When We Touch Page 4

  My fingers tingled with each stroke of my pencil, as if the lines were laced with electricity. Her full lips had trembled as if she could feel me drawing them, shading them, caressing them with my fingertips.

  Every curve, every shadow, every intimate place… She would melt when I touched her.

  I remember touching her…

  When we touch, everything grows brighter, hotter, faster, more desperate.

  I’d painted her in warm gold, bright yellow, pure cream, and deep brown, and on the back I’d hastily written Shine Like Ember.

  Her eyes glowed. She loved it, but at the same time, she’d been afraid. She was worried someone would find it. I’d promised her no one but me would ever see it.

  Tearing my eyes away from her beauty, I look around the transformed cottage, and I realize I didn’t keep that promise. We didn’t keep a lot of promises. Still, why didn’t I take this with me?

  I know why.

  I had always thought I’d come back for her. I had thought we would live here, and this painting was here waiting for that vision to become reality.

  “Grow up, Jackson,” I say, clearing the thickness from my throat.

  Adjusting my fly, I lift the canvas and push it back inside the crawl-space closet, jerking the string to kill the light, hiding its magic.

  Those days are over.

  Daydreams are for children. I need a drink.

  * * *

  I’m out on the strand, alone, entering the Tuna Tiki on a Saturday night. It’s as crowded as it ever was and equally cheesy, and just as I pass through the entrance, a big guy in a damp tee bumps into me. I move him away, forward into the crowd, and somebody cheers. Nobody seems to care.

  “Drunk tourists,” I mutter under my breath, hating what’s become of this once pristine landscape. I guess I have my dad to thank for it… and he has all his money to show for it.

  It’s an open-air bar, so the constant breeze keeps us cool while covering us in fresh salt. Music drifts around me. It’s Bob Marley, but it doesn’t sound like one of his millions of familiar recordings. Lifting my chin, I try to see if there’s a live band. That would be a switch from eleven years ago. I can’t see anything from this spot in the crowd.

  The sky is deep royal blue, and the lights from the bar drown out the stars. I don’t expect to see anyone I know here. It’s been too long, and when I left, nobody came out to the strand from Oceanside Village. They were all so bitter and angry that it destroyed the town. That’s what they said… I’m not sure that’s true. They might not have come here to socialize, but this place brought tons of jobs to the area.

  I’m not looking to make amends for the past, so I push up through the barstools, a twenty flagging in my fingers.

  The bartender is heavy-set with dark hair and a bright red lei necklace. A hibiscus is behind his ear, and he’s clearly Latino. Still, they’re going for a Hawaiian vibe, and I’m willing to bet everyone thinks he’s Samoan. Either way, he’s moving fast, mixing drinks, monitoring draft beers, and taking orders.

  He sees me, and I lift my chin. “Vodka rocks, twist of lime,” I shout.

  A chin up, and I know he’s got my order. I lean back against the bamboo countertop to wait as I check out the crowd. I was barely old enough to come here when this place opened eleven years ago, but if all’s the same, they have pretty decent drinks, and I need something strong to kill the memories.

  I almost asked for Fireball since I’ve always been partial to cinnamon, but I’d like to get out of bed in the morning. I don’t know what I was thinking coming back to Oceanside—did I think she’d be waiting?

  I know she’s gone.

  I remember what my dad said.

  I remember how it kicked my guts out and set me on the path to what I am now. My dream was over. Might as well live out my dad’s dream for me.

  Only, now that dream is all fucked up, too.

  A new song begins, and sure enough, a live band is situated in the back corner. Three guys strum acoustic guitars while one is on a small drum kit. A tap on my arm, and Pablo hands me my vodka. I give him the twenty and turn back to watch the show. I’m just collecting my change when I see her.

  Jet-black hair swept up in a red kerchief, severe bangs, and blood-red velvet lips. An hourglass figure wrapped in a tight red dress…Tabitha Green is across the bar swaying her hips to “Jamming,” holding the arm of some guy I don’t recognize and laughing. She hasn’t changed a bit.

