must be it.”

My eyes fluttered closed as he nipped at my bottom lip and then my top. Then he parted my lips with a nudge of his tongue, tasting me softly. His tongue found mine, and we stood, with only our mouths touching, only our mouths moving. For several minutes we remained this way, our bodies inches apart, our hands at our sides, completely focused on the meeting of our lips. The kissing was slow, sweet, languorous, like a cat stretching in the sun.

And then it was over. I held myself still – waiting, hoping – for his mouth to find mine again. But it didn't. My eyes slid open heavily, unwilling to face the end of a truly staggering kiss. Wilson was watching me, a small smile on his lips.

“Take that, Camilla,” he whispered. Without another word, he sidestepped me, walked up the stairs and unlocked the door. He held it open, waiting for me to turn and join him. My limbs felt sluggish and I couldn't keep my eyelids open. The roof of my mouth was so sensitive it was as if I'd eaten peanut butter while in a coma.

Wilson walked me to my door and whispered, “Goodnight Blue.”

I didn't respond. I just watched him walk up the stairs to his apartment, wondering how he had managed to get the last word after all.

Wilson resumed avoiding me for the next month. Maybe he was busy, maybe the new semester had him working late. Several nights I heard his footsteps in the apartment above me after nine o'clock. A teacher's life was a thankless one, I supposed. But I suspected it had more to do with the kiss on New Year's and staying away from me than an increased work load. And, of course, there was Pamela.

Pamela was back from England, worming her way back into Wilson's life, gobbling up his spare time. They went to the movies, out to dinner, and even played tennis over the weekend. I had never even held a tennis racket. Guess we wouldn't be playing doubles. Plus, I didn't exactly have a partner. I couldn't imagine Bev being very good at tennis, and other than Wilson and Tiffa, she was my best friend. And that was just plain sad.

Chapter Twenty-Four

And then the lab called.

I had worked seven straight eight-hour shifts at the cafe, and when I wasn't at the cafe, I was in the basement, wallowing in all the space I'd been given. Wilson stayed away. The only connection I felt with him was at night, when I sat beneath the vent, listening to him play his cello. I had tried to wean myself from even that, simply because the music chaffed at my longing and made me feel raw and rejected. But night after night, I found myself with my face upturned, torturing myself with sound, cursing Wilson and his space.

It wasn't that I had forgotten about the pending results of the DNA testing. I hadn't. But I hadn't awaited them eagerly. So when the call came, I was unprepared.

“Blue Echohawk?”

“Yes. This is Blue.”

“This is Heidi Morgan from the Forensics Lab in Reno. We have the results.”

My heart actually hurt it was pounding so hard.

“Okay.” My lips felt numb, and the simple word was all I could form.

“We have a match, Blue. We'd like you to come back to Reno.”

“Okay,” I repeated. They had a match. They knew who I was. “I . . . I need a second to think. I will have to get off work and get a plane ticket . . . and I . . . I need to think,” I stuttered out, sounding ridiculous even to my own ears.

“Absolutely,” Heidi Morgan replied warmly. “Give us a call when you've made your arrangements. I have been in contact with Detective Moody and Sergeant Martinez. Everyone is pretty excited, Blue. This kind of thing doesn't happen very often.”

I promised I would be in touch and disconnected the call, collapsing onto my old recliner where it rested beneath the vent, awaiting another late night symphony. I tried to calm my racing heart and breathe through the nerves that had me biting my nails and tapping my feet against the floor. I needed to tell someone. I needed to tell Wilson. But he wasn't home, and I was mad at him. Without pausing to talk myself out of it, I grabbed the keys and headed out the door. I would go see Tiffa.

Tiffa's building had a doorman, and I supposed that was good because he warned Tiffa I was on my way up, giving her time to compose herself in the face of my surprising visit. But she answered the door immediately and pulled me into the house with a fierce hug and a wide smile.

