The Muse Read online

  Allison and I say goodbye at the front door. She runs down the short walk to her car, jacket over her head to keep the downpour off her curls.

  A gust of wind sweeps rain under my porch roof and into my face. I jump back and close the door, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. From the kitchen, I hear the muted buzz of my phone. Another buzz comes almost immediately, then a pause, and one more buzz.

  Thinking it’s Allison trying one more time to get me out tonight, I retrieve my phone and read the three short messages on the screen.

  You wrote about selkies

  FUCKING SELKIES!

  I’m coming over

  I drop the phone like it’s bitten me. It bounces off the edge of the table and lands on the wood with a crack.

  Three months and not a word. Three months to accept his absence in my life. Three months of letting go, of finding my own peace and happiness. Of feeling like a whole person, mature and confident.

  I’ve even ventured into the dating world, the most recent contender a man I met at Bluebird Books. He’s pursuing a PhD in Art History; funny, intelligent, and down-to-earth, he’s taking me to dinner next weekend.

  Three months…

  ...and I’ll still beg for scraps from James Beckett’s table.

  I run into my bathroom and crank on the shower, scrambling out of my clothes and under the flow. The water’s not even close to hot yet but I grit my teeth and wash myself head to toe. A razor in my shaking hand makes bloody work of my legs, though I manage to get my shit together for more delicate parts.

  The water is just beginning to heat to bearable levels when I turn it off, jump out, and towel dry. I race across my bedroom and yank open my dresser, throwing leggings and a sweater on the bed.

  “What’s the hurry, pet?”

  I scream and jump backward. My foot catches on an area rug and I’m falling, falling… until strong fingers clench on the knot of towel between my breasts and drag me upright. Viridescent eyes sparkle down at me in delight.

  “Still a disaster,” he murmurs.

  Caught in the heart-shredding grip of adrenaline, I yell, “Jesus Christ! How did you get in!”

  He grins. “You really shouldn’t leave your front door unlocked.” With a final tug on the knot, he releases me. “Put some clothes on, little muse. I’ll brew us some tea.”

  I gape at him. He winks, then saunters from my bedroom, whistling a jaunty tune as he heads toward the kitchen.

  “Are you kidding me right now?”

  The universe doesn’t answer.

  Probably a good thing.

  I tug on thick leggings, wincing at the sting from multiple small cuts on my legs. Why did I bother? Obviously we had completely different perspectives on what would happen if he came to my house. I’m an idiot. Since when has he ever done what I expect him to?

  Over a bra and camisole, I pull on my rattiest, bulkiest sweater, then grab a hair clip from the top of my dresser. Not bothering with a mirror, I gather the damp strands onto the top of my head, wind them into a thick spiral, and clamp a portion with the clip’s plastic teeth.

  When I enter the living room, I find James looking right at home on my couch, flipping through a book with his feet on the coffee table.

  At my footfalls, he glances up. “You bought a new couch.”

  “Yes,” I deadpan. “If you liked the old one, I believe it’s still available for purchase from Goodwill. Fair warning—it’s stained.”

  His eyes narrow, glinting with sharp humor. “Touché.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “If you wanted to give me feedback about the book, an email would have sufficed.”

  His lips twitch. “But then I would miss out on this enlightening banter.”

  “I wouldn’t call it enlightening,” I counter. “Tedious and oblique come to mind.”

  His grin is sudden and wicked, transforming his eyes, his face.

  Transforming him into someone I know.

  The man I loved.

  James.

  The kettle whistles softly, gaining in volume as we stare at each other. When it’s loud enough to elicit winces from both of us, he finally stands.

  Passing me on the way to the kitchen, he says, “Timing is everything, I suppose.”

  I agree.

  I was fully prepared to meet him skin to skin, to lose myself in his arms. But if it’s my heart he wants?

  He’s three months too late.

  29. motif

  “After all this time, you’re still a mystery to me.”

  I blow steam off the top of my tea. “Is that so?”

