Set Me Free (5 page)

“I use the piano when I’m tuning the strings on my violins,” Owen said. “And I can’t play the violin, either.”

“Really?”

“Really. I was a cellist, but I stopped playing years ago.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story.” Once again, his tone went flat, his face became shuttered. Every time he started to open up to me, something went wrong, and he stopped himself.

Frowning, I picked out a couple of notes on the piano, playing the parts I could remember from Tom Waits’
Martha
, a ballad off his first album. “I’m sure playing the cello would come back to you. Like riding a bicycle.”

“I don’t think it’s going to come back.”

I ran through the song in my mind, humming bits of it, then started playing again. “I feel like that with my painting at the moment. But I’m sure if I—”

“You’re a painter,” he interrupted, his voice filled with revulsion.

Surprise and indignation flared through me. “Is that bad?”

He turned and stepped away from the piano, his wide shoulders tense. “Of course not.” He sighed, still facing away from me. “I’ve got to go meet Jenny.”

God, I was an idiot.

I jumped up—and staggered into the piano, cursing, as pain lanced through my knee.

“You all right?” Owen was beside me, his hand on my arm to steady me.

“I actually
forgot
about my leg. Stupid.”

“I’ll get you some aspirin.”

I shook my head. “I’m fine now. Thanks.”

He took my hands and drew me in towards him, between the piano and the bench. I couldn’t stop myself from staring at his chest, his flat stomach, his narrow hips. He rubbed his thumb across one of my rings—a silver-and-gold songbird—but otherwise we stood perfectly still. The seconds ticked by while Owen studied my face, my lips, with his dark, inscrutable eyes.

He pulled away and stepped backwards, shaking his head.

I swallowed and hugged my arms to my chest, ashamed of how disappointed I was.

“Jesus, Miranda.”

“What?” I looked up at him and realized he was looking at my scoop neckline, where I’d squashed the girls together rather provocatively. “Ah. Sorry.”

“No, don’t be—
I’m
sorry.” He exhaled in a sheepish laugh and rubbed the back of his head, making his hair even messier than usual.

“It’s all right.” I bit my lip. “I should go.”

“Me, too.”

Neither of us moved. Finally, I shuffled forwards, and he tried to step away but instead we bumped into each other. We both laughed awkwardly while I scurried away to keep myself from touching him again.

“Can I give you a ride home?” he asked at the front door.

“That’s okay. I’ll call Kaye for a ride. She won’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Thank you for bandaging me up.”

“’Course.” He cleared his throat. “Will you be at the party this weekend?”

“Andy and Kaye’s It’s-Slightly-Less-Shitty-Out Beach Party?” I said, quoting Kaye’s hand-made invitations.

He smiled. “That’s the one.”

“I’ll be there.” Not that it mattered, since he’d be bringing his girlfriend.

T
owards the end
of my lunch shift, as my tables thinned out, I slipped outside for a smoke break. I was desperate to get away from Margot, the other painter, who never stopped scowling at me. And now that I had a few more weeks’ wages under my belt, I could actually afford cigarettes. Moving up in the world.

Digging in my apron pocket for my lighter, I bumped into a man standing in the cool afternoon fog. “I’m sorry.” I stepped backwards.

He was middle-aged and expensively dressed. Unlikely to mug me, then. I supposed no one on Fall Island was likely to mug me, but you never know.

“No apology necessary.” He had a smooth, velvety voice, and he was handsome in an elegant way, with his dark hair and refined profile.

“Are you waiting for a table?” I asked curiously. There was no one else in the parking lot. Just him, alone in the fog, smoking a cigarette.

“Just enjoying the sea air before my lunch.”

I could understand that. I fumbled a cigarette loose from the pack and took a long drag. There was no need for me to be nervous about Kaye’s party tonight. It would be fine.

“Are you in town for the summer?”

The constant question. “I moved here a few weeks ago. To stay.”

“Well, welcome. James Emory.” He offered me his hand, and I shook it.

“I’m Miranda.”

“A pleasure.” He smiled. “You have a very pretty sense of personal style.”

I was wearing some new work clothes: a black mini-dress over black leggings, with a ton of silver and brass chain necklaces piled around my throat. I liked the outfit, but it wasn’t anything special.

“Where did you get the jewelry?” He didn’t have a Maine accent. I’d gotten so used to the way the townies talked that he sounded strange to me now.

“At a few different thrift shops. I mixed and matched different pieces from each.”

“Very pretty. Artistic, really.” His gaze slid up from the necklace to meet my own. “Are you an artist?”

“I’m a painter.”

