TWO: Chilled

10/16 Logan, Maine 9:32am

Cam tunneled her hands into the sleeves of her Fisherman's sweater. The sky opened up into stone grey rolling clouds off the bay. October in Maine was nothing like New York. It snowed when it wanted, whether it was May or August, and yes, even October. Rain was both cleansing and treacherous depending on the wind and the water was the sole mistress of the little village of Logan. And today she was cold and bitchy.

 

But she didn't mind. No matter what kind of weather the water brought in, she walked the cliffs that looked out over the inlet each and every day. To remind herself that she was free, and to remind herself that she had to face the day and not hide. And if days like this reminded her of the lake, then she walked longer and harder to prove she could.

 

The wind tugged at the watch cap that held her hair under wraps and bit through her cords and boots as if she was wearing silk. Bracing--that's what her mama would have called it once upon a time. She preferred honest. That's what she loved about her little slice of land. The weather was brutal, the water was righteous, and her cottage stood against it all, no regrets. Just like her.

 

She lengthened her stride, her little stone house rising out of the bending grass just starting to go brown around the edges. Her place was part of an old working farm. Part of the land had been sold off leaving the barn separate from a homestead about a quarter mile inland. That worked for her. She liked the weathered grey stone and massive box shape of her home.

 

This was hers. Another man may have given it to her, and that galled her for the first three weeks of living here, but now it was hers. It didn't have anything to do with Lucas, it didn't have anything to do with Jon. It was hers. Jon may have found the land for her, he even tried to remodel it for her. She'd sent those workers away and done it all herself. And now she paid for it herself, with money she earned all on her own. 

 

And she was damn proud of it. She unlatched the two deadbolts and entered her code in the security system. The walls were a soft suede color with wide planked floors she'd stained a dark walnut. The first year she'd lived here, she'd refinished every plank of hardwood. First as a way to get through the endless nights, and then as a sort of therapy. Beams, trim, and shelves matched the dark stain and a large picture window dominated the living space giving her light to work. A stone fireplace and mantle mimiced the stone outside. She'd hunted for every piece of river rock and shale to make that wall. She'd even convinced three fisherman to bring in a large slab she'd had cut into a mantle and step.

 

She'd made it into a showcase, even if no one ever saw it but her. It was her place, it held her stamp.

 

She hung her sweater and hat on the hook inside the door, tugging her thermal sleeves over her hands as she studied the current piece on her easel. The rough water and fishing boats battering the waves was the central theme of the triptic she was creating. All of those neutral shades of grey, blue, and black that made up a Maine storm balanced by just the tiniest flicker of pink and fire at the horizon. She was pretty sure she was just going to call it: Home.

 

It was almost done. Good thing, since her machine was flickering again. Her agent had probably called, yet again. You'd think after a year that he'd understand that she never answered the blasted phone. It was simply there because it needed to be there. She couldn't be cut off from the world that completely, but it didn't mean she had to answer it.

 

She gathered the three mixed media paintings and mounted them on the hooks she'd drilled into the wall to review them. The phone rang, and again she ignored it. The clicking whir of her answering machine starting, but no voice. She shrugged, propping a new brick of newsprint and newspaper that she'd prepared the night before on her workspace. She'd fought the piece for a week, but nothing else was going to get done if she didn't get his face out of her mind.

 

It was simply the time of year. She didn't think about him very often. Hell, she hadn't even seen him in two years, but the chiseled lines of his face got stuck in her brain at odd times. But it was always better than the nightmares. Even if she wished she could erase both men from her mind's eye, she preferred Jon if she had to focus on anyone.

 

Vine charcoal and blackened fingers pushed the shape of his mouth out of the newsprint. With an exacto blade, she created a relief and the sharp edges of his jawline and cheekbones took shape. A knock at the door was ignored. She didn't have time to tell someone to go away. She ripped at a few layers until his cheek was just right. Windblown hair and craggy crinkles at his eyes, his features went off the board. This would be a closeup, his eyes would be the only color. Even if she hadn't quite been able to find the blue she wanted--the blue she remembered. She'd find it this time. She was sure of it.

 

The pounding at her door finally registered. "Go away!"

