"Fine," she answered through clenched teeth. Despite everything—all the stepdads and melodrama—they'd always been a duo. Maybe a dysfunctional duo that no longer worked for one of the participants, but a team nonetheless. She moved through the house, slamming trash into a bag, and thinking of all the reasons she should have walked away and all the reasons she couldn't.
After bundling up the trash bags, she walked into the backyard to the dumpster and looked at the row of similar houses with chipped shutters and small porches. Not that many years ago, she'd been a child growing up in a similar house in an adjacent neighborhood. When Julie brought home people from the bar or that special guy of the night, little Jessica would grab her bunny and crawl onto the porch roof from her window. She'd stare at stars and dream of far away places that she'd seen on television or learned about in school. While the fray went on inside, she traveled in her mind and drew pictures on anything she could find once her notebooks would fill—napkins or backs of magazines. But she'd always known that art needed to be channeled into something useful so she could earn her own way in the world.
Dreams don't pay bills, her mother used to say.
She leaned heavily on the lid of the trashcan and closed her eyes. What did Julie know about dreams? She'd worked at so many odd jobs her entire life that Jessica had lost count. When kids in school asked her what her parents did for a living, she'd lie.
"What are you doing out there?" Julie asked from where she stood on the back porch. "It's about to rain."
"I'm coming, mom." A raindrop hit her forehead. One and then another. Faster. She walked slowly toward the porch, unable to stop thinking about who she'd been as a child and all of those dreams she'd had. "I'm getting the promotion, by the way, mom," she said once she started climbing the steps. "You know the one I told you about yesterday? They liked my design."
Julie pulled the sweater tighter around her narrow body and studied her face. "That's good, real good."
From her mother, those words were as good as gold. She linked her arm through her mom's elbow and led her back into the house. "Let's stay here. I'm sure I can make us something to eat."
"We should celebrate." Julie pushed trembling hands through her hair. "I washed up a bit, I can change clothes."
"Okay, mom. Whatever you want." Jessica sank on the sofa, rested her elbows on her knees, and wondered what Jacques would say if he could see her now. A son of a diplomat who'd spent his life living around the world, how could he ever embrace her history? She had managed to avoid full disclosure of her childhood while in Italy because there she had been able to reinvent herself into anything she'd wanted.
Maybe it had been pretend, just a summer of make believe. She fidgeted with the ring on her finger and blinked back the tears that burned her eyes.
Out of all of her friends, only Marc had been here. He'd been the one in college who had helped bail Julie out of jail and had listened to the rants. Marc had been the one who had called her that morning in Italy when her mom had nearly died and who had arranged for the emergency airline ticket to be waiting at the counter. Marc had seen her ugly side and accepted it. Jacques only knew the carefree girl with the wild curls who believed in making dreams come true.
She yanked off the ring and slipped it into the front pocket of her jeans. Yes, it was time to grow up and let go, just like he had done.
"How does this look?" Julie stood on the stairs in a faded dress that showed off legs that were pretty damn good for a nearly sixty year old.
"You look beautiful, mom." She stood and walked toward the door.
"What's the matter? You look sad and this is a celebration." When Julie approached, Jessica smelled the rum and knew her mom had found a new hiding place for her stash.
"I'm ready to celebrate." She shrugged and stepped toward the door, tired of playing this game, but not knowing how to break the cycle without breaking her heart in two.
"Don't be sad, my Jessica." Julie smiled, the carefully applied make-up concealing the fresh bruises. "You should go out with that nice Marc later to celebrate your promotion. You need to have more fun."
She nodded without answering. Maybe she would call him, what the hell? Maybe love was overrated. No emotion, no pain. No attachment, no loss. Easy.
* * *
Chapter Five
Dark water rolled to infinity. Sun soaked into her greedy skin, long starved for its heat after a bitter winter. A cool breeze tossed her hair back from her upturned face. Clouds hung on the horizon. She sighed. It was a perfect Sunday.
“You’re lost in thought,” Marc observed, lying beside her.
He had stalled the boat and brought down the sails without her noticing. A picnic basket sat between them. His bare tanned legs stretched out against the hot deck. Wind tossed his black hair across his bronzed forehead.
“I’m glad I called you. The day’s too good to waste,” she said with a lazy grin. "Being here is the perfect way to end the weekend."
"I never turn down a good sailing day," Marc said with a wide smile. "What'd you do yesterday? You took off from McDougal's Friday night like you couldn't wait to get away from everyone."
She closed her eyes and tilted her face toward the sun. She didn't want to remember Friday night and Jacques. “Remember last summer? When we all painted the shutters at Miranda's house on the Cape?”
Marc laughed. “You started that ridiculous paint fight.”
“I saw an opportunity and went for it,” she said, opening her eyes and looking at his handsome profile. To hell with chemistry. With Marc, she'd always know what to expect. "We have a lot of good memories between us, don't we?"
“And we'll create a lot more. We're the inevitable couple, aren't we? At least according to the masses,” he said, leaning across the picnic basket to kiss her lightly on the lips.
You have no idea what I want. You don’t know me, not really. She shook off the thought and pulled away. Damn it, do I have an aversion to simplicity?