“How interesting. What do you paint?”

“Um,” I began, releasing a breath, “portraits, mostly. Sort of dark, gloomy portraits.” Rhys had always called my paintings
dreary
.

James Emory raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t have guessed that, looking at you.” He tapped the ash from his cigarette. “Do you have any pictures of your work?”

“Actually, yes.” I dug my phone out of my apron pocket and pulled up a picture of a painting I’d finished before I’d met Rhys. It was now hanging in my dad’s flat. “This is a portrait I did of my mother.”

The painting showed her sitting on a couch, one slender knee crossed over the other. She held a rose on her lap, twining its long stem between her fingers. I’d painted the background black so her olive skin and the rose would stand out, while her ink-black hair, which was so much like mine, faded into the background.

The painting
was
dark—literally, because it looked like an old Renaissance painting, but also figuratively, because it was from when my dad was sick, and I had been so lonely back then, and so desperate for someone, like a mother, to help me care for him.

But my mother was smiling in the funny little way she always did in photographs, and working on it had made me feel better. I was proud of it, even if it couldn’t compare to a Suzanna White.

James’ brow furrowed as he gazed down at my phone. “You’re very talented. Do you have any others?”

“Lots of them.” I’d done many more of my mom, all based off photos, of course, and several of my friends—Rosa, Everett, and Johnny, especially. I had a few character portraits, too, of Ophelia or Rosalind or my namesake, Miranda.

“Are the others of this caliber?” James asked.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Have you ever tried to show your work in a gallery?”

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “Just a few art shows in high school. And I had a few paintings hung in local pubs.”

He shook his head. “That’s a disgrace.”

I stared at him in dismay, and he smiled. “Someone should have snapped you up by now,” he explained. “Your work is excellent. I could introduce you to some people if you like.”

I had no idea what to say.

“I’m serious,” he added mildly.

I frowned up at him. Could that be true? Did he really like the painting, or was he just flirting with me?

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll think about it. I’d better get back to my tables, though. Maybe I’ll see you inside.”

“I’d like that.” He inclined his head in farewell. I half-expected him to bow. Talking to him had been like stepping into a different era, with top hats and horse-drawn carriages and women in evening gloves. “Very nice meeting you, Miranda.”

* * *

A
fter work
, I stood in front of the cheap full-length mirror leaning against my slanted wall, wishing my
very pretty sense of personal style
would make an appearance and tell me what to wear. The outfit I had on was one of my favorites—skinny jeans and a flowing top—but it didn’t make me feel as confident as I’d hoped. On the other hand, I didn’t like the top I had just picked up, either. I was not in a pink mood.

I tossed the pink top on the floor and was debating changing into a dress when I was interrupted by a knock on the attic hatch. I lowered the stairs with the help of the person below me, and a moment later Kaye’s white-blonde head popped up. “Hi! Can I come in?”

I smiled. “Of course. What’s up?”

“I thought you might like a lemon drop shot before the party starts. They kind of remind me of freshman year of college,” Kaye said apologetically, sitting down on my futon, “but our friends always ask for them. We’ve stopped trying to make them drink something classy. Ready?”

“Sure.” I joined her on the futon, and we downed the shots. I tried not to make a face. It was way too sweet for me, but I appreciated the thought. “I’m excited for the party tonight,” I said. “It’ll be nice to meet your friends.”

“You’ve probably seen most of them around town, or at the bar. But now you’ll have a chance to talk to them when you aren’t working. Or you can ignore them and just hang out with me and Andy.”

“That sounds nice.” I adjusted one of my carnelian dream-catcher earrings. “Have you and Andy always been such good friends?”

“Oh, you know how it is, we hung around with all the same people in high school. Not much choice with such a small school. After high school, I left for college, and we only saw each other once or twice, when I came home for…New Year’s, or whatever.”

Kaye did not quite look at me when she said this, and I repressed the urge to ask her for the uncensored version of this story.

She pulled on a thread on the hem of her shirt. “Then, when I moved back here after college, I got a place with my friend Violet—you’ll meet her, she’s coming up for the party tonight—but eventually Vi bought a place of her own, so I moved in with Andy, Scott, and Rusty.”

“Just you and the guys.”

“God, it was disgusting.” Kaye grinned. “I love having you here! Have I told you that? You clean up after yourself, and you smell nice.”

I laughed. “I try.”

“I’m sorry I’ll be leaving you alone with them next year.”

“You’re moving out?” I asked, dismayed.

