Anywhere You Are (12 page)

Paintbrush in hand, Grace stepped back from the canvas and appraised her work. It was good. More than good. She'd gotten the tilt of the deer's head just right, and her shading of the underbrush was masterful. A little more shadowing here, a tad more light there. She dabbed and flicked, bringing the forest canopy to life.

On yesterday's walk with Big Blue, they'd come across a whole flock of white-tailed deer deep in the woods. She'd had time to dash off a few pencil sketches before something—not Blue—had scared them away. Though she had plenty of other work to do, she couldn't resist painting the cutest little fawn, who'd stuck close to its mother's side. One more quick layer of dark green on the canopy above, and she…was…done.

“What do you think, Blue?” she asked the dog, who was in his favorite place over by the wall. “Not bad, huh?”

Blue picked up his head and regarded her. When he realized she wasn't making a move toward the door—thereby signaling that no lunch was forthcoming—he laid it back down on his huge paws.

“Everyone's a critic,” she said with a smile.

Satisfied, she dipped her brushes in water and did a quick clean, knowing she'd have to do a more thorough one later. She'd been remarkably prolific lately, blowing through piece after piece with more vigor than ever, and her painting had gotten better, too, filled with light and movement and an urgency that had always been there in her work, but now had jumped to the forefront of every piece. The natural world, in all its beauty and glory, and she was capturing it, a brief moment in time.

It was because of Marc.

Well, no, not exactly. It was more like because of how Marc made her feel. Free and wild, the way she used to be, but without any of the negative stuff that went along with it. He grounded her. Tempered her with his solidness.

And in return, she dirtied him up.

They'd had two extra days together before he had to leave. Two days—and nights—filled with laughter, fun, and explosively hot sex.

Just yesterday, she'd convinced him to go skinny-dipping in a secret pond she knew. Honestly, she wasn't sure he'd do it, but he'd stepped up to the challenge. Nothing had prepared her for the sight of Marc's naked body emerging from the water dripping wet. They'd done it right there on the edge of the pond, unable to wait.

Afterward, Grace had found mud in places she wished she hadn't, but it had been worth it. Especially because getting clean in a warm shower with Marc was just as nice as getting dirty with him.

He'd left for India last night, leaving her once again with his dog and a kiss.

The telltale scratch of tires on her driveway resonated in the barn.

“C'mon, Blue,” she called, heading toward the door. The dog got to his feet, gave himself a shake, and followed her out.

George Arbor was just pulling up in his blue Prius.

“Did you finish the painting?” he asked as soon as he emerged, once again not bothering with any sort of greeting.

Poor George. It sounded like his nose was completely stuffed up.

“I sure did, and I even wrapped it for you.”

“Great, I—ah…
atchoo
!” George sneezed loudly, then did it again, three times in rapid succession.

“God bless you.”

Sniffling, he pulled a cloth handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose with a loud honk, which for all intents and purposes sounded like the call of the Canada goose.

“I have a cold.”

“It must stink to have one during the summer.”

“I always get summer colds,” he said, shoving the cloth back into his pocket. “It's a weakness all the Arbors share.”

“Have you taken anything? Cold medicine? Ibuprofen?”

“Not yet.” More sneezing.

“Bless you again. Can I get you some tea?”

He looked at her as if he'd never received such an offer. “I'm rather in a hurry, but I do have a few moments. And some tea sounds nice.”

Grace beamed at him. “Follow me,” she said, leading the way to the side door. “Tea will definitely make you feel better. And maybe you'd like some of my homemade noodle soup to take home? I made plenty. Please.” She showed George into the house, let in Big Blue, then stepped in behind the two of them.

“Why is it so dark in here?” George said, right before he reached for the light switch and flicked it on.

Almost instantly, there was a giant crack from deep within the walls, then a loud snap. A split second later, one of the bulbs in the pineapple light fixture popped clean off its base, shooting across the room like a rocket. With a crash, it smashed onto the floor, scattering glass everywhere.

But Grace wasn't paying attention to where it landed because she was rooted in place by the foot-long flame that was shooting up from the now-empty socket.

Oh. My. God.

“Fire!” George screamed and ran for the door. “Fire!”

Damn, that man moved surprisingly fast. One second he was there, and the next,
poof
!

But George was the least of her worries right now. Big Blue was standing near the stove, frozen in place.

“Blue, come,” she ordered. The last thing she wanted was for the dog to step on the broken glass. Thank God he listened and came right to her. As soon as he was close enough she grabbed him by his collar and led him to the door. He didn't want to go, but she forcibly shoved him out. Only when Blue was safely away did she turn to face the fire.