  For a moment, I’m frozen, unsure where to go or if she’ll even recognize me.

  It doesn’t matter. The moment her green eyes land on mine, they blink twice quickly, then widen so big I can see the whites around them.

  Her chin jerks forward as if she choked on her drink, and I try to fall back, to disappear into the crowd, but my back is against the bar. I’m trapped. This is happening, and Tabby never walks away from a showdown.

  “Jackson Cane?” Her voice cuts through the din. The party doesn’t even pause.

  She crosses the small space to where I’m caught in the rope swings. Squaring my shoulders, I get ready. I’m not afraid of this ghost.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Perfect black brows pull together over her eyes, which are shooting sparks.

  “Hi, Tabby,” I say, taking a sip of my drink and doing my best to act casual. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “Why not? I live here.”

  “At the Tuna Tiki?” I give her a wink. In my experience, it disarms angry women, although I know Tabby better than that… or I used to.

  “Are you flirting with me, Jackson Cane?”

  “I’m trying to be friendly. I haven’t seen you in ten years.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Why are you here?”

  “Well, despite this warm welcome, I like to think of Oceanside as my home.” I exhale and take another sip of vodka. “I grew up here. My mother grew up here.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming back like this.”

  This adversarial bullshit is pissing me off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s just what a lying bastard would say, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not a liar.” My jaw tightens as anger flares in my chest. “If this is about my dad, I can assure you he didn’t expect business to centralize out here the way it did. Mark it up to unintended consequences.”

  Her eyes flash like I just jerked her ponytail. “Your dad?” Her velvet lips part. “You don’t…” For the first time I’ve ever known her, it appears Tabitha Green is at a loss for words.

  Standing up straighter, I’m at my full six foot two, looking down on her. “I know this is part of your persona or whatever.” I gesture to her Bettie Page getup. “Tough girl. But I’m just looking to have a quiet drink. Take it easy, Tab.”

  I slug the last of my vodka and leave her standing there gasping like a fish out of water. I guess coming back to Oceanside I thought I’d find peace and quiet, home and comfort, a place to sort out what’s become of my career.

  My gut led me here… I’m starting to think I shouldn’t trust my gut.

  Four

  Ember

  The day after Jackson left for college, my nightmare returned.

  Water rushing in all around me, pouring in the windows, rising from the floor, filling the small space where I’m strapped down. It comes in faster than I can breathe, faster than I can scream for help.

  I’ve always loved the ocean, but this dream is different.

  This water wants to kill me.

  I stopped having it when Jackson and I were together. That summer, I had three months of pure, uninterrupted sleep.

  Sleep in which my only dreams were of his strong arms around me, his full lips tracing lines along my ribs, inhaling my scent, making the tiny hairs on my body rise. His mouth would close in a pucker over my straining nipple, and with a gentle tug, a flash of heat would register straight to my core. I would wake up so wet for him, I’d slide my hand between my thighs for
relief.

  Those dreams were luscious and decadent and wickedly sinful.

  Those dreams were my life.

  He left, and the nightmare returned.

  To this day, every few months for no clear reason, I’m panicked out of a deep sleep by the force of rushing water. I wake up only to find I’m in my bed, in a wide-open space, completely dry.

  * * *

  It’s early Sunday morning, and my small oven blasts heat in my face when I pull open the door to slide the cupcake tin inside. Every fan in my non-air-conditioned apartment is on high, but still a bead of sweat traces down my neck. I’ll have to shower before I dress for church.

  I’ve been up since six working on Coco’s purple monster number three. I started by mixing yellow cake with blueberries and the slightest pinch of cayenne pepper for the monster bite. I’ve made a deep purple buttercream frosting by mixing confectioner’s sugar with red and blue food coloring.

  I try to imagine what it would be like if she were here right now. She’d love adding the colors and watching it all slowly thicken and turn purple… I can’t wait for those days to come.

