She kicked off her shoes, gathered up her strength, and wandered slowly into the living room. If she collapsed on a couch, she’d never get back up again, and she desperately needed a shower. She looked down at the dried paint that she was inevitably covered in, but instead she veered off into the kitchen, opened a bottle of wine, and poured herself a decent-size glass. She wanted to immediately fill it to the brim, take a big gulp, and refill it but kept it at two-thirds full.
She opened the fridge, looked inside to see if anything was even close to being edible. She sighed, shut the door.
She walked over, pushed the button to turn on her gas fireplace, and sank onto the huge couch, sitting right in front of the fire. She took a sip of the wine, put it safely down on the coffee table, and then punched the pillow lightly to the side of her and curled up against it, resting her head.
As she lay here, dozing, she knew she needed to get up to have that shower, but she needed this rest time first. The alcohol wouldn’t likely help with the headache, but it would help with the soul ache. Working on Naomi today had been heartbreaking—because every stroke reminded Cayce that Elena was never coming back.
Naomi had been short-tempered, impatient, and bitchy. But then, when wasn’t she? As it was, Cayce herself had been off her strokes, a little less sure, her arms a little more awkward.
Finally, even Naomi had said, “Why didn’t you just take the day off?”
But how does one take the day off when she has back-to-back shows? What she needed was somebody who fed her energy, not rattled it like Naomi always did. Cayce wrote a mental note to contact Anita to see the photos of the new people, so she could pick one to work with the next time.
For Naomi, this was the last project she was contracted for, so it wasn’t a good day to be bitchy. Regardless Cayce couldn’t afford to be with people who upset her or unsettled her. When her creative juices were going, she needed to move with the flow, not get rattled. And Naomi was all about rattling. Cayce would cancel any job going forward if Naomi was the model. Cayce had to. It was twice the work to use Naomi. Cayce had to add so much light energy just to make today’s session passable. It wasn’t close to being her best work.
But, without Elena, Cayce had no idea what that piece would look like now.
One of Naomi’s last jabs of the day was, “I hope I don’t die like your other models.”
Cayce hadn’t frozen at the time. But she had packed up her stuff, hearing Frankie’s hoarse, furious whisper behind her as he ripped into Naomi, and Cayce grabbed her jacket and left.
Outside she’d taken several deep breaths and then forced her feet to head home. No doubt it was because of her that Elena was dead, and that was yet another heartbreak. Cayce was far too exhausted to handle the guilt on top of this ultimate loss in her life.
She must have dozed off and on because, when she checked the clock next, an hour and a half had gone by. Her stomach rumbled, and she knew that she should eat; otherwise she’d wake up in the middle of the night, hungry. She managed to get herself upright, took another sip of the wine, carried it into the kitchen, and once again stood in front of the open fridge.
Nothing seemed to be anything that she wanted or needed.
When her doorbell rang, she froze, staring at the door like it were a viper about to explode, intent to let the demons of hell inside. The last thing she wanted was anyone in her space. Not now. Not ever. When it rang again and again, she wondered how the hell the person had gotten past security. Then she knew. She could see the energy tendrils reaching for her.
She walked to her door, took a look through her peephole, and confirmed it was Detective Henderson. Exhausted, but knowing he had no intention of going away until he got answers from her, she opened the door and stared at him. “Do you ever do anything but bother people?”
He looked at her, frowned, and asked, “Are you ill?”
“Sick of life, yes,” she snapped back.
“Good, get angry,” he said, as he glared back at her. “It’s putting some color in your cheeks. You look like death warmed over.”
She gave a broken laugh. “Of course I do,” she said. “Trust you to remind me of it.”
He pushed his way inside, closed the door and bolted it, grabbed her gently by the elbow, and walked her to the nearest kitchen stool, right beside her glass of wine, and sat her down there. “Have you eaten?”
“No,” she said. “What are you doing in here? I didn’t exactly invite you in.”
“Given a choice,” he said, “you wouldn’t invite me anywhere but to the grave.” At that, tears welled up in her eyes. He made a strangled exclamation, spun her around on the stool, wrapped his arms around her, and said, “Do you ever break down? Do you ever just give in and let the soul release?” And he wrapped her up tight and held her close.
Maybe it was the unexpected shock of his actions. Maybe it was just being held by somebody who understood. Or maybe it was just the sharing of human