  “Mmm.” He takes a sip, then sets his mug down on the coffee table. “You’re a study in contradictions. Despite my skill at chess, I still can’t predict what you’ll do.”

  That makes two of us.

  I want to ask him what he wants, why he’s here if not to appease our appetite for each other’s bodies, but I don’t. Perhaps I’m a bit of a masochist, myself. But at least part of the truth is simple—I enjoy his company. The wordplay, the verbal chess. Even with no sex involved, he’s still the most brilliant, charming prick I know.

  “I surprised you, the inimitable James S. Beckett. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Indeed. While I was reading your manuscript last night, it occurred to me that you didn’t actually want or need me to read it.” His eyes slant to mine. “True?”

  Hiding my smile behind my mug, I nod.

  “Then why did you send it?”

  “Did you read the dedication?” I ask in return.

  His eyes darken, lips tilting wryly. “Ah, I didn’t want to assume that was for me.” He chuckles softly. “Of course it is. My little muse. You certainly put me in my place, didn’t you?”

  I shrug, but my smile is pleased. “It was the least I could do. You gave me the idea, after all.”

  “I did, didn’t I,” he murmurs. “I suppose you know it’s extremely morbid?”

  “Selkie legends aren’t known for happy endings,” I say, not without irony.

  He frowns, staring at his hands. “I guess I’m to blame for that as well.”

  I sigh, settling into the couch cushions with my tea cradled atop my stomach. “I don’t think either of us is to blame. Things just… happen the way they’re supposed to happen.”

  “Perhaps.” He clears his throat. “I said things I didn’t mean on New Year’s Eve. I owe you an apology. Once again, you were right. I wasn’t angry at you but at myself.”

  Mindful of our conversation veering in a dangerous direction, I keep my voice even and light. “Believe me, I get it. We were angry at ourselves, each other, whatever. That’s why it’s called hate-sex, James.”

  He laughs, sinking back with his arms crossed behind his head. I try to ignore the sliver of skin visible above his belt, but my eyes only move further south, snagging on the thick curve of him beneath soft denim.

  Damnit.

  I drag my eyes away and blink at the ceiling. “Can I ask a question without you getting weird?”

  “That sounds interesting,” he says brightly. “Fire away.”

  “That passage you read from Indigo, about the woman with the scar? Was it about me?”

  “Of course. I wrote it after our first—and only—weekend together. You fell asleep on the rug before the fireplace after… anyway, I might have slipped the blanket off you to study you in the firelight.”

  I swallow hard, shifting subtly to alleviate the pulse of memory and desire between my legs.

  “Sometimes I wish I was still her,” I tell him. “That innocent girl.”

  “I never saw you as innocent.” When he glances over and sees my surprise, he smiles. “I know that’s hard to imagine, but I’ve seen your childhood photos. At least the ones Richard kept. You were born with eyes that hold worlds. Lifetimes of love and loss and pain. I’m only sorry that I added to your pain. I truly never meant to hurt you.”

  “I know,” I whisper.

  He recites softly, “�
�She lay still and hard and smooth before me, a chrysalises awaiting transformation. Soon, she would break free, and I would revel in witnessing her metamorphosis.’” He smiles warmly. “Indeed, I’ve reveled in witnessing your metamorphosis.”

  Fighting a damnable stirring behind my eyes, I force a smile. “Am I beautiful butterfly now?”

  His smile softens. “You know you are.”

  There’s a question in his eyes that I don’t know how to answer, so I ask a different one.

  “Is the novel too depressing?”

  “Nah. Besides, depressing wins awards.”

  I laugh and kick his leg. “That’s horrible advice.”

  He closes his eyes, lips curved in a smile. “In all honesty, I wouldn’t change it past the usual edits. You misspelled dessert twice.”

  I jerk upright in horror. My empty mug rolls off my lap and thuds on the floor. “Shit, are you serious?”

  He chuckles, nodding. “My favorite was, ‘The desert unfolded on her tongue.’ A poetic take on dry-mouth, certainly.”