She focused on his hands pouring white wine into a pair of crystal glasses. Prince Charming in the flesh, the kind of man a girl dreams about when planning a fairytale wedding. A future with Marc would be steady and comfortable. Safe. Predictable.
“I’ve lost you, Mori. Care to let me in on what’s going on behind those gorgeous blue eyes of yours? Is it work?” he asked, gliding his fingers down her arm. "Don't worry about Sincore. Maybe we can partner up. We can talk to Charlie about it tomorrow morning. We're good when we work together."
“Tell me something?” Nearly hypnotized by the sound of water lapping against the side of the boat, she felt the tension ease from her body.
“Anything.”
“Why do you think we’ve been so open with our relationship? It’s like we’re keeping each other within arm’s reach just in case. No real emotion or commitment. Friends who happen to sleep together from time to time. What happens if we meet someone else? We’ve never really discussed what we want out of this.” Instead of looking at him, she stared at the wine swirling round and round in her glass. "And sometimes I sense resentment from you...am I imagining things?"
“Are you saying you want something more?”
“I don’t know.” Inside her heart, a small voice whispered that yes; she did want more, just not from him. “I wonder if we’re doing the right thing, living like this. Lovers one day; friends the next; co-workers all the time. Dating people we never intend to form a relationship with while we keep each other constantly in sight. Maybe we both deserve more.”
“Maybe we do.” He nodded, his lips still smiling when they covered hers. Testing. Wanting. Exploring.
Her hands went to his shoulders, intent on pushing him away, but the need was strong, the need to prove she could have intensity with someone other than Jacques Sinclair. Maybe she hadn’t given Marc a fair chance.
The kiss became both needy and passionate. His tongue parted her lips. Glass shattered as it fell from her hand. She fisted her hands in the thickness of
his hair, matching his ferocity with a passion born from desperation, punishing herself for what she both wanted and resented.
Making love had never been like this between them. Wild. Fierce. Bold. She wanted to devour him, use him. Self-loathing increased with every kiss and caress, but she couldn’t stop. She needed to recreate the passion she had had with Jacques to prove she could have it again with another man, a man like Marc.
He pushed her back onto the warmth of the deck, his bare leg pushing between hers. Urgent. Needy. His hand yanked up her sweatshirt to stroke the soft skin of her abdomen to her breast while his mouth devoured her neck.
But it was Jacques’ face filling her mind’s eye, not Marc.
Salty tears trailed to her lips. This was wrong. Dizzying passion didn’t stir her soul. No rocking desire shivered through her body, only a physical need that made her sad.
“Stop," she whispered through tears. “I can’t. No, Marc.”
She balled her hands against his shoulders and squeezed her eyes closed. A burning need to die filled her soul.
“God, Mori, you surprise the hell out of me when I least expect it,” he whispered against her throat, his hand stroking the length of her thigh. He smiled against her neck, his breath hot on her flesh.
“I don’t want to do this,” she said, burying her face against his shoulder to hide the tears.
“Later then. I’m going below and get some ice. Want anything?” He kissed her abdomen before rolling away from her.
“I’m fine.” She readjusted her clothing and moved to the railing of the boat. In the distance, another sailboat sliced through the blue. The sun descended in the sky. Marc wrapped his arm around her waist and rested his chin against her shoulder, a full wine glass dangled from his fingertips.
“We make a perfect couple, Jessie. You and me. You’re right. We do need more,” he said after a prolonged silence.
“I don’t want to hurt you. You’ve been my friend, my lover. I’m afraid that I’m going to hurt you.”
“Is this about that European again? Damn it, Jessie, tell me he hasn't gotten to you.” He rubbed his hand over his face and walked away from her. He cursed under his breath.
"What do you know about him?" She turned her back on the ocean and studied his pacing.
"I had dinner with Miranda last night. She told me all about his exhibit, how you're the star of the show, how he wants your paintings to hang with his work—"
"I don't know anything about any paintings." She sank onto the bench and rubbed the center of her chest with a closed fist.
"He's trying to manipulate you, can't you see that?" Marc sat next to her and grabbed her hand. "It's all a brilliant way to get back at you for leaving him. I didn't trust the man when I met him in Italy, and I sure as hell don't trust his sudden reappearance in your life."
Blown away that he knew anything about Jacques, she struggled for the right words. "It's not like that. He wouldn't do that."
"No? Do you think it's a coincidence that he's doing his one and only showing at my sister's gallery?"
"I think it's fucking weird you even know anything about this." She stood and reached for the bottle of wine. Marc had known and not said a word until now. That bothered her more than anything else.
"The man is obsessed or something. First thing Monday, we should find out what we need to do to get an injunction—"
"I'm not doing that."
"There are half-naked photos—"
"Fully naked in some cases."
"And the idea of you hanging your artwork after making associate partner at a prestigious firm will ruin you. You need to think about your reputation, about what's best for your future."
"What's best for my future," she repeated, looking at the liquid in her glass.
"Protect yourself, Mori. I'll help you."
"I don't need your help."
