True Colors (16 page)

She did lie there, after they’d finished
showering and found themselves panting and wet in places the shower
hadn’t dampened, and so they’d raced to her room to make love
again.

It was early afternoon by the time they headed
down the hill to the community center to see Nick Fiore.
Fortunately, Emma hadn’t arranged a specific time for her meeting
with him. Equally fortunately, she was able to travel down into
town in Max’s car, which saved her the several-mile hike she’d
gotten used to since moving into his house.

Max might own real estate in Brogan’s Point,
but Emma felt like a genuine town resident when she introduced the
two men. Nick’s office was so small, all three of them barely fit
into it, but Nick was gracious and friendly, and—thank God—he
remembered his discussion with Emma from yesterday evening at the
Faulk Street Tavern. “We’ve got a room here that might work out for
you,” he told Emma. “I think I can arrange for you to use it
rent-free if you’re willing to donate some of your time and
expertise to the town’s programs. It would be great if we could
include art in the after-school program I run for teenagers here. I
sure as hell can’t offer that on my own. Basketball, yeah. Art?
Forget it.”

“If I could use the room for free for my own
classes? Of course I can put together an art program for your
after-school kids.” Emma was giddy at the thought of securing free
studio space. If she could do that, she could devote more of her
sparse income to paying the rent on whatever residence she was able
to scare up for herself. She couldn’t live in Monica’s studio
apartment at the inn, and now that Max had, however vaguely,
explained why he wanted to unload his house—the ex-fiancée, the
broken heart—Emma couldn’t resent him for wanting to be rid of the
place, even if that choice would render her homeless.

“Come on,” Nick said, leading the way out of
his tiny office. “I’ll show you the room.”

They paraded down a hall, Emma following Nick
and Max bringing up the rear. A few offices lined one side, the
doors labeled “Director of Senior Services” and “Parks Department.”
She caught a whiff of chlorine as they strolled past the entrance
to the town’s indoor pool. They continued past the locker rooms,
around a bend in the corridor, past the gym where, she assumed,
Nick ran his basketball program, and through a door.

The room was
bigger than Nick’s office, which wasn’t saying much. It had no
window, which was a serious drawback. The only light source came
from glaring fluorescent ceiling fixtures—
ugh
. Not good light for
art.

But it had enough square footage for a work
table and some shelves. She could squeeze a supply cabinet into the
corner. If the town would provide the room, perhaps it would also
provide some basic furniture. Emma would supply the art equipment.
She was doing that already with her classes in Max’s
house.

She paced through
the room while Max and Nick watched from the doorway. Pale green
cinderblock walls—
ugh
again. If she wanted to display her students’ work, she’d have
to tape it to the walls, which might ruin the paintings and
collages, or else buy or build some free-standing pin boards. She
could bring in directional goose-neck lamps to create direct
illumination. She recalled passing a bathroom just a few doors down
the hall; she could take care of clean-ups there.

With a little effort, she could make this room
work.

It was free. Of course she could make it
work.

“It’s perfect,” she told Nick.

His smile transformed his face, erasing its
brooding shadows. She wouldn’t mind painting his portrait, either.
He wasn’t Max. He didn’t make her heart race. But she could admire
him with her artist’s eye. Definitely an appealing
subject.

“Great. Once the school year ends, my
after-school program ends, too. But I run summer programs. We could
really use an art counselor, or teacher, or something along those
lines. My budget sucks, but if you’re willing to work for shit
wages—”

“If I can use the room for my own classes, as
well, I’ll work for shit wages for you. Artists are used to shit
wages. We’re supposed to starve. It’s part of the
package.”

Nick laughed and nodded. Max only studied her,
his eyes dark and intense.