  Laughing, I cover my flaming cheeks.

  James watches me with an impish grin. “Iris Eliot, you’re blushing.”

  “Fuck off, Beckett.”

  “You didn’t blush when I offered to bend you over, but you blush when I catch grammar errors? Good God, either you’re a unicorn or I need lessons in seduction.”

  I swallow laughter, rolling my eyes. “You weren’t even serious. Your girlfriend was waiting outside for you.”

  “Tsk tsk. No lying, pet. You and I both know why you looked at me like I was a cretin when I said it.”

  He can’t possibly…

  “Because I told you once that I’d only want you face to face.”

  Until this moment and those words, I didn’t know it was possible for a heart to soar and sink at the same time.

  “James…”

  He waves off my cautionary tone. “Don’t bother. Water under the bridge, eh?”

  I repeat his own words back to him. “Is it, little muse?”

  James laughs loudly and freely, the sound warming me from the inside out. By the time he quiets, it’s too late for me to hide the tears in my eyes.

  Expression sobering fast, he sits up. “What’s wrong, Iris?”

  I shake my head and wipe at my traitorous eyes. “Nothing, really. I just realized how much I’ve missed you. Not the being with you part—that was a mess—just you.”

  “I’m a brilliant conversationalist, aren’t I?”

  I laugh, silently thanking him for lightening the mood. “And humble, too.”

  He nods. “Don’t forget devastatingly handsome and impressively endowed. I don’t suppose you’d fancy a shag?”

  I groan. “Stop with the Austin Powers accent. You sound like a wanker.”

  He guffaws. “Did you just call me a wanker?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  Eyes sparkling, he stands and collects our mugs. “You’re right, of course. I’d better get going. I’ve got a serious wanking on the schedule tonight right after a wee wank or two.”

  I make a face. He laughs all the way to the kitchen, where he rinses the mugs and leaves them in the sink.

  We meet at the front door. He pulls on his overcoat, buttons it, and clears his throat. When he looks up, his eyes show me a rare glimpse of vulnerability.

  “This is awkward,” he mutters. “This is awkward, right?”

  I laugh a little. “Yes. But I’m glad you broke into my house tonight.”

  He smiles. “Me, too. Lock the door behind me.”

  “Will do.”

  He nods, then surprises me by taking my face gently in his hands and kissing my forehead. Against my skin, he murmurs, “No matter what, you were my muse first.”

  Then he’s out the door, jogging through the rain to his car. I wait until he starts the engine, then close the door and flip the deadbolt.

  My forehead hits the wood, then my palms. Closing my eyes, I see again his final glance. The tenderness and warmth in his eyes. I think of how easy and right it felt sitting beside him, drinking tea and laughing.

  And I wonder if timing really is everything.

  30. objectivity

  Spring makes a brief appearance the following week, and Friday night arrives cold but clear. At seven p.m., Peter the PhD candidate picks me up at Bluebird Books and takes me to sushi in Fremont. After sharing sashimi and rolls, we button our coats and walk the few blocks to Tullamore Café.

  Over the course of our meal, I reconfirmed that Peter is considerate, smart, and charming. Moreover, conversation with him is easy, no intellectual pressure or emotional undertones to be found.

  When he smiles at me and takes my hand, I smile back and let him. And for the rest of the walk to Tullamore, I privately bemoan the fact that his touch does absolutely nothing for me.

  Strike one.

  Inside the bright, warm café, we join the ordering line while a young woman strums a guitar on the nearby stage. The place is packed as usual, chairs and tables crammed together to accommodate the open mic night crowd.

  As we near the front of the line, I spot Allison behind the espresso machines. She sees me at the same time and grins, eyebrows raised speculatively as she nods toward Peter. Pivoting away from my date, I give her a sad-face as a reply. With a half-amused, half-sympathetic smile, she returns to her task.