"Jesus, Mori, snap out of it! You cannot be associated with his book, with him, or with that gallery exhibit in any way. If people find out that you modeled nude—"
"I didn't model, not like you're saying." She had enjoyed every picture, it had been foreplay in some ways, exhilarating to be that free. From what she'd seen of the book, he'd created something exquisitely beautiful from their love play. The pictures were magnificent creations of art and, if those at his show were similar, then she had nothing to fear.
"And there's your link to me and my family. We have old connections here. If we're going to become more than—"
"We're not." She shook her head before facing him. "That was a momentary show of weakness. You and me...we're only friends from here on out. No sex. Feel free to exploit the Most Eligible Bachelor in Boston label like you've been doing. Maybe you'll find your Ms. Right because it's not me."
"You beat me out on a project and now you're getting cocky, is that it? Is the associate partner Jessica Moriarty too good for her old pal Marc who's still amongst the cubicle-kind?" He leapt to his feet and paced the deck. Even when angry his pace had the grace of a caged tiger. Confidence exuded from every pore of his body. The sea breeze tossed black hair around his tanned face. Bare muscular legs swallowed up the space around him.
“I need you to understand,” she said because it was true.
“I don’t. Sorry, but I cannot understand what’s motivating you right now,” he said, combing his hands through his hair. "You don't deserve a promotion if you're not willing to take it seriously. You have no idea what I did to bring Sincore to our firm, no idea. I made sacrifices...did things. I made it happen."
"What do you mean you made it happen? How? Did you pitch them behind Pierson and Smithe's back?"
"What I did was much worse." He wouldn't stop pacing on the slowly undulating deck.
She glanced around at the ocean around them, put her hands on her hips, and chewed her bottom lip. She'd picked the wrong place and the wrong time to upset him. "What did you do?"
"I have a plan, have always had a plan," he continued to speak. "You, me, our own firm one day. Are you upset about the Most Eligible Bachelor in Boston thing? It was just for fun—"
"You've been getting more than your share of mileage from it."
"So you have been upset?" He stopped and faced her.
"No, not even a little bit. It's your thing, we like to joke around about it, but I've never felt jealous." She walked to him, linked her hands behind his waist and tilted her face to look into his handsome face. Ten years was a long time to know someone, to share dreams and secrets. "Our friendship is first and foremost a priority."
He framed her face with the palms of his hands and leaned his forehead against hers. "Promise me you will stay away from Jacques Sinclair.”
“Marc…”
“Promise me."
“Why are you acting like this? It's crazy. Calm down.” She covered his hands with her own.
“I think you’ve forgotten something,” he whispered against the side of her face.
“What’s that?” Uneasiness drummed in her chest. She unwound herself from his embrace and stepped back.
“I always get what I want.”
She didn’t know what she was going to do about Jacques Sinclair, but she didn’t like the look in Marc’s eyes. Not at all.
“Let’s get sailing. I think you need some fast, furious fun to shake these strange ideas from your head," he said.
She sat cross-legged at the bow and ignored him as he adjusted the sails to get them underway. Her heartbeat raced inside her chest, not out of passion, but out of an insidious fear that had planted itself deep within her heart.
* * *
Photographs scattered across the kitchen counter. Carter and Kevin sorted through them while he looked at his cell phone. Simone had called three times in less than an hour, but he had declined each one. They had been through a lot together and she deserved better than him avoiding her.
"I think this would be the best arrangement for the showing," Kevin said with a nod. "What do you think?"
 
; "Whatever you think is best," he muttered.
"Ava mentioned something about you subletting your apartment," Carter said after pushing back from the counter. "I may know someone who's interested. Where's all of your stuff going to go? Or will you sublet it furnished?"
He shrugged, his gaze absently traveling around the room. He had nothing here that meant anything to him. "Furnished, I suppose."
"Wait, what?" Kevin swiveled around and faced him. "Where are we going?"
"You can stay here, I am just...going." He wouldn't make eye contact with either of his friends.
"When is all of this happening? Before or after the documentary?" Kevin followed him into the living room.
"Doesn't matter. If it happens soon, then I can always stay with one of you until the documentary. If it happens during or after, then I won't come back. It is all simple. I am not worried over it." He collapsed onto the sofa and stared at the city outside the window. He no longer wanted to be here, not even another day. Not just here, but the country itself.
Kevin and Carter exchanged a look.
"If you want to see her so badly, go." Carter smiled.
"I don't miss her. She will be back from the Bahamas—"
"Not Simone," Kevin corrected with a smile that matched Carter's. "The brunette. Go see her."
"This has nothing to do with Jessica."
"Everything you have done since Italy is about Jessica in one way or another." Carter leaned back in the chair and glanced around the space. "I think you keep this so impersonal because of her, too."
"What are you? A counselor now?"
"I'm dying to know what happened when you saw her Friday night. Did you two have a fight?" Kevin inched forward on his seat as if eager for a story. "Why did you leave your ring there? For that matter, why did you take it off? Were you two in the shower together or something?"
"Yeah, how heated did it get with you two?" The knowledge in Carter's eyes annoyed him.
"You think you know so much, but neither of you know anything." He stood when Simone called yet again. Ignoring the laughter from his friends, he walked into the bedroom to talk in private. "Yes, Simone."