  When my aunt died and left me this place, I’d gotten to work renovating what was once attic storage as fast as my budget and time would allow. The upstairs had been in worse shape than the downstairs, but after nine months of elbow grease, it’s a clean, partially painted, partially furnished enormous studio apartment.

  Honestly, it looks a lot like my “store” downstairs.

  “I’ll have things to sell, Betty Pepper, don’t you worry.” I twist my long, heavy hair onto my head and shove a pencil in to hold it.

  In the late summer, it can be hot as blazes up here, even with all the fans blasting. Still, it’s only truly unbearable for about a month. Then, with the French doors open across the front balcony and the small windows open in the back, I catch the sea breeze, and every night I fall asleep to the sounds of the surf crashing just a few miles away.

  Coco can spend the night here once it cools off, since I have a radiator for heat in the winter. It’s just during these summer days she does better staying in my old room…

  Pictures of us together mixed with her preschool drawings are pinned all over the walls. My favorite is a framed one of the two of us on a swing, our long hair blowing back in the breeze. Her brown eyes look so much like mine…

  “You’ll be here with Mommy soon,” I say, tracing my finger down her chubby cheek. “Just a few more weeks.”

  A glance at the clock sends me hopping. I dash to my small bathroom area and take as cool of a shower as I can stand.

  Church starts at nine, and the days of me sleeping in, blowing off that weekly ritual are gone—it’s one of the conditions of my mother keeping Coco in a plush, air-conditioned home and paying for her preschool.

  Even more motivation to work faster. I step out, wrapping an old white towel around my body. My phone buzzes, and I scoop it up quickly when I see the name on the screen.

  “If Sunday is the day of rest, why does church start so damn early?” Tabby is not a morning person.

  “I’ve been up since six.” I turn to the side in front of a full-length mirror in an antique picture frame leaning against the wall.

  “You have a sickness.”

  “I’m admiring my tattoo,” I say, getting closer to the glass and tracing my finger over the colorful blue-green mermaid scales on my hip.

  “Has Marjorie seen it?”

  “Of course not.” Tapping my finger on the speaker button, I put the phone on my dresser and grab my thong. “Does this mean you’re coming to church today?”

  A loud groan fills my room. “It’s my ten percent agreement with Uncle Bob.”

  “Explain to me how that works again.” Throwing a blue rayon sundress over my head, I grab the phone and dash to the kitchen.

  “I go ten percent of the Sundays, or five Sundays a year. It’s a time-tithe.”

  Snatching up the hot pad, I open the oven and pull out perfectly golden cupcakes. I’ll have just enough time to cool and frost them purple.

  Holding the phone on my shoulder, I run to the mirror again with my makeup bag. “Then shouldn’t it be thirty-six Sundays a year?”

  “What?” Tabby’s voice is a shriek, and I pull the phone away quickly.

  “There are 365 days in a year. If you’re tithing the days, then ten percent would be… Actually thirty seven if you round up.”

  “Who the fuck’s side are you on?”

  Laughing, I dust powder on my nose. “I’m just trying to follow your logic.”

  “This is math, not logic. I’m tithing my Sundays.”

  “Hmm,” I say, reaching for my eyeliner. Just a touch at the corners. “If you only have to go five times, why now? I’d start on the Sunday after Thanksgiving and finish out the year—those are the fun ones.”

  “If church is fun, you’re doing it wrong,” my friend announces loudly.

  “I feel like there’s more to this story.”

  She’s quiet a minute before she says, “Chad pulled me over last night.”

  I pause in my mascara application to give myself a knowing look. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What did you do this time?”

  “I was going forty in town.”

  “Tabs! That’s dangerous!”

  “I wanted to get home,” she whines. “Anyway, who’s out walking at 2 a.m.?”

  “Sleepwalkers… Alzheimer’s victims.”

  “I know every person in this town, and none of them fit those categories.”

  “Medical emergencies?”

  “You’d make a great cop. I’ll ask Chad to give you an application next time I see him,” she grumbles.

