She’d been thinking about parasites right before it appeared. Had she conjured it? If so, what else could she do? The tick was the size of a dime now, much bigger than any she’d ever seen. Its head remained buried in the lawyer’s flesh, and despite his frantic efforts to remove it, the parasite refused to let go. How much bigger could it get? Harriett wondered. She licked her lips and waited to see.
“I know what it is, Mr. Clarke,” Harriett said. “I’m perfectly capable of recognizing a bloodsucker when I see one. Perhaps you should follow my example and remove yours before it bleeds you dry.”
Later that day, after the sun had set, there was a knock at the door. Harriett flung it open at once, fully prepared to confront the next challenge. On the other side of the door was the handsome deliveryman, her grocery bags cradled in his arms. They stood there, face-to-face. Eric didn’t remind her of Chase, and he bore so little resemblance to Clarke that it was hard to imagine they shared the same species.
“May I ask you a question?” Harriett inquired.
“Sure,” he said.
“What do you think of my living room?” She stepped to the side so he could see it clearly. She watched his eyes tour her indoor garden.
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” he replied cautiously.
“Really?” Harriett steeled herself for disappointment. Maybe all men were the same after all.
“Looks like you’ve got a real green thumb.”
The grin returned. “I guess you could say that.”
“Well, I’ve been having some trouble with rot in my grow room, and I was wondering if you might be interested in taking a look. I don’t have much money, but I could pay you in product.”
Harriett beamed. “Please. Come inside,” she said.
He was still asleep in her bed the next morning when she pulled on a Tom Ford–era Gucci skirt and took the train into Manhattan for what, she half knew, would be her last day of work.
Whales
Andrew Howard had taken the kids to visit his parents, and Harriett and Celeste had spent the night in the cabin of Celeste’s boat. Enveloped in a fog of intoxicating smoke, their skin sticky with sweat and salt, they’d explored every last inch of each other’s skin. The sex in Celeste’s previous relationships had settled into a predictable pattern after two or three months. She’d always assumed that once you found something you enjoyed, you should do your best to repeat it. Four months had passed since that first afternoon with Harriett, and new discoveries kept being made. Celeste never knew how Harriett would decide to take her—and she never anticipated how she would respond. It was a quest with no destination. An adventure without a map. Celeste realized she’d never really known her own body. Without inhibitions or anxieties to limit her, there was nowhere she wouldn’t go. She didn’t look to the future, and she no longer dwelled on the past. Falling for Harriett had freed her from all that.
At sunrise, Harriett had risen from bed. That wasn’t unusual. Harriett never seemed to need sleep. But when an hour had passed and she hadn’t returned, Celeste went up top to find her. There was no one on deck, but she didn’t panic. Then she’d heard a faint splashing in the distance. Using binoculars, she scanned the horizon. There was Harriett, buck naked, doing the breaststroke. A whale breached in the distance, then disappeared beneath the waves.
Now Harriett stood on the bow of the boat as it neared the Pointe, a white dress pinned to her form by the wind. Her long, sun-stained limbs could have been carved from oak, and a silver-streaked nimbus of hair framed her head. Celeste brought the boat alongside Jackson Dunn’s dock, where Leonard Shaw was waiting to greet his guest.
When Harriett gave Celeste a kiss, she seemed unusually tense. “Meet me back here at ten, please,” she said. Then she stepped down onto the dock.