The flame was shooting high, but the fire hadn't spread from the fixture…yet.

She needed to put it out.

But with what?

Not water. Water on electrical fires was deadly. Her extinguisher! The old one in the barn. She raced out the door. George was nowhere to be seen, but Blue, having gotten over his fright, was now barely able to contain his excitement. He ran hot on her heels, panting and barking like a dog gone mad.

Ignoring the shooting pain in her ankle, she quickly grabbed the extinguisher and ran back to the house. As she reached the side door, the smoke detector went off, sounding loud enough to wake the dead.

Damn, that was loud. But there was no choice.

“Blue, stay,” she ordered and mercifully he did, though he refused to sit. Just paced back and forth, barking more frantically now. Bracing herself, she went back inside.

The noise was deafening, and the flame was still shooting out of the fixture. The old metal socket was melting from the heat, dripping down the branch toward the pineapple, and the smoke was turning the ceiling black. It hadn't spread, but there was no time to lose.

She grabbed a kitchen chair, hauled herself up on it, aimed the extinguisher right at the base of the flame, and squeezed the handle. The plastic pin snapped and white-yellow foam spewed out of the nozzle, spraying all over the fixture, her table, and the floor.

And just like that, the fire was out.

She gasped, rooted to the spot, half in shock, half in disbelief that she'd actually put out a real, live fire.

What now?

The alarm first. It was still ringing, making her head ache.

To get the smoke out, she opened both windows and the door, then stumbled outside, still dazed.

Blue was wild to see her. He ran circles around her, barking and panting and trying to jump up on her.

“Down, Blue,” she demanded. The dog did as she said, but stuck close by her side as she went to search for George.

He'd locked himself inside his car and was sitting in the driver's seat, quivering like a leaf.

She knocked on the window. “George? Do you have a cellphone? Mine's inside and I don't want to go back in while the alarm's still going off.” He didn't even blink. Maybe he was in shock. “Are you okay?” Finally, he turned to her, his eyes wide with fear. “Can I have your cellphone?”

He was moving too slowly, like a zombie, but he stuck his hand in his pocket all the same. He fished around for what seemed like an eternity.

Oh, come on now.
“George!” she cried. It came out too sharply, but it did the trick. The cellphone popped out of his pocket, and he rolled down the window a hair to hand it to her.

“Thank you.”

She made to dial 911, but something was wrong. Her hands. Her hands were shaking so badly, she nearly dropped the phone.

It was the adrenaline. Coursing through her with no outlet, now that the imminent danger had passed.

She grabbed the phone more tightly and very deliberately dialed the numbers.

A voice on the other end of the line said, “Please state your name and the nature of the emergency.”

Grace took a deep breath. “There's been a fire.”

“It's not every day we have homeowners putting out their own fires, miss,” the very tall, very built, very handsome, and surprisingly young chief of the Eastbridge Fire Department told her as he and his crew were wrapping up their examination of her kitchen. “You did a great job. I'm happy you knew what to do and didn't panic.”

Grace nodded. She'd panicked all right, but
after
she'd put out the fire and made the phone call. But if the hot fire chief wanted to think she was a badass, she wasn't going to dissuade him.

He looked at her approvingly. “My men have finished up. There looks to be little physical damage except some minor smoke damage on the ceiling and of course, the damage to the fixture itself.”

After her call to the town's emergency dispatcher, they'd come out in the hook and ladder—four huge guys—to double-check to make sure the fire was totally out. One big fireman had done a visual examination while the other had taken a heat sensor—the coolest device she'd ever seen—to ensure there was no residual fire in the walls. A third had checked out her fuse box, while the chief himself had done a sweep of the rest of the house.

The consensus: an electrical short due to faulty wiring. The crack she'd heard had been the electricity arcing between the switch and the fixture, which was just too damned old.

“So the fixture is finished, then? I shouldn't use it anymore?”

“Get it replaced,” the chief told her. “But keep it if it holds any sentimental value.”

“Nope,” Grace replied. Not anymore. Not since that freaking pineapple had almost burned down her house.

“I'd get an electrician out here as soon as I could to replace the fixture and make sure everything's up to code. Your fuse box is pretty outdated. You need a spacer in there for sure. It's just dangerous the way it's set up now.” He was speaking Greek to her, but she nodded all the same. “And I'd refrain from using the switches in the kitchen. The boys just taped over them so you won't be tempted.”

“Get the fixture replaced, the fuse box checked, and don't use the kitchen switches,” she repeated, just to make sure she had everything down.

“Right.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Miss, you did great. Really great. Thank you for making our job here easy.”

“I should be thanking you.”

