Still Life with Shape-shifter Read Free Page B

here to tell me my house looks like it needs a lot of work. No one I want to talk to.
    So I’m already wearing a closed and somewhat forbidding expression as I open the main door, keeping the screen door shut and latched. “Yes?” I say coldly.
    The person I see through the mesh is a stranger, a man who might be in his early thirties. He’s not too tall and so good-looking that I instantly think I’ve seen him somewhere, maybe in a movie or television show. His hair is dark and just a little shaggy, but the careless style softens a face that is classically handsome—straight nose, firm chin, molded lips, the eyes a soulful brown. He’s wearing jeans and a bulky fisherman’s sweater, but I can tell he’s got a slim, wiry build. He’s in good shape. Not a jock, like Kurt, but he takes care of himself, works out at the gym, maybe runs, plays volleyball in a neighborhood league.
    “Are you Melanie Landon?” he asks.
    Dagmar is a small town. Even when strangers come to your door, they’re usually related to someone you work with or went to school with or meet every week at the store. The fact that this guy has to ask the question means he’s a true out-of-towner. There seems to be no point in denying my identity, but my voice is frosty as I reply, “Who’s asking?”
    “I’m Brody Westerbrook.”
    The name is as teasingly familiar as the face, but I can’t place it. “And what do you want, Brody Westerbrook?”
    “You’re Melanie Landon, aren’t you?” he says. When I don’t answer, he steps a little closer to the door; I get the impression he wants to press his nose against the screen and peer inside. “The sister of Ann Landon?”
    My breath catches in my throat, and then, before I know what I’m planning, I’ve pushed through the screen door to join him on the porch. “What’s wrong with Ann? Is she hurt? Where is she?” The words come so fast they trip over each other like clumsy puppies.
    His face shows comprehension and dismay as he realizes what he’s done. “No—no, I’m sorry, I don’t have any news about her, I was just—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
    For I’ve turned aside to hide my face, but I can’t stop the tears from welling up, and they’re followed quickly by great tearing sobs that feel as if they’re ripping my ribs apart. I put one hand over my eyes, one hand over my mouth, trying to stuff the tears back inside, but they won’t stop. I hear the ragged, forlorn catch of my breath, and if I had any energy left to be embarrassed, I would be mortified at the display I am making before a total stranger.
    He’s mortified enough on his own account. “Miss Landon—Melanie—I am so, so sorry. Could you—would you—why don’t you sit down? Can I go into the house and get you some water? Would that be okay?”
    I can’t speak an answer, so I shake my head and try to blunder back inside, but I’m crying so hard I can’t even manage that much. I stumble into him and he automatically raises his arms to help me catch my balance. And then, as if he doesn’t know what else to do, he tentatively puts his arms around me and draws my head against his shoulder.
    God help me, it has been so long since I’ve allowed myself to weep in somebody’s arms that I rest my cheek against his sweater and let myself cry. He smells like cotton and aftershave and some kind of deodorant soap. He’s just the right height to comfort me, taller than I am by three or four inches, and I can feel how easily he braces himself to take my weight as I sag against him. He’s not hugging me, not exactly, but he’s wrapped one arm loosely around my waist and he’s patting me with his free hand, and for a moment, just a heartbeat or two, I believe that maybe everything will be all right.
    And then I pull back and straighten up and spare a moment to think how horrific I must look, with a splotchy face, reddened eyes, and running nose. “I’m so sorry,” I say with the shreds of dignity