“Blue! You twit! Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I would have ordered lunch and champagne to celebrate! And I would have had a chance to change my blouse! Melody spit up all over it. She spits up on everything, so be warned. At the very least I could have changed her nappies so she could make a good first impression! As it is, you are going to have to put up with us as we are – smelly and hungry!” Tiffa's laughter floated around me like a balmy breeze, and I relaxed immediately, letting her pull me toward the bedroom.

Melody's nursery looked like a garden with butterflies and birds fluttering on the walls and perched on the branches of blossomed trees. A chipmunk poked his head from a hole in the trunk, and a family of rabbits hopped along the wall above the the plush pale green carpeting. The ceiling was a blue sky, peppered with fat white clouds and a flock of tiny geese flying in V formation. A wise old owl looked down from a branch that stretched above the crib, which was draped in seafoam green canopy, sprinkled in little pink flowers, like a little hill in springtime. There were stuffed animals straight out of the movie Bambi lining the edges of the room, and a giant white rocker brimming with flower-shaped pillows took up another corner.

It was absolutely enchanting. Every little girl should have a room like that. But it was the baby in the crib that held my attention. She gurgled and kicked her chubby legs. The black hair that she had at birth had morphed into a lighter brown, and she had easily doubled in size. I had only seen her for a few seconds, but those seconds were burned in my brain. This baby looked very different tfrom the image in my head. But her eyes were blue. She smiled and wiggled, arms and legs churning, and I found myself smiling back, blinking through eyes that had suddenly filled with tears. The regret that I had feared, that I had dreaded, that had kept me away, didn't crash down on me like I thought it would. The tears in my eyes felt more like relief than sorrow, and I clung to Tiffa's hand, grateful for her in a way I would never be able to put into words.

“She is . . . so . . . so..” I stammered

“Perfect,” Tiffa finished, her own eyes shining with tears as she put her arms around me and squeezed me fiercely. “Perfect. Dirty nappies and all. Let me change her bum so you can hold her.”

In three months, Tiffa had become a pro, changing the diaper with deft hands and whisking it all away while she cooed and talked to Melody, whose eyes stayed trained on her face. Tiffa let me powder Melody's wrinkly pink tush, and we both sneezed loudly when I got a little carried away.

Tiffa laughed. “You do it just like Jack. He says you can never have too much baby powder. When Daddy's on duty, Melody gives off a little fragrant poof every time she kicks.”

Tiffa scooped Melody up and set her in my arms.

“Here. You rock the wee one while I get her bottle.” Tiffa patted my cheek, dropped a kiss on Melody's flyaway hair, and was out of the room before I could protest. I sat stiffly on the edge of the rocker. Not counting the few seconds after Melody's birth, I had never held a baby. I tried not to hold her too loosely or too tight, but her face wrinkled in dissatisfaction and her lower lip jutted out, as if she were preparing to howl.

“Okay, okay. You don't like that position. We can adjust!” I rushed to oblige, holding her so her head bobbed above my shoulder, one of my hands on her bottom, one hand pressed against her back. She promptly latched onto my cheek and started sucking frantically. I yelped, pulling away, and she reattached herself to my nose.

“Tiffa! Help! She's got my nose!” I laughed, trying to disengage from the little blood sucker. She immediately started to wail, and I turned her around so she was facing outward, her head against my chest. I bounced her a little and walked around the room, talking to her the way Tiffa had.

“Oh look, Melody. There are some baby bunnies! Little grey bunnies the color of Uncle Wilson's eyes.” I stopped myself abruptly. Where had that come from? I moved onto other exciting features of the room. “Oh, boy!” I continued in my syrupy sweet tone. “There's a little chipmunk. He's looking for Melody. He sees you, Melody!”

Melody stopped crying, so I kept going, walking around the room, bouncing her in my arms. “That little chipmunk better watch out! Mr. Owl is watching him, and owls love to gobble up chipmunks!” I bit my lip. Maybe that was scary. I tried again.

“Owls are the only bird that can see the color blue. Did you know that Melody?”