“We didn't do anything,” he said. “The fire was already extinguished when we got here. But if you need anything else, anything at all, please don't hesitate to call.”

“I appreciate that. Thanks for making me feel like a hero.”

His lips curled. “Want a plastic fire helmet or some sticker stars? We have some in the truck.”

She looked over to the truck, where the three other firemen were putting away their gear. One of them—a guy with reddish-blond hair and some day-old scruff—looked her way, turned red, and busied himself with something on the truck.

“I think I'll pass on those,” she said with a smile. “Is there anything else you need from me? Anything else you need to check?”

“There is one thing…” the chief started.

“What?”

The chief paused, the first time she'd seen him hesitate since he'd arrived. “Well,” he said, “we have a lot of downtime in the firehouse, waiting for calls, waiting for emergencies to come in.”

“Yes?”

“As you might imagine, we watch a lot of TV.”

Oh.
She got where this was going.

“Blake over there's a huge fan,” the chief continued, nodding at the redhead. “I think he'd love an autograph. That is, if you wouldn't mind giving him one.”

“Of course,” she said. She walked over to the men. Now that she was calm, she was once again in her element.

“Hullo,” she said. “I'm Grace.”

“I know,” Blake said in a whisper, his face almost as red as his hair. He was kind of adorable, in a fresh-faced way.

“Your chief tells me you'd like an autograph.” She gave him a big smile.

“Yeah. That'd be…” He stopped, swallowed, and licked his lips. “That'd be great.”

“Do you have some paper?”

Blake blinked. “Yeah. Yeah. Hang on. Let me get it.” He reached up into the cab of the truck and pulled down a notebook.

“Thank you.” She took the book, scribbled her signature across the page, and handed it back. Then she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.

She didn't think it was possible for him to turn even redder, but he did. “Oh, God,” he choked out, to the men's laughter. “Thank you.”

Blue barked, and she stepped back. The men jumped into their truck.

“Thanks, boys,” she called out as they backed the giant vehicle down her driveway. “Don't come again soon.”

“Here's to your first official sale,” Crystal said, languidly lifting her wineglass and taking a long, deep drink. She was lying on the sofa in Grace's great room, her shoes off, her feet up, looking at once disheveled and glamorous in her skinny jeans and strategically ripped top.

Grace rolled her eyes, feeling only a little bit dizzy, despite the bottle they'd already imbibed. “It wasn't my first official sale, just my first noncommissioned work. Anyway, we toasted to that three hours ago,” she giggled.

It had been a good night. Crystal had arrived at three, and the two women had laughed and cooked and laughed some more—in the mostly dark kitchen strategically rigged with a couple of flashlights and an oil lamp, given that they weren't allowed to use the light fixtures. Grace was relaxed and happy.

The huge sliding glass door in the great room was open, with only a screen separating them from the meadow. The summer air was redolent with sweet grass and the sounds of early evening sang on the breeze—birds and crickets tweeting and chirping in the darkening light.

“It deserves to be toasted more than once,” Crystal said. “Also, we opened another bottle of wine.”

“So?”

“You really have been away a long time,” she said. “Don't you remember our rule? Every time you open another bottle, you do another toast.”

Grace cocked her head. “Okay, then we'll make up a different toast. To your show!”

“No, that's not special.” Crystal tapped her fingers to her lips. “Wait, I know! To the hot firemen!”

“I'll definitely drink to that.”

They clinked glasses and drank.

Ah, she'd missed this.

Crystal swallowed and immediately took another big gulp. “Tell me the story again,” she demanded. “But skip the explosion and the fire part.”

“You only want to hear about the firemen,” Grace surmised. For all her worldly sophistication and the gorgeous men who wanted to keep her company, Crystal's crank was turned not by male models, but by rugged alpha males who worked with their hands.

“Hell yes. And this time, be specific. You were woefully skimpy on details the first time around.”

“Well,” Grace said, settling her back against the couch and taking a sip of wine. “They were big.”

Crystal's eyes gleamed with excitement. “How big?”

“Six-three, six-four, maybe?”

“Mmm. Go on.”

“They were hot.”

Crystal narrowed her eyes. “You're going to have to do better than that.”

“Okay. Sorry. You're just so much better at this than I am.” Grace thought hard, then started again. “I'll tell you about the one who asked me for my autograph. He had a strong nose. And…and brown eyes. Ooh, and a nice mouth.”

“Did you sample his lips?”

“What? No! He was there on business. Pineapple explosion, remember?”

“Too bad,” Crystal said with a shrug. She hadn't been so nonchalant about the pineapple incident when Grace told the story the first time; Crys had laughed so hard she'd spewed red wine all over Grace's couch. “Did you look at his butt?”

