“Long enough to come in and have a drink?”
“Not sure I’d better come in.”
“That’ll be fine. We can relax out back on the sun deck.”
Sandy followed him around the side of the car port. About a hundred yards ahead, the ocean rolled into Shore. The beach stretched all the way to the rear of the cottage.
She pulled off her shoes and carried them. The dry, hot sand shifted under her feet.
At the bottom of the deck stairs, she stopped and watched Terry climb. He had fine, golden hair on the backs of his legs, and curly down just above his belt. His wallet made the left seat pocket of his shorts bulge. The other side of his shorts curved nicely against his buttock.
She felt a little funny about staring at his rear.
Normally, she wasn’t much interested in such things.
She wondered what he was wearing under his shorts.
Get a grip, she told herself. The guy’s a cop. I can’t have anything to do with him.
Then what am I doing here?
“Coming up?” he asked.
“Sure.” She climbed the stairs. The sundeck had a redwood railing on three sides. On the fourth side, the deck joined the cottage. Which seemed to be made mostly of glass. Draperies were shut, however, so she couldn’t see inside. The deck was furnished with a round glass table, a few folding chairs, two loungers with fabric pads, a couple of TV trays, and a barbeque grill.
“What can I get you?” Terry asked.
“I’ll have to drive home pretty soon.”
“I have soft drinks. Or you might try a beer. One or two beers shouldn’t impair you much.”
“A beer sounds good,” she said.
“I’ll have to go in through the front.” He headed for the stairs.
Sandy glanced at the two sliding glass doors. “You can’t get in from here?”
“They only lock from the inside. This’ll just take a minute, though. Make yourself at home.”
“I’ll come with you,” Sandy told him.
“Fine.”
As they retraced their route to the front of the cottage, Terry smiled and said, “I thought you didn’t want to go in.”
“I was just being cautious.”
“And now you’re not?”
“Maybe I was being overly cautious. I mean, you are a cop, right?”
“Right.”
When they reached the front door, he unlocked and opened it.
Sandy followed him inside. The living room had a hardwood floor and several rugs. There were bookshelves, a stone fireplace, a television, an easy chair, and an old sofa with a coffee table in front and lamp tables at each end. On one wall was a seascape of the ocean at sunset. On another wall hung The Sleeper.
By Blaze O. Glory.
One of his more recent paintings.
It showed Sandy sprawled on a bed, eyes shut, her hair spread across the pillow, sunlight slanting down on her from a nearby window. She looked as if she’d tossed and turned during the night. By morning, the single sheet over her body was a twisted disarray. Her entire left leg had come out from under it. The sheet covered her right leg, then swept upward across her body at an angle, draping her belly and her left breast and shoulder, but leaving her right breast naked.
Sandy gaped at it. Then she turned to Terry.
His smiled turned crooked and he blushed.
Sandy’s heart thudded wildly. Her face felt hot. “That’s me,” she said, her voice coming out no louder than a whisper.
“I know,” he whispered back at her.
“My God.”
What’s going on? she wondered. She felt very strange: confused, embarrassed, deceived and betrayed, frightened, flattered, vulnerable and excited. All at the same time.
“The painting’s beautiful,” Terry said. “You’re beautiful.”
“So...this morning wasn’t an accident. You didn’t just stumble onto us.”
“I had a spy in the camp.”
“Blaze?”
Terry nodded.
“That...”
“He meant well. He thought you and I might get along.”
“He set me up.”
“All he really did was tell me where you’d be.”
“Then he made sure I was half-naked for the encounter.”
Smiling, Terry said, “Well, he probably did that for artistic reasons.”
“Oh, sure.”
“He was just trying to help. He thinks you need someone...a friend. And he knew how much I wanted to meet you.”
“Because of that?” She nodded toward the painting.
“That. And others.”
“You have more?”
“No. Just the one. It’s all I’ve been able to afford. But I’ve seen a few of the others. I wish I had them all.”
Staring into his eyes, she asked, “Why?”
“Because they’re of you.”
“They don’t even look like me.”
“Sure they do. I mean, none of them looks exactly like you. Blaze doesn’t get every feature just right. But all of them have...I don’t know.” His blush deepened. “Your beauty. Your magic. I wish he’d paint one that really looks like you.”
“He’s not supposed to,” Sandy explained. “I don’t want everybody knowing it’s me when they see these things.”
“Couldn’t be anyone else,” Terry said. “Not if they know you.”
“I’d better make Blaze give me a bigger nose or something.”
Laughing softly, Terry shook his head. “Don’t do that. He should make them look exactly like you. In the ways they’re different, they lose.”
She gazed at him.
“Sony,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t? Then how come you brought me in here? Did you think I wouldn’t notice the painting?”
“I guess I wanted you to notice it.”
“So you intended to scare me away?”
“You’re still here.”
“Hanging on by the fingernails.”
“How about that beer?”
“Maybe I’d better get the hell out of here. This is a little...strange.”
“How about if you get the hell out to the back deck?”
Staring into his eyes, she wasn’t sure what she saw. A look of urgent hope?
Maybe that’s lust.
What she didn’t find in his eyes was any trace of malice.
“I guess the deck’ll be okay,” she said.
He led her toward one of the sliding doors. “How about the beer?” he asked.
“Make it a vodka, okay? If you have any. I’m beyond beer right now.”
“How about a vodka and tonic?”
“That’d be just right.”
He unlatched the door and rolled it open for her. Then he skidded the screen door out of the way.
“I’ll be along in a minute,” he said.
Sandy stepped across the deck. Bending over slightly, she clutched the top of the redwood railing with both hands and gazed out over the beach. Not many people were in sight. Those that she could see were far away. There were a lot more seagulls than people. They swooped and flapped and squealed.
The sun felt hot, but a cool breeze blew into Sandy’s face and ruffled her shirt.
This is so great, she thought.
And so horrible.
God, the guy is head-over-heels for me.
Not for me. For the gal in the paintings.
But she is me.
What am I gonna do?
Drink my drink and leave, she told herself. And avoid him from now on.
But what if he won’t avoid me?
This sucks so bad.