to live inside the museum of their lives.
He got out of the car and came around to help her. Even though she was feeling steadier, she was grateful for his hand as he led her through the front door and into the bedroom.
He understood without her telling him how much she needed to wash away the men’s filth. He helped her undress. Turned on the water.
When she was in the shower, he pulled off his clothes and got in with her. But there was nothing sexual in the tender way he washed her, dried her, tended to the cuts on her feet. Not once did he remind her of what she’d said to him at the bar or criticize her for wandering off the way she had.
After he’d helped her into bed, he touched her cheek. “I need to talk to the police. The house is locked, and Temple’s upstairs. Your cell is by your bed. I won’t be gone long.”
She wanted to tell him she could take care of herself, but that was so blatantly untrue that she said nothing. Viper, despite all her tough girl posturing, had proved to be completely helpless.
Later she awoke to the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. She looked at the clock. It was four-thirty. He’d been gone almost two hours. She flinched as she tried to find a more comfortable position, but her ribs were tender, her neck stiff, her back sore. None of that hurt as much as thinking about what Panda had endured as a child.
She eventually gave up trying to fall back to sleep and got out of bed. He’d done a good job bandaging her foot, and putting her weight on it barely hurt. She made her way to the sunroom, where she curled up on the couch.
As the light leaked over the horizon, she turned her thoughts from Panda to her own foolishness-the last thing she wanted to examine. But last night’s ugly experience had ripped away the veil of her self-deception and shown her the absurdity of the false identity she’d created for herself. What a joke-that hard-boiled swagger and pugnacious attitude. She’d never felt more like a fool-the biggest phony on the island. When it had come to protecting herself, she’d failed abysmally. Instead she’d been a helpless, frantic mess who had to be rescued by a man. The truth tasted bitter in her mouth.
She found her yellow pad. After a few false starts, she wrote a brief note. She owed him that-and so much more. She tossed a few things into her backpack and, as the sun came up, made her way through the woods.
Her sneakers were soaked with dew by the time she reached the cottage just as Bree was emerging from the honey house. Bree’s hair was uncombed, her clothes rumpled, her sticky hands held far away from her body. But her gasp of alarm indicated that Lucy looked a lot worse.
Lucy slipped her backpack off her shoulder. “Could I stay here for a while?”
“Of course you can.” She paused. “Come inside. I’ll make coffee.”
LATER THAT MORNING, WHILE BREE was at the farm stand, Lucy went into the bathroom and cut the dreads from her hair. Standing naked on the white tile floor, she worked at her tattoos with a combination of rubbing alcohol and baby oil. Finally the last remnants were gone.
Chapter Twenty-one
PANDA CRUMPLED THE NOTE SHE’D written and tossed it in the trash, but throwing the damned thing away didn’t erase it from his mind.
He slammed the cupboard door, trying not to think about what would have happened if he hadn’t gone back to the bar last night. By the time he’d reached his boat at the marina, his temper had cooled just enough that he’d started to worry about her again. He’d made up his mind to get her out of that bar, no matter what she said.
He splashed coffee into his mug, decent coffee because he’d made it. He had work to do, and he forced himself into the den, where he booted up his computer. After he’d left her last night, he’d gone with the local cops to locate the two scumbags who’d attacked her. He’d known the water wasn’t deep enough to drown them when he’d tossed them in, and sure enough, it hadn’t taken long to find them staggering back to the bar to get their bikes. No surprise either, there were warrants out on both of them, which made it easier to convince the police chief to keep Lucy’s name out of it.
He couldn’t concentrate on work, and he pushed himself back from the desk-old man Templeton’s desk, although he’d stopped thinking so much about that. He decided to go up to the gym and take out his frustration on Temple. If she hadn’t talked him into coming here, none of this would have happened.
But he set off for the lake instead.
THE ORGANIST WAS PLAYING A familiar hymn, although Bree couldn’t recall its name. She smiled at a woman she’d spoken with during last week’s coffee hour. Bree was growing to love Heart of Charity Missionary. Although she still sometimes felt like an outsider, the emotion-filled service gave her comfort. She wished Lucy had come along this morning, but after Lucy had shed her tattoos, Bree had cut her hair, trying to camouflage the areas where she’d chopped off her dreads, and now Lucy was too recognizable.
When Bree had stepped out of the honey house and seen Lucy standing there so pale and bruised, she’d thought Panda had beaten her. Lucy had quickly disabused her of that notion with a brief, disturbing account of what had happened at The Compass, but she hadn’t said much more, and Bree wasn’t pressing her.
Toby turned around in the pew, and she saw why he hadn’t given her his normal flack about going to church. “You came!” he said in a loud whisper as Mike settled next to him.
“Sure I did.” Even though temperatures were already in the low eighties, he wore a light tan sports coat, pale blue dress shirt, and a blue-and-brown-striped necktie. She wasn’t exactly sure when he’d discarded his big college ring and ostentatious gold bracelet. She’d never mentioned either one, no matter how much she’d wanted to, but they were gone. He also smelled great. Like good shaving cream.
He nodded politely at Bree, whatever amorous feelings he’d once harbored for her clearly gone. She studied him as he looked away, something she’d been doing a lot of over the past two weeks. She couldn’t feel good about the way she was using him. By acting friendly and pretending she’d forgotten about the past just so he’d be there for her if she needed him, she was the worst kind of hypocrite.
Since the night he’d appeared at Dogs ’N’ Malts, he’d become a regular visitor to the cottage. Sharing a few meals with him hadn’t been as difficult as she’d thought. He spent most of the time talking to Toby. He treated her politely, but that was all. No more apologies, no more references to the past. He was a man who’d said his piece and didn’t repeat himself. She’d even gone out on the boat with him and Toby after Lucy had insisted on watching the farm stand.
To her surprise, it had been the best day of her summer. The three of them had dived into the lake together. Mike was an excellent swimmer, and Toby loved horsing around with him. She’d watched the flex of Mike’s shoulders as he’d tossed Toby in the water and felt the most peculiar stirring, like an embryonic chick who’d grown just big enough to make the first small crack in its shell. Later that day, while the boat bobbed at anchor and they munched on junk food, she’d had to fight back tears just because Toby had reminded her to put on more sunscreen.
Deacon Miller rose to welcome the congregation. She and Toby no longer warranted a special introduction, but Mike was a newcomer. “We are so blessed to have you with us today, Mike,” Deacon Miller said. “We all remember how you helped us buy our new organ.”
The congregation broke out in a lusty chorus of amens.
“It was the least I could do after all those potlucks,” Mike said, displaying none of the discomfort she’d felt during her first visit. “Best church food on the island.”
Agreeing nods all around. Wasn’t there anybody who didn’t like him?
