Our Secret Summer, page 4
It also wasn’t rocket science to Raffo that Dylan being Connor’s mother, or just being a mother, filled a fraction of the massive mother-shaped hole in her own life.
Raffo went to work and to her delight—and the biggest relief she’d felt in months—she could access that place inside herself where she went to produce her best work effortlessly. Painting itself was never effortless. It was always that very peculiar combination of hard and not-so-hard-because-it’s-what-she-did. It always left her exhausted, but only in the best kind of way. It always took a lot from her, but not without giving back double to her in joy and pride and artistic satisfaction.
Raffo wished every single person in the universe could know the special joy of creating art, of making something that couldn’t exist without you being there to make it. The piece she was working on now was such a perfect example of how creation, how making something brand-new, was the sum of so many different things. It was the perfect illustration of cause and consequence in a life that was never always good, but, at the very least, always surprising.
Mia breaking up with her, in hindsight, wasn’t that much of a surprise, yet it had still shocked her—stunned her into the most dreadful listlessness. And although she was angry with Mia for how she had handled their break-up—with the charade of an open relationship—Raffo stood here, in Big Bear, in front of a canvas, sketching the first lines of Dylan’s breasts. How was that for surprising? How was that for the incredible healing powers of art?
She couldn’t help a chuckle as she made her first attempt at Dylan’s nipple. Obviously, accuracy wasn’t very important. She’d only seen Dylan’s breasts for a split second. This wasn’t an anatomically correct drawing. Yet, Raffo had seen enough. And it wasn’t just Dylan’s breasts she was using as inspiration. It was her face, with those impossible blue eyes and that always-kind smile and those infuriatingly cute freckles around her nose that she wanted to paint as well.
Raffo focused on the sketch that would be the basis for her painting. She lost track of time as the contours of the image that burned so brightly in her mind made their way onto her canvas. She had no idea what time it was when she emerged from her state of utter focus to the sound of her stomach rumbling as though she hadn’t eaten in days. Complete concentration always made her extra hungry. She downed her tools and went into the kitchen in search of something to eat.
Dylan sat smiling brightly at the kitchen island and a wave of something warm engulfed Raffo. The simple truth was that Raffo really liked Dylan. As far as she could tell, there was nothing to dislike about her—even though Raffo had to lie to Connor for her, but that was almost too easy to forget under the circumstances. Both of them had fled real life and had quickly found themselves in this sunny bubble on the shore of Big Bear Lake. And Raffo was already painting again—Connor would never be able to object to that.
“Morning.” Dylan hadn’t bothered combing her hair and her golden locks looked deliciously tousled. “I didn’t dare disturb you. You looked so… into it.”
“Oh, Dylan, please. This is your house. You should be able to go wherever you want whenever you want. I don’t mind if you come out when I’m painting. Truth be told, I might not even notice.” Raffo settled at the island opposite Dylan. “Promise me that you won’t let me stop you. I’d hate to be a nuisance.”
“You’re anything but a nuisance to me.”
Raffo tilted her head, trying to gauge the meaning behind Dylan’s words, but maybe there just wasn’t anything deeper behind them.
“It’s such a joy to have you here. I wasn’t sitting here smiling into my morning coffee like this before you arrived, I can tell you that.” Dylan shot her an actual wink. “To come downstairs and see you paint on my deck is such an enormous treat.”
“You say that now.” Raffo didn’t really know how to respond to that wink. “But you might get sick of it after a couple of days.”
“Not a chance in hell.” It felt as though Dylan couldn’t keep her eyes off Raffo. “How did it go?”
“Really well.” The words burst from her with unexpected brightness, her hands animated as she spoke.
“I can tell. You’re like a different person this morning. Your energy is… I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s very special.”
“That’s because, for me, painting is the most powerful drug on the planet.” Raffo’s stomach grumbled again.
They both burst into a giggle at the sound.
