“Libby assures me that working and living here in the ‘Zen-like energy,’” he says, making air quotes with his hands, “of Pines & Quill is therapeutic. Don’t tell her, or I’ll never hear the end of it, but it’s breathed life back into my soul. Now it’s your turn. Tell me your story.”
Emma looks into Mick’s eyes, a darker shade now, forest green. They’d changed with the low light of the evening. “I’m a potter. Last year I showed my work at a two-day, outdoor event. Because pottery is so heavy, my best friend, Sally, helped me pack all of the materials in and back out of the venue. My dad and brothers were on their annual fishing trip in Canada, or they would have done it. After the event, Sally and I lugged the boxes back into my studio, ate Chinese takeout, and then we crashed. When I woke up in the morning, I was paralyzed.
“After many tests, the doctors discovered that I have Transverse myelitis, a neurologic symptom caused by inflammation of the spinal cord.”
Mick leans forward. “What is your prognosis? Will you ever walk again?”
“Every case is different. The doctors say that recovery may be absent, partial, or complete. At thirty-five, I’m still considered young. And aside from this,” she says, patting the tops of her thighs, “I’m healthy and have a positive outlook.” She smiles.
I want to touch that beautiful mouth so I can feel her smile.
“So far, I’ve regained some feeling in my limbs, and I’m able stand long enough to transfer myself into a car, chair, or bed without collapsing. My current goal is to be able to stand and lean against the sink long enough to brush my teeth. After that, I’ll move on to a walker.” She fist-punches the air for emphasis.
“Then I hope you’ll come to tai chi in the morning,” Mick says. “It was, and continues to be, a great part of my recovery. Libby’s a terrific teacher. She has the patience of a saint. She has to deal with me.” He smiles to encourage her.
“Isn’t tai chi a whole-body exercise?” Emma asks.
“Yes, though when I started, I was in a wheelchair, like you are, and could only do the arm portion of each form. After I got that part down, it made it all the easier when I could add the leg movements,” Mick says, in earnest, trying to convince her.
The eyelet trim around the scooped neckline of her white cotton nightie is like a magnet, drawing Mick’s eyes first to the soft swell of her breasts under the sheer fabric, then to the delicate, pin-tucked bodice that seems to point to what lies hidden beneath the covers. He looks at her beautiful hands with their long, slender fingers now at rest on the thick sage-colored comforter.
Unbidden, the erotic potter’s wheel scene with Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze in Ghost bursts in technicolor on the forefront of his mind, causing the fabric of his Levi 501’s to pull taut against a burgeoning bulge in his pelvic region. Oh, God! He picks up her book from the bedside table, opens it in his lap, and asks, “What are you reading?” feigning great interest in the now-open pages.
“Dinner with Anna Karenina. It’s about a group of six diverse women in a book club who are bonded by their love of literature. Do you like to read?” she asks.
“I do. In fact, this big lummox and I should go so I can get some in this evening.” He nudges the sleeping dog with his toe. “I want to apologize again for Hemingway barging in on you, and now me disturbing your reading time as well.”
“I enjoyed visiting with both of you,” Emma says, looking first at Hemingway, now sitting up by the side of the bed, tail pounding the floor with glee at the mention of his name. Then she looks at his tall, handsome companion.
Mick bows from the waist, pretends to tip a nonexistent cap, and with a thick Irish brogue, says, “Promise me that once we leave, you’ll throw the deadbolt on the door. Pines & Quill is safe, but once a cop always a cop, lass.”
“So McPherson and MacCullough are Irish then?” Emma asks, laughing.
Her laugh is like sunshine.
“Well,” he muses with a playful grin. “It’s clear Libby’s gone over to the other side. The general rule of thumb is that Mc’s are Irish, and Mac’s are Scottish. But there’s always an exception to the rule. Remember that,” he says, waggling his dark eyebrows as he backs toward the door.
When Emma reaches down to pet Hemingway’s enormous head, she looks into his deep brown eyes. “I’m sorry, big guy, but you have to go now.”
Hemingway looks at her for a second, stands up, and pads toward Mick. He stops and looks over his shoulder.
“It’s okay,” she says. “Go on home, now.”
“See you at tai chi in the morning,” Mick calls out before pulling the door shut. Then he and Hemingway step into the ink-black night.
Limp notwithstanding, Mick has a decided bounce in his step as he walks, dark hair ruffled by the cool breeze, to his log cabin on the southeast side of the property.
A pale moon illuminates the now-heavy mist, softening the silhouette of his cabin. “You deserve a treat, Hemingway.”
The big dog barks his agreement and starts frisking beside Mick’s leg in anticipation. Neither of them hears the quick crackling of dry branches snapping under solid weight.
Mick opens his cabin door. Its interior is welcoming with soft, worn leather furnishings, and natural, unrefined elements. His smile is slow, deliberate, and delightful. “If I had a tail,” he says to Hemingway, “I’d wag it!”
CHAPTER 8
“Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.
—NATALIE GOLDBERG
The interior of Thoreau cottage