  “Why does getting pulled over mean you’re going to church today?”

  “I promised to be in church if he didn’t give me a ticket.”

  “So it’s a penance service?”

  She takes a loud sip of what I’m sure is coffee. “Something like that.”

  “So you still have to go one more time to make your tithe.”

  “Forget cop. You’d make a better lawyer.”

  The word makes me wince, but I blow it off. It’s only a word.

  “I’m hanging up now,” I say. “I’ve got to get these cupcakes to Mom’s. If you’re ready in ten minutes, we can walk together.”

  “Wait for me.”

  I trade my phone for the bowl of purple frosting. The cooled cupcakes are quickly covered, and I’ve molded chocolate 3s for the tops of each. I transfer them to a square Rubbermaid dish, and I’m out the door.

  Tabby is waiting when I arrive at my mother’s house. The door is unlocked but the house is empty. I place Coco’s present in the refrigerator and hurry back out. We arrive at the small wooden building just as the organ music begins.

  First Christian Church of Oceanside Village is a one-room building with a back door that leads straight into the sanctuary. The door creaks so loudly it echoes when we enter, and a few people turn to scowl at us. I smile at Betty Pepper, who clutches her hymnal to her chest and gives me a thumbs-up, mouthing, It was delicious.

  Right next to her is Stinky Bucky, and he gives me a lecherous grin. I blink away fast, feeling sick that I’m trapped into going out with him on Friday. I’ve got to stop being so nice.

  Tabby pulls me into a pew two rows behind Chad.

  “I don’t think he saw you,” I sing in tune, holding the red hymnal open to the wrong page.

  Tabby isn’t looking forward, though. She’s glancing over her shoulder, scanning the room. I do likewise, but it’s all the same thirty or so faces we see every week.

  “Who are you looking for?” I’m right at her ear, and she jumps.

  “Nobody! Why would I be looking for anybody?”

  That’s suspicious. “Good question. I thought you were here for Chad.”

  “I am!” Her voice is too loud, and we get a glare from one of the old biddies in front of us.

  I join in at the chorus,
which is the only part I know. “Crown him with many crowns…”

  Tabs continues in tune with the melody. “I don’t see him back there…”

  Nodding, I give her an elbow, but she only briefly glances at Oceanside’s lone deputy sheriff two rows in front of us. She’s still surveying the place like it’s the wondrous cross—the hymn we’ve moved onto.

  “You can say hello after church,” I sing.

  Song service ended, we sit and get comfortable as Tabby’s uncle takes the two steps up the lectern and gazes down on us with a disgusted frown.

  “Idolatry!” he shouts, and an old man nodding in front of us snorts awake. “Sex and idolatry are the workings of the flesh, and in the last days they will grow stronger and stronger amongst the children of men…”

  He continues blasting about how lustful and depraved we all are. Then he moves on to the Ten Commandments and putting God first in all things.

  I spot my mother in the front with her chin lifted. So pious. Her hair is a perfect blonde helmet, and the faintest hint of a smile is on her face. Occasionally she nods when he says something particularly loud. My nose automatically scrunches.

  Scanning the other faces in the room, I observe how they respond. Some shift in their seats, while others look at their hands or study their Bibles.

  Two years ago, when I was searching for an email from Coco’s preschool teacher, I found an email conversation between my mother and Pastor Green.

  I was snooping, I know I’m going to hell, but he thanked her for her insightful notes on the text. He wrote that he looked forward to incorporating them into Sunday’s message.

  Curiosity piqued, I glanced down her folders on the side of the screen and saw one labeled “Sunday sermons.” Clicking it open, I found all his sermons going back years, since I’d rejoined the congregation after having Coco and briefly moving back home.

  When I was a little girl, I’d seen the movie Pollyanna. I didn’t understand the part about “nobody owns a church” until that moment. My grandfather had been one of the richest men in Oceanside Village before he died. He was the first city council president. My mother was an only child, and when her parents died, she inherited their big house in the middle of town and their legacy of leadership.