Dylan slid off her stool. “Let me get you some breakfast.”
“Dylan, no. I can get my own breakfast.”
Dylan rested her hypnotic blue gaze on Raffo. “I know that you can, but I want to get it for you. I take care of the meals. You take care of the groceries and the masterful painting.”
Raffo didn’t know why she was arguing about this—because this was like a dream, really—yet she couldn’t stop herself. “Even if it makes me uncomfortable?”
“Why does it make you so uncomfortable to have someone take care of you?”
Raffo huffed out a funny kind of breath. “So many reasons. Too many to hash out when I’m starving.” Her stomach emitted another loud growl.
“Pretend you’re at a luxury artist retreat where everything is taken care of.” Dylan headed to the fridge and took out a carton of eggs.
“But I’m not.” This was the most fun kind of argument Raffo’d had in a long time—especially compared to the exhausting verbal fights she and Mia had gotten into without ever getting out of them again. “I’m at your house.”
“You make my house a million times brighter with your presence,” Dylan said with her back to Raffo. “Even more so now that you’re painting again.”
Raffo stopped arguing and, instead, poured herself some coffee from the pot Dylan had brewed, into the mug Dylan had set out for her.
Raffo wasn’t used to someone taking care of her—and that was an understatement and a half.
She watched Dylan’s easy, graceful movements as she scrambled eggs and put slices of bread in the toaster, and let her mind drift back to half an hour ago, when she’d applied the first touch of paint—of exquisite color—to Dylan’s face on her canvas. This moment couldn’t be more perfect if she’d tried to dream it up. She was painting again—she already looked forward to getting back to it—and one of the nicest women she’d ever met was preparing her breakfast. And, most importantly, Mia Rodriguez could not be further from her mind.
Chapter 10
Raffo’s presence across the kitchen island was magnetic. She exuded a kind of confident, look-at-me-now energy that was still somehow understated and not arrogant in the least. The more Dylan tried to dissect Raffo’s new vibe, the less she understood its paradoxical quality, but the more addictive it became to be around her. Raffo was in her element and Dylan, already, couldn’t get enough of it. The least she could do was scramble a few eggs for her—mainly because getting sucked into Raffo’s mojo was keeping her from getting lost in her own head. She would deal with her own problems later—tomorrow, or the day after or, perhaps, even the week after.
“There you go.” Dylan put a plate in front of Raffo and looked her in the eyes. The fleck of sparkly yellow paint on her cheek was cute and strangely maddening at the same time. “Enjoy and it was my utmost pleasure.”
Dylan couldn’t wait to sneak a peek at Raffo’s work later—after all, she was its subject.
“Thank you. I’m so hungry.” Raffo tucked into her eggs immediately. “Hm.” She hummed low in her throat. “I love this luxury artist retreat. I already want to book my next stay.”
While it was a thrill to see Raffo like this, what she said reminded Dylan of having to sell this place. But it was easy enough, once again, to push that thought to the side, because Raffo sat across from her, eating her breakfast with the same gusto as she had waltzed into the kitchen earlier.
Dylan vividly remembered Connor telling her, years ago, his voice thick with excitement and, perhaps, disbelief, that he had come across the most amazing artist. Her name was Raffo Shah and her use of color was out of this world. Her talent was vast and unmistakable and, “Be sure to remember her name, Mom, because you’ll be hearing it for a long time to come.”
Dylan knew that even if Raffo left tomorrow, making this just a fleeting three-day encounter, she’d never forget her name—not after last night’s conversation that still lingered like honey on her tongue, not after witnessing this morning’s transformation. There was something magnetic about watching someone step back into their power. Raffo’s energy was contagious, and Dylan could swear some of it rubbed off on her. Watching her transform from a broken-hearted painter who couldn’t paint to this reborn version of herself sparked something hopeful in Dylan too.