  My attention now back with Peter, I realize he’s ordered for me without bothering to ask what I want. Despite his thoughtful choice of a latte with whole milk—which I’d been drinking when we met—I’d wanted tea.

  Strike two.

  The third strike is so unexpected, so utterly mystifying, it almost feels orchestrated by powers beyond human comprehension. And whoever the powers that be are, they have a real fucked-up sense of humor.

  It begins when I hear a laugh—his laugh—coming from somewhere behind me. At the same time, Peter takes his change and we move out of line. Then, as he’s looking around for a place to sit, his eyes widen with awe.

  And he says, “Oh my God, Iris, it’s James Beckett. Right there.” His wide eyes meet mine. “Will you introduce us? I’m his biggest fan.”

  “Uhh—”

  “Come on,” he says, grabbing my hand and virtually dragging me toward the back of the line.

  Strike three times a million.

  “Well, well, well,” drawls James, laughing eyes bouncing between my angry face and Peter’s excited one. “If it isn’t my former protégé. And who’s this young man, Iris? Your newest acquisition? Tread carefully, boyo, ‘though she be but little, she is fierce.’”

  I’m going to kill him.

  Then I’ll bring him back to life.

  Then I’ll kill him again.

  Peter drops my hand like it’s burning. “Mr. Beckett, it’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’m a huge fan.”

  James’ jaw clenches as he tries not to laugh. “I’m flattered,” he says with strain.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I finally look at the woman standing flush to James’ side. Jessica gives me a bland yet somehow venomous smile.

  “Nice to see you again, Iris.”

  My only consolation is that she sounds like she’s chewing glass. I’m so annoyed—by her, James, Peter, all of it—that a demon overtakes my vocal chords.

  “You, too. Did you have a nice New Years? I know I did.”

  James stops talking mid-sentence. Peter keeps yammering like nothing’s amiss, while Jessica stiffens in fury and spits daggers from her eyes.

  I smile sweetly at her.

  James clears his throat. Loudly.

  “Iris, a word?”

  Before I can say Hell no, he manhandles me out the front door with an arm locked around my shoulders. He marches us past the glowing windows and into a shadowed section of sidewalk.

  “What the fuck was that?”

  He doesn’t sound angry. In fact, he sounds positively tickled. Figures.

  I shrug, staring at the street. �
�I don’t like her.”

  “Little muse, are you jealous?”

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  I ignore that. “Tell your biggest fan I was feeling sick and caught a cab home. Goodnight, James.”

  I start walking.

  “Open relationship, remember?” he calls after me. “Say the word, pet, and I’ll give you what you want!”

  I turn, walking backward a few paces. “For such a brilliant man, you’re pretty dense.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Ask Jessica!”

  I spin and head for the nearest crosswalk.

  He yells, “Shall I meet you at your house in, say, an hour?”

  My middle finger lifts over my head. His merry laughter follows me across the street.

  Sunday afternoon, I head to Bluebird Books with my laptop. Preliminary notes from my agency’s top editor are in my email, but it’s better I don’t read them alone. With people around, I’ll be less likely to throw temper tantrums.

  My usual spot is taken, so I wander through the interconnected rooms for a bit browsing and people watching. There are other open chairs and a few tables, but I’m a creature of habit. And I’m procrastinating.

  On my third circuit around the store, the woman who occupied my chair is gone. Mildly disappointed, I slump into the armchair, pull out my laptop, and get to work.

  An hour later, I slam the computer closed and rub my eyes.

  “Are you stalking me, pet?”

  “Jesus,” I mutter, peering through my fingers. “Don’t you live in Wallingford? There are bookstores closer to you.”

  James flops into the alcove’s second chair. “Nope. Moved last year. A few minutes from here, actually.”

  My hands drop like rocks. “You’re kidding.”

  He rolls his head toward me, sunlight making emeralds of his eyes. “You didn’t wonder how I made it to your house so fast the other night?”

  “No,” I say, frowning. “Obviously I thought you were stalking me.”

  He grins. “Obviously. What are you doing?”