Why have I thrown myself at Emma? I should have known better. I do know better. I got caught up in the rain. In the storm. In Emma. And I didn’t think at all. Because I’m a damned idiot. That much is clear. But it’s not the end of the world. The only thing I need to do is steer clear of Emma. He sighs. If only I can convince myself. A little willpower and self-discipline, that’s all I need.
He opens his eyes and looks at Emma’s sleeping face. He can’t help but kiss the tip of her nose. That is when all of his resolve flies out the window, carried on a gust of wind to the howling surf of the storm-ravaged bay.
CHAPTER 14
“Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.”
—BARBARA KINGSOLVER
Grazing the back of his fist over his jaw, Jason feels the night’s growth of beard—each bristle standing at attention like an undaunted soldier. So far, my moves have been smart and careful. I can’t slip up now. Bleary-eyed, he lifts his heavy head to peer through the wall of glass in Thoreau cottage, now weeping with rain, and sees morning clouds sloppy in a drunken sky.
He struggles to sit upright as he pulls fragmented pieces of yesterday’s events out of his foggy brain to examine.
I remember the UPS truck delivered my packages. I brought them to the cottage, opened them, and celebrated their arrival with my good friend, Jack Daniels. Oh shit! I missed dinner at the main house.
Gingerly turning his head, Jason spots an empty fifth lying on the floor, its shiny black cap lost to abandon at the side. He blinks as he turns his head with deliberate care and sees his Beretta laying on the counter of the small, well-lit kitchen. He adjusts his gaze downward, his line of vision now level with the top of the almost empty desk. Its well worn surface is interrupted by the solitary presence of a speed loader.
He exhales with relief, then smiles as he considers the ease with which he can load magazines to maximum capacity, Thirteen, my favorite number. With tentative caution, he rolls to all fours and pushes himself from the floor. The room swims in gentle waves around him. Once he’s upright, another memory comes to the forefront of his mind. A woman—that woman—was here last night. Who am I kidding? She’s not a woman, she’s a viper. Lethal. She said, “You’ve gotten predictable, Jason, and in this business, predictable is one step from being dead.” Jason shivers.
Second to Libby, Fran arrives at the tai chi pavilion and removes her shoes before ascending the steps. “Last night when you said, ‘rain or shine,’ you meant it, didn’t you?”
“I sure did,” Libby returns with an easy smile.
“How long have you been doing tai chi?”
“Niall would tell you, ‘since the day after dirt,’” Libby teases, “but the truth is, I’ve been practicing tai chi for about thirty years. I started in my early twenties and fell in love with it. It’s become a way of life.”
“Well, I can understand why. I’ve only tried it a few times, and I’m hooked. If for no other reason, it makes the words flow when I sit down to write,” Fran says, her voice tinged with delight.
“It has a way of dissolving blocks—energetic and otherwise,” Libby says. “I’ve learned that with regular practice, tai chi provides me with a complete workout, deep relaxation, a clear mind, inner peace, and it leaves me feeling both rested and invigorated.”
Over Libby’s shoulder, Fran watches Cynthia moving toward the pavilion with graceful purpose. She arrives under a head of steam, accessorized with a thick, turquoise cuff bracelet on her left wrist and its more-slender twin on her right. She slips out of her shoes, climbs the steps, and announces, “I’m ready and rarin’.”
Fran admires the way Cynthia’s short, choppy hairstyle accentuates her elfin face, although tall and willowy, she is anything but.
Fran turns toward the movement in her peripheral vision.
Like a shaft of happiness piercing a dull pewter sky, Emma’s and Mick’s arrival illuminates everything in its path. Hard to look away, Fran, Libby, and Cynthia watch with keen interest as Mick removes Emma’s shoes, pausing to pinch a painted little toe, before removing his own and ascending the steps two at a time.
Emma rolls up the ramp with ease.
Buoyed by joy, it seems that neither of them touches the ground.
Fran, riding a wave of happiness generated by those around her, watches as Libby faces the group and begins the class with the gesture of Namaste—a slight bend at the waist, hands steepled together in front of her heart—an expression of respect and goodwill.
Fran and the others follow suit. Libby turns around, and with her characteristic calm and casual authority, begins leading the class in a slow, graceful routine that combines movements from martial arts with stretching and balancing. Fran is glad to let go of her need to control and allows herself to become absorbed by the flow.
From the back of the tai chi pavilion, Mick watches Fran, Cynthia, and Emma move in harmony, looking for proper posture, stepping in subtly to help refine body mechanics when needed.
He remembers the first time he saw tai chi. He was about seven years old, and from his young perspective, it looked more like a dance than exercise or a martial art