No.
“It was, ah, firm,” she lied. “And he had big hands.” That seemed like a safe thing to say, given that they'd all had big hands.

Crystal nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Scale of one to ten?”

“Um, maybe an eight?”

“Nice,” she sighed.

“I forgot to tell you the most important part,” Grace said, pausing for emphasis. “He had red hair.”

“God,” Crystal said, looking as though she were going to combust. “Way to bury the lede. I
love
red hair.”

“To be fair, his was more like a light red.”

“It's still red,” she said. “I think that ups it from an eight to a nine for me.”

“His name was Blake,” Grace told her helpfully.

“Blake,” Crystal said. “That is just perfect.”

“I'll totally introduce you, if you want,” Grace said. “I have his number. Well, the fire department's number. But it's a small town.”

For a moment, Crystal actually looked like she was considering taking Grace up on her offer. “No. That would ruin it.” She closed her eyes, as if she was imagining Blake in her mind. “He needs to stay a mystery. A gorgeous, redheaded mystery.”

Grace snorted. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Tonight I just want to relax and eat brownies. And speaking of which, they're kind of orgasmic.” She swallowed a chunk of mint chocolate chip brownie and grabbed another. “I have a show booked for next week and my agent's going to kill me, but I don't even care.” She bit into it and chewed, then licked her finger.

“Unlikely, given that you've had the same body for over a decade.”

“Mmmm,” groaned Crystal, finishing the brownie and reaching for her wine. “Do you do this every night?”

“What? Drink crazy amounts of wine and eat brownies? I wish I did, but no. Most of the time I just tuck myself in and go to sleep.”

Crystal took another brownie and bit into it. “I swear I'm gonna eat the whole box, they're that good. Where did you say you got these again?”

“Mountain Laurel Bakery,” she said. “My friend Jane made these.”

Crystal turned her blue-eyed gaze to Grace. “This Jane. Are you close with her?”

She knew why Crystal was asking. Grace was protecting her, but she had nothing to worry about. “I haven't known her that long, but yes, we're close. She's pretty grounded—she has a kid and she takes really good care of him.” In other words, she had a lot more important things to think about than fame. “It's hard to get to know someone, you know?”

“Yeah. And you have to be careful,” Crys said meaningfully.

“I know.”

Crystal was slowing down, but she took another bite all the same. “You have to get me some more of these.”

“Sure. But you'll have to eat them soon, because the bakery is closing in a couple of weeks.”

“Seriously? What's your friend going to do?”

“Get another job, I guess.”

“If she wants a catering job in the city, let me know. I can definitely hook her up.”

“I think she'll want to stay near Eastbridge,” Grace said with a smile, “but I'll mention it to her.”

Crystal took a sip of wine and looked thoughtful. “I saw him, you know.”

“Saw who?”

“Zig.” At that name, Grace went still, but Crystal was still talking. “I ran into him at that club event I had a couple of weeks ago. Or rather, I should say that he ran into me.”

“Oh?”

“He said hi. Wanted to talk like old times.” There was a sneer in Crystal's voice. “As if I wanted to talk to him.”

“So what'd you do?”

“What do you think I did? I told him to fuck off and went back to my crew.” Crystal looked at her, sympathy in her eyes. “I'll always have your back, Grace. Always.”

“Thanks, Crys.” Her loyalty meant a lot. “But I'm over him. I mean, I'll never get over the betrayal, but I've moved on. This is my life now. Painting, hiking…the occasional glass of wine.” She glanced over at the half-f bottle on the coffee table and laughed. “Okay, make that more than the occasional glass of wine, but you get the drift.”

“And you're fine with this?”

“I'm lonely, sure. But I have a dog.”

“The dog that's not really your dog.” Crystal put the brownie down. “I think it's time you told me about the guy.”

Grace let out a breath. She'd been holding off for as long as she could, but Crystal was bound to be curious, especially since she'd shown up in the tabloids several times with him. Crys was her best friend, and she owed it to her to tell. “He's…different.”

“Yeah, I got that from his pictures. What's his deal?”

“His name is Marc. Marcus, really. He's a real estate investor.”

Crystal made a big deal of yawning. “Bo-oring. I don't care what he does. Tell me what he's like.”

“He's not like us.” That was for sure.

“How?” Crystal demanded. “And be specific.”

“He's not a live-in-the-moment kind of man. He plans. He's organized. He actually keeps a digital calendar.”

“Ooh.” Crystal looked suitably impressed. Like her, Crystal was purely analog, scribbling her appointments on whatever scrap of paper was in the immediate vicinity. “What else?”