If Raffo could show up here like that and turn into this in less than three days, maybe there was hope for Dylan as well. She wasn’t a painter, but she’d always had a creative profession, and maybe she could learn from Raffo by example, or absorb some of her special mojo just by being around her.
Dylan had caught a quick glimpse of Raffo’s painting before she’d put it away for the day, but she hadn’t been able to see that much—probably because there wasn’t much to see just yet.
After lunch, Raffo had gone out in search of more painting supplies, followed by a hike. For the first time since Raffo’s arrival, Dylan found herself truly alone in the house.
She went through the motions of going upstairs for her daily post-lunch nap but hesitated when putting in her headphones. Dylan had only been briefly mortified when Ida Burton’s voice had come over the speakers, thanks to Raffo’s grace about it. But she couldn’t help but wonder what Raffo really made of her. Was she her best friend’s sad mother hiding out from the world at her lake house? Or her unexpected topless muse? Dylan saw herself more as the former but maybe Raffo saw her as both. To even be considered the latter was a humongous compliment.
Dylan threw the sheet off her upper body, baring her breasts—the unexpected inspiration for an artist rediscovering her craft—and pressed play on Ida’s steamy story.
In no time, her skin was on fire and her clit pulsed like a second heart. Dylan was alone in the house and she used this time wisely—and the only way she knew how when she felt like this. She brought her hand between her legs and came hard. As she caught her breath, she, too, had an image in her head she couldn’t shake—and it wasn’t Ida Burton.
It was Raffo Shah, with that small, brazen smile she’d worn in the kitchen that morning. Dylan’s hand shook slightly as she deleted the app from her phone. She couldn’t risk these thoughts about her son’s best friend taking root. That was simply unthinkable—no matter how much the memory of that smile lingered.
“I got us something special for tonight.” Raffo wasn’t exactly crowding Dylan in the kitchen—it was too spacious for that—but Dylan felt a little ill at ease—or was it agitated?—being so close to her. Raffo opened the fridge and took out the bottle of expensive champagne Dylan had spotted earlier. “To celebrate the extremely welcome return of my mojo.”
Though pleased for Raffo, Dylan sighed inwardly. She’d hoped to abstain from alcohol tonight—to keep complete control over everything she said and did.
She acquiesced quickly nonetheless, because she wanted to celebrate with Raffo. She wanted to end another gorgeous day, with Raffo, in style.
They went onto the deck with their full glasses of Ruinart and settled in the Adirondack chairs where they’d already spent quite some time. Dylan pushed hers sideways a little so she could see more of Raffo’s face—it was far more interesting than the lake.
“I’m so happy.” Raffo lifted her glass. “I don’t know what’s in that water but, fuck, you were right. It’s magical.”
Dylan tilted her glass to Raffo’s and they clinked rims. From what Raffo had told her, it wasn’t so much the lake’s water that had sparked something in her.
“I’m almost emotional because… I don’t know what was worse, losing Mia or losing my mojo.” Raffo cleared her throat. “I could learn to live without Mia.” She shrugged. “I’ll have to, regardless. But I could never live without painting.” Her next breath was a little unsteady—a little ragged with emotion.
Raffo took a sip of her champagne and fell silent. Dylan studied her face. No matter what mood she was in, there was always something regal about Raffo’s features. She carried herself with a gravitas that Dylan hadn’t encountered in many people.
“I hope you’ll stick around for a while longer, even though you’ve already got what you came for.” Dylan wasn’t sure how she would cope with Raffo leaving.
“I’ve only just started my first painting.” Raffo shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere.” She found Dylan’s gaze. “As long as you’ll have me.”
Dylan just nodded. It didn’t need repeating that Raffo was welcome to stay.
“But enough about me.” Raffo grinned at her. “I feel like it’s been about me all day.”
You have no idea. Dylan remembered her ‘nap’—although she hadn’t slept a wink.