As they
strolled back down the hall to Nick’s office, Nick discussed all
the bureaucratic steps necessary to grant Emma the use of the room
and add her to his summer staff. Meetings with his board. Paper
work. Budget issues. If she was going to run an art program, he’d
need her to fill out an application, supply a résumé, provide
references. His voice washed over her in a meaningless babble. This
information was important, and she’d pay attention once she had to.
She’d sign the papers, present her portfolio, dance pirouettes for
his board, jump through hoops of fire, whatever was required to
gain her access to the free room. She didn’t want some irate town
guardian to banish her because she lacked the proper licensing, the
way Max had reacted to her classes the first time he’d met her,
when she’d been running her class with Abbie and Tasha in his
house.

After another series of hand-shakes, Emma and
Max left the community center. The late afternoon air was warm, the
sky paling as day gave way to evening. A hint of salty, musky
perfume lifted off the ocean and flavored the air. “This is
wonderful,” Emma said, twirling in a happy dance in the parking lot
outside the community center. “I’ve got a studio!” Indeed, the day
was as close to perfect as she could imagine. She had a studio. She
had dozens of photos of Max, and the opportunity to paint him. She
had great sex.

Of course her life wasn’t perfect. She still
needed to find a new home. And she wasn’t sure with what dreams she
could surround Max in his portrait.

And he would be leaving. She’d opened her body
to him, and she’d never been able to open her body without also
opening her heart and her soul. He mattered to her. He was
important. She wanted him in her life. She wanted to know his
dreams, his hopes, his goals. She wanted much, much more than he
was in a position to give her.

She’d known that before she’d kissed him. She’d
known it when they’d gazed at each other and Cyndi Lauper had
serenaded them from the jukebox at the tavern.

Looking at Max, she saw his true colors shining
through. They were vivid, shimmering, brilliant. But what did they
reveal? Who was he, really?

***

Gus finished counting the last of the tens in
her cash drawer and nudged it shut. Even now, in the twenty-first
century, a lot of her patrons still preferred to pay their tabs in
cash. Some of them didn’t want their husbands or wives to find
charges from a bar on their credit card bills. A few of the
old-timers didn’t trust credit cards at all. A lot of the young
ones—the deck hands on fishing boats, the laborers, the clerks in
touristy shops where business fell into a comatose state during the
winter months—didn’t earn enough income to trust themselves with a
rectangle of plastic from Visa.

So Gus relied on cash, which saved her money,
since she didn’t have to pay credit card fees on cash transactions.
All she had to do was maintain an adequate stash of legal tender in
the register. She felt perfectly safe carrying her daily
profits—often thousands of dollars in cash—from the tavern to the
bank every day. Everyone in town knew she was Ed Nolan’s partner.
No one was going to mess with a police detective’s girlfriend,
especially when she was six feet tall, and her assistant, Manny
Lopez, was built like a linebacker for the Patriots, and she ran
the most popular bar in town.

She glanced toward the front door, which
remained stubbornly shut. Ed had told her he would come to the bar
this afternoon, and he hadn’t. Nothing to worry about, she assured
herself, but she couldn’t keep from glancing obsessively at the
front door every few minutes.

Ed was working on a drug case. A high school
kid in a neighboring town had overdosed on heroin. Fortunately,
he’d survived, and he’d told police he’d gotten the heroin from a
crew member on one of the boats that trawled for cod out of
Brogan’s Point. Ed had been waiting for that boat to come in today.
He had backup. He was going to arrest the guy, run him in, and then
come to the Faulk Street Tavern to let Gus know all had gone as
planned.

She hadn’t told him she was anxious about his
safety, and he hadn’t acknowledged that she might be anxious. They
never discussed stuff like that.

But… She was anxious.

She eyed the front door for the thirtieth time
in as many minutes, then steered her attention to a table of women
drinking exotic martinis. She glanced at the bowls of
barbecue-flavored peanuts lined up on the counter near the door to
the kitchen. She checked out the table of older guys drinking
whisky and arguing over the latest Red Sox losing streak. Then the
front door again, praying for Ed to swing it open and stroll
inside.

No sign of him.