“He doesn't seem to have many friends, but the ones he does, he treats well. I mean, I've heard he treats them well.”

Crystal flapped her hand around as if that didn't matter. “How does he treat you?”

“I think he doesn't quite know what to make of me,” she said with a laugh.

Crystal quirked her head. “How so?”

“He's not used to—well, my craziness, I guess.”

“What are you talking about?” Crystal said, sounding indignant. “You're not crazy at all.”

“Of course I am. Just look at my family.”

“No. That's them. You're you and you're different. That's why you're here, isn't it?”

“I guess…”

“You understand what truly matters, babe. The real stuff. The deep stuff. Out of everyone I know, you're the one who most has her head screwed on straight.”

“Marc is the one with his head screwed on straight. He comes across as really stiff, but he's not. Not at all.” She'd seen the heat in his gaze, remembered how his hands had burned her flesh. “There's a lot simmering underneath. Things he doesn't show. Things he tries to hide. He doesn't let go often, but when he does, it's…it's…”

“…explosive?” Crystal finished.

“Yeah,” she breathed.

“That's hot,” Crystal pronounced.

“It is. It really is.” Grace pushed her hair behind her ear. “I've been so used to men who've let it all hang out, literally and figuratively, it's actually refreshing to be with someone who keeps things close to his chest. He's completely buttoned down, and the fact that I'm able to make him lose control makes me feel powerful.”

Crystal swung her legs down from the sofa and leaned forward. “Did you…you know?” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively. Grace rolled her eyes and shook her head. “You did! You did!” Crystal was fairly bouncing now. “Oh my God! Was he good? Wait a minute, what am I saying, of course he was good. Just look at you blushing. Tell me everything.”

In times past, she would have spilled. Told Crystal every dirty little detail. But talking about Marc that way just felt wrong.

“I can't,” Grace said helplessly.

Crystal sat back on the sofa, a shocked look on her face. “Oh, dear God.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Crystal said, picking up her wineglass again. “I'm just happy you're over Zig.”

Grace narrowed her eyes. There was something Crystal wasn't telling her, and from experience, she knew that the harder she pressed, the more likely Crystal was to clam up. She wasn't surprised when Crys rapidly changed the subject.

“Tell me the pineapple story again,” she demanded.

“I've told you everything I know.”

“I want to hear it again,” Crys said. “Especially the part about the bird man. George what's-his-name. And then the firemen. Blake.”

This was why Crystal was here. To help her celebrate, as a best friend should. Crys was being amazing, and the least Grace could do was tell her what she wanted to hear.

So she smiled. “I can definitely do that.”

Grace yawned and stretched, the lingering effects of last night's brownies and wine still dogging her. At some point in the wee hours of the morning, both she and Crystal had crashed in the great room, Crystal on one couch and Grace on the other.

Her head was fuzzy and her muscles ached, but it was a good kind of ache. The kind of ache that meant you'd made some memories, and she'd do it all over again in a heartbeat.

God, it was good to have Crystal here. She'd missed all the fun, all the talking, all the girl time she'd taken for granted when she lived in the city.

Speaking of Crystal, Grace realized she must be hungry, because she heard her crunching and munching. Food. Yes. Leftover brownies and wine for breakfast sounded pretty good right about now.

Pushing her hair from her face, she cracked open her eyes and slowly turned over.

Then her heart stopped.

Because it wasn't Crystal eating those brownies.

It was a black bear not three feet from her, chowing down.

Stifling the urge to scream, her gaze flew to Crystal, still sound asleep on the sofa, her face buried in one of the pillows.

Don't wake up. Please.

Crystal showed no signs of waking, nor did the bear pay her any mind. Just kept chomping on the food, making snuffling sounds as it rooted through the almost-empty box of brownies.

Okay, good.
Her gaze slid back to the bear, which had shoved the box aside and moved on to the cheese and crackers.

What did she know about black bears? They liked to eat? Not helpful. Don't get between a cub and its mother?

This one was pretty large—maybe five feet long. Definitely not a baby, so no angry mama was likely to be nearby. Before she had time to think that maybe this
was
the angry mama, she forced herself to focus.

What else? What else did she know? Was she supposed to play dead or run? No. Not run. Running was bad. Besides, she couldn't leave Crystal.

Should she scream? If she did, the bear might attack her, but if she didn't do anything, the bear would keep on eating and might move farther into the house. There was a decent-sized hole in the screen door—that was probably where it had clawed its way in. Maybe it would go out the same way, but not if it felt trapped or scared.

Her brain began to hurt with all of this thinking.