 

"Cam! Open this friggin' door."

 

She peeled away another layer, picking at the board with the side of the blade as she went down another few centimeters. The voice was little more than wind to her. She stood back. It was almost there, just--

 

BANG-BANG-BANG!

 

She growled, dropping her charcoal and blade. She swung open the metal peep-hole of her door, wire mesh blocked anyone from trying to stick a hand, a blade, or a gun through the small opening. And those same blue eyes that wouldn't leave her alone stared back at her.

 

"Dammit, are you all right? I've been pounding on this door for ten minutes!"

 

Her heart hammered in her ears, adrenaline surged and blended with the intense awareness that seemed to happen when she was deep in with her work. She disengaged the locks, and the bolt at the top and bottom of the door. "What are you doing here?"

 

The doorway was full of him, so much so that she took an anxious step back. There was a hardness to him that hadn't been at the lake. It echoed in his jawline, in the icy chips of blue that flinted out of the deeper and darker blue of his eyes. A cold wind blew his hair forward and let in a blast of anger so hot it could have lit her damn fireplace. His hair was as wild as the picture of him in her mind. It was lighter now, longer and didn't seem to know the meaning of tame. He was tan, and even through the heavy cable-knit of his Irish sweater, she could tell he was lean and tight, bulkier now with muscle and health. Jeans strained at the thigh and hip with wear marks at the pockets and the zipper...her mind blanked and her eyes skipped up to his.

 

She took another step back and he came in, the air practically crackling with his anger and intensity. Just as suddenly she wanted him out of her house. He was too much--always had been too much when he was in her space. She closed the door, automatically bolting everyone out, but for the first time her space didn't feel safe and serene. "What are you doing here?" she asked again, her voice a little stronger, thankfully.

 

His thumb twisted the ring on his left hand, cracking his knuckles as he went by each finger then stopped at his wedding ring with another twist. If there'd been a video for nervous energy, he'd win first prize. Unless you looked at his face. There it was smooth and devoid of animation, until you got to his eyes.

Her alarm pierced the silence, pushing her to move and punch in the code. She tucked her fingers into her sleeves, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't remember you having trouble talking Jon."

 

He paced the entrance of her door twice, his head down. All that wheat colored hair fell forward in a wild twist of feathering layers, then was jammed back with his impatient hand. "We need to talk."

 

All the color leeched out of her world, followed by the sounds of the soothing water that was her constant stereo and the heavy thump of his boots. Everything instantly became insulated and she felt like a layer of cotton was around her. No. She didn't want to hear that from him. He wasn't prone to hysteria, he didn't come out to visit her. He didn't have anything to do with her. If he was here, it was bad. And she didn't have it in her to hear bad news right now. Not when she was finally starting to relax. Finally finding a life that didn't include madness...except for dreams. 

 

"No." Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

 

He stopped pacing, his hands in front of her, digging into the cold batting that protected her. Dragging her hands away from her chest, until he could curl them in his. "Look at me."

 

She looked over his shoulder, shaking her head. "No."

 

His hand came up to her jaw, forcing her to face him. Not hurting, no he'd never hurt her--she knew that. Even with the demons flaring in his storm-filled eyes she knew that. But he was damn firm, and she closed her eyes against it. "Cam." His voice was gentle now, his forehead meeting hers, his nose brushing hers. "I don't want to be here. I don't want to bring this news, you gotta know that."

 

"Then why?" She hated the weakness in her voice. Hated the memories he brought into her house. Hated all that he was going to destroy--again. His cheek pressed against hers as he dragged her in. She curled her fists into his chest and tried to push him back. "Get out. Just get out. Don't--" her voice cut off as his arms locked around her back and he held her tight.

 

"You know I wouldn't be here if I could have avoided it." His hand slid into her hair and he pushed her cheek against his shoulder. "I'd hand over everything I have right now to make it not true."

 

She sagged into him, her knees suddenly water. Lucas was dead. She'd stabbed him herself. She'd felt his blood, warm on her hands. She had the scars on her hands from scrubbing the blood off. He couldn't be alive. He just couldn't be. "He's back."

 

"He's back."