“Really?” Tiffa walked into the bedroom, shaking a bottle briskly in her right hand. “Is that true?”

“Yes. I mean, I think it is. Jimmy, my father, loved birds, and he knew all sorts of random interesting things. I've probably forgotten most of what he told me, but that was a joke between us. I assumed, naively, that because owls were the only birds who could see the color blue that I must be invisible to all other birds.”

Tiffa smiled, “Because you were BLUE.”

“Yeah. I thought it was awesome.”

“Invisibility would come in handy, wouldn't it?” Tiffa handed me the bottle, but I begged off.

“You do it, please! She's hungry, and I don't want to make her cry again. She tried to get milk from my nose.”

Tiffa giggled, took Melody from my arms, and settled into the rocker. Melody began to suckle in earnest. Tiffa and I watched her, our eyes glued to her happy face, her cheeks moving in and out in ecstasy, so content and easy to please.

“Speaking of invisibility,” Tiffa said quietly, not raising her eyes from Melody's face, “I'm a little surprised to see you. Happy – but surprised. What's going on, Blue?”

“The lab called today. They said they have a match. They know who I am, Tiffa. They know who my mother is. They asked me to come to Reno.”

“Ohhhh, Blue,” Tiffa drew the words out in one long sigh. Her gaze was full of compassion and a lump rose in my throat. I swallowed hard and tried to laugh.

“I hope I didn't scare you, showing up here, wild-eyed and panic-stricken. I just needed to tell someone. And I thought of Melody, and how I need these answers for her sake, even if sometimes I would rather never know.”

“I'm so glad you did. It was time. And you weren't wild-eyed and panic-stricken. You are always as cool as a cucumber, Blue Echohawk. I read people pretty well, but you are always so self-contained, so private. What's that saying? Still waters run deep? In that way, you and Darcy are so much alike.” When I didn't comment, Tiffa just shook her head in exasperation, as if my silence proved her point.

“He came by yesterday, you know,” Tiffa said casually. “I think he's smitten.”

My heart dropped to my toes. My face must have registered my distress because Tiffa stopped rocking abruptly.

“What? Blue, what did I say?”

“Nothing,” I lied, shaking my head. “I figured as much.”

Tiffa cocked her head to the side, confused. “Figured what?”

“That he was smitten,” I responded flatly. I felt sick.

“He's smitten with Melody!” Tiffa cried, and shook her head, disbelieving. “You should have seen your face. Who did you think I was talking about? Pamela?”

I looked down at my feet, unwilling to answer.

“Blue. What in the world is going on with you two? I thought after New Year's that you would both finally admit you have feelings for each other. It's so obvious! I asked Wilson about you yesterday and he acted so aloof. I didn't know what to make of it.”

“Yeah. Wilson must be a rare breed of bird. Definitely not an owl because I've become completely invisible.”

“Oh, luv,” Tiffa sighed. “My brother is my mother's son. Maybe not biologically, but in every other way. His sense of propriety is positively archaic. I've been surprised he's allowed himself to get as close to you as he has. And that kiss? Alice and I were crowing about it for days.”

I kept my face averted, uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation, but Tiffa kept rocking and talking. “What my brother needs is a push. It sure worked when we dangled you in front of Justin. Maybe it's time for you to spread your wings and force him to make a choice,” she mused, patting Melody's back. The bottle was long gone and Melody was too, snoring softly with milk dribbling from the corner of her bow shaped mouth.

“I have been working on something, but I haven't wanted to tell you until it was a sure thing. I had an artist scheduled to be part of a exhibit at the Sheffield next Saturday night. He decided he wanted to renegotiate his contract, and ended up renegotiating himself right out the door. It just so happens that I think your work will gel nicely with the entire exhibit. In fact, I think your work will stand out. I've been holding back 'Bird Woman' and a few other pieces, simply because they demand a certain kind of audience. I think we will be able to sell 'Bird Woman' for $5,000 at the exhibit, where it might sit for months in the gallery.”