“I’ve been here all this time and apart from your financial mishap, I don’t know all that much about you.” Raffo peered at Dylan over the rim of her glass. “I’d like to know more. I know you’re Connor’s lovely mother; you’re an excellent hostess; you are exceedingly kind and welcoming and, well—” She chuckled. “You have an extremely inspiring pair of…” She gestured at Dylan’s chest.
“I’ll drink to that.” Dylan laughed, not just because the situation was funny, but because, in that moment, as she lifted the champagne flute to her lips, and looked into Raffo’s dark eyes, she was genuinely happy. For the first time since she’d lost half a million dollars, she didn’t feel like a complete loser. Raffo was saying all these beautiful things about her—and she was working on a topless painting of her. Although, admittedly, Raffo had also just claimed to know very little about Dylan.
“Well,” Dylan said. “To start at the very beginning, when I was born, my parents gave me the name Diane. I changed it to Dylan as soon I was legally able to.”
“No way?” Raffo widened her eyes in exaggerated fashion. “You’re a Diane? That totally changes my perception of you.”
“I’ve never felt like a Diane. Dylan is so much cooler.”
“You’re right. You’re much more of a Dylan than a Diane.” Raffo tipped her glass. “Thanks for sharing.”
Dylan tried to think of another innocuous confession she could make, something frivolous, befitting of this lovely evening.
But Dylan had a bit of an issue with impulse control, especially after a few sips of delicious champagne.
“I’m one of those lazy bisexual women who only dates men because it’s just so much easier.”
Raffo nearly spit out the sip of champagne she’d just taken. She swallowed hard, then said, “I’m sorry. What was that?”
“I’m a bad bisexual because I give my kind a bad name.” Dylan took too much glee in these things—she knew this about herself. It didn’t feel dissimilar to buying more cryptocurrency, followed by even more. Just because she could. Because she liked to believe—wrongly—that she was much smarter than anyone else.
“Please explain further.” If Dylan admitting she was bi had any effect on Raffo, she didn’t show it—which was a real bummer, because that’s why she’d said it.
Dylan drank more champagne—so much for staying in control.
Raffo was Connor’s age, a full generation younger than herself, and while Dylan considered herself plenty woke, she had to tread carefully because she knew from experience with Connor this was gaffe-prone territory. Because she was almost sixty, and had a different life experience, and enjoyed a whole other host of privileges than the generation that came after her.
“Even though I’m attracted to both men and women, I’ve primarily dated men because there are simply many more single straight men available than there are women who are attracted to women. It’s a numbers game more than anything else, really.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
“Nothing. I just—I’d hate to be one of those seemingly straight women saying I’m bi while enjoying all the privileges of being perceived as heterosexual, all the while complaining my sexual preference is so invisible.”
“It’s complicated,” Raffo just said in that typical understated way that Dylan had already gotten to know so well. “That doesn’t make you less bi.”
Dylan had struggled on and off with this all her life, but she hadn’t spent a lot of time discussing it. She’d married a man—Connor’s father—whom she’d been perfectly happy with until the marriage crumbled, like so many did, under the crushing weight of everyday life, of growing apart while being together, of failing to communicate what was bothering you because, one day, you simply ran out of words to say it, and all that followed was a painfully slow disintegration called divorce.
“I’ll be sixty next year and I’ve only been with two women in my life.” So much for innocuous conversation.
“You wish there had been more?” Raffo asked. Was that a hint of a blush on her cheeks? It was hard to tell—and it could be the effect of the champagne.
“I don’t know. I haven’t really given it that much thought.” That much, at least, was true.
“You’re not a bad bisexual just for living your life,” Raffo said. “As far as I know, you haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I’m sorry for not asking you before, but… are you bi? I certainly didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I’m so gay.” Raffo pointed two thumbs at herself. “Look at me. I’ve never been mistaken for straight in my life.” She shrugged.
“Looks can be deceiving,” Dylan said.
“Sure, but in my case, they’re not. What you see is what you get.”