“I’m going to move to Boston. I want to be a photojournalist. I’ve been doing it up here, part-time, for the last few years—boring local paper stuff, you know—but it’s time to try for something bigger. So I’m going to save some money and, even if I can’t get a job by then, I’ll just move there next year when our lease is up.”

“Wow.” It was hard to imagine Fall Island without Kaye, but at the same time I could totally see her as a kick-ass photojournalist. “You would be amazing at that.” I tapped her shoulder. “You should definitely go for it.”

“Thanks.” Her fair cheeks turned pink. “How about you? Do you really think you’ll stay?”

“I really do.”

She shrugged. “Well, you know, for you, it’s all new. I like it here, too, but I’m sick of… I don’t know. I could use a change. And I have to at least try to accomplish my goals.”

“I’m not sure I have those.”

“What? Goals?”

“Yeah.”

Stay away from Rhys. Stop dating douchebags. Those were my goals.
But what about the rest of my life, besides relationships? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d given it serious thought.

“I think I might…” I stopped. I’d never said this to another soul. Not even to my mom’s grave.

“You might what?”

“I want to teach art,” I said, in a rush, “but I never went to college, so it’s a stupid idea.”

“It’s not stupid!” she said. “It’s not too late to go to college. You’re younger than me, aren’t you?”

“I’m twenty-four. I’d be in school with a bunch of nineteen-year-olds.” And when I was nineteen, I was taking care of my sick dad.

“The age range would depend on where you went,” Kaye said. “Andy only just finished getting his Bachelor’s part-time last year, and he’s twenty-eight, like me.”

“Really?”

“Really.” She beamed at me. “I think you should do it.”

“Thanks, Kaye,” I said, and I meant it. “Maybe I will.”

* * *

I
stirred
my whiskey with a plastic coffee stirrer that folded into the edges of the ice and irritated me excessively. I’d become trapped in a conversation with the man Andy had warned me about. Andy had sworn not to leave me alone with him, yet here I was, stuck with the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse, Boredom.

“So what do you do?” Boredom asked.

“I work at the Widow’s Walk with Kaye and Andy.” I took a healthy swig of whiskey.

“Oh, really? I’m a lawyer.” He had introduced himself to me as Attorney something-or-other, so I already knew that. I watched him warily as he edged closer to me with his hands in his pockets, jingling his keys. “I just started working at the D.A.’s office.”

“The what?”

“The District Attorney’s office. I’m a prosecutor.” His oddly stiff smile widened at this. “I work in the same office as Sherri Lipkowicz.”

I stared at him blankly.

“You’ve heard of her, haven’t you? She is very well-respected.”

“That’s nice.”

“Thank you, yeah. I feel honored to be able to work with her. Even though she used to do defense, I can’t hold that against her too much. She’s still a brilliant attorney.”

I tried not to roll my eyes and downed the rest of my drink instead.

“I’m not a small-minded person,” Boredom continued. “I do believe in the law and the system, of course. I don’t think those people should just be out, roaming the streets, when they’ve committed terrible crimes. Sherri agrees with me, I’m sure, or she would never have switched from defense to prosecution.” He leaned in even closer to me, and bent down to whisper, very loudly, in my ear: “I’m sure she had some regrets about a certain case, if you know what I mean.”

“Sure. Sounds good.” I leaned away from him. “Anyway, I’m out of whiskey. Excuse me.”

I dodged him, praying he wouldn’t follow me, and slipped through the crowd to our breakfast bar, which was laden down with plastic cups and half-empty bottles of liquor and mixers. I dropped ice into my cup and filled it halfway with whiskey.

Where the hell had my housemates gone, anyway? I glanced around—Boredom had, I noticed, already cornered someone else; I could see his mouth forming the syllables in “Sherri Lipkowicz”—until, at last, I spotted Scott by the front door.

I pushed my way towards him, hoping to ask him where Kaye and Andy were.

“There you are.” Scott seized me by the upper arm, his fingers curling around my flesh. “It’s time.”

“Time for what?” My skin crawled.

“To go to the beach! The party always moves to the beach. You have to come, Miranda.” He leaned in, his hair falling onto his forehead. “Are you having a good time, Miranda? I want you to have a good time.”

He was about the same height as Rhys, and his hand felt the same on my arm, with his fingers digging into my skin hard enough to leave a mark. I forced myself not to pull away. I didn’t want to disrupt the party, or anger my housemate.

“Are you ready?” Scott thrust his cup of beer into the air and—thank God—released me. “To the beach!” he cried, and the people around us cheered. Gradually, the guests flowed out of the house. I trailed after them, tightening my sweater around my body and wishing I were with Kaye and Andy instead of this crowd.