She reminded herself that her worries were
groundless. Ed was tough. He had backup. No captain would allow a
twenty-something crew member onto his cod boat armed with anything
more dangerous than a utility knife.

A utility knife could do a lot of
damage.

Ed had faced worse, she reminded herself. He’d
be fine.

Manny emerged from the kitchen, lugging
glistening racks of glasses straight from the dishwasher. He shot
Gus a quick smile before setting the racks onto the back counter
and sorting the glasses onto shelves—stemware here, tumblers there,
highball glasses in their allotted place. Could he tell she was
concerned? Would he think she was weak for counting the minutes and
wishing she could will the front door to open?

It did, and she felt her breath slide out of
her on a sigh of relief, which was replaced by a pang of
disappointment when she saw two people, neither of them Ed, enter
the bar. That pretty red-haired girl, Monica Reinhart’s friend,
stepped inside first, followed by the tall, lanky, dark-haired
fellow Gus had seen at the bar with Monica and the red-head. She
ought to know their names. Anyone who came into the Faulk Street
Tavern more than once qualified as a regular. And the girl had
introduced herself yesterday, when she’d wanted to talk to Nick
Fiore. What the heck was her name? Emily?

“Want me to take that?” Manny asked, motioning
with his head toward the booth where the couple seated themselves.
It was too early for the waitresses to start their shifts, and none
had arrived at the bar yet. Gus could serve the couple, though.
Manny was busy with the glasses, and damn it, she wasn’t worried.
She could take an order, fill it and deliver it without his
help.

She waved him off, then sidled over to the
newly occupied table, laid two square cocktail napkins on its
scarred wood surface, and asked, “What can I get you?”

The man eyed the woman courteously, allowing
her to order first. “Do you have any champagne? I feel like
celebrating.” She smiled at the man. “Is that all
right?”

“Order whatever you’d like,” he said, although
he didn’t seem to be sharing her high spirits. Her face radiated a
blend of happy emotion—exuberance, satisfaction, serenity. His
darker features were matched by a darker mood.

She grinned at Gus. “A glass of champagne,” she
said.

“We’ve got Moët, Mumm, and Tattinger.”
Champagne wasn’t a big seller at the tavern, and Gus didn’t stock
much. Too often, someone ordered a glass or two and the rest of the
bottle lost its effervescence and had to be disposed. Still, she
had to include a few bottles of bubbly in her inventory. She hadn’t
kept the bar in business for thirty-plus years by denying her
customers what they wanted. Sometimes those customers wanted
champagne.

“Whichever one is cheapest,” the redhead said
with a shrug. “I wouldn’t know the difference, anyway.”

Gus nodded and turned to the man. “A Sam Adams
lager.”

“Tap or bottle?”

He asked for a bottle. Gus nodded again and
left the table, casting a quick look toward the front door en route
back to the bar. No sign of Ed.

He’s tough. He has backup. He’ll be
fine.

As she worked the mushroom-shaped cork on a
bottle of champagne, she forced her attention from the door back to
the couple. She was pretty sure they’d been targeted by the
jukebox’s magic a couple of days ago. She tried to remember what
song had been playing when they’d been in that afternoon, seated at
the very same booth, staring at each other. Had the song brought
them together? Right now, she’d guess it had torn them apart. They
really seemed to be moving to two different tunes, the girl’s
upbeat and danceable, the guy’s dirge-like, something in a minor
key.

When it came to the jukebox’s alleged powers,
Gus was immune. No song had ever cast its spell on her, or on Ed.
She wouldn’t mind having “Staying’ Alive” boom through the speakers
when Ed was seated on a stool across the bar from her. That was a
song a cop needed to hear.

She caught a
motion near the entry with her peripheral vision.
Don’t look,
she cautioned
herself.
You’re acting like a fool.
But she looked anyway—and in walked Ed, looking
calm and confident, like someone who’d accomplished exactly what
he’d intended and hadn’t shed a drop of sweat in the process. He
met her gaze, smiled, and sauntered toward the bar, his expression
just this side of smug.