“I’ve never believed in anyone the way I believe in you. You have my sword, Mimi Blum.”
She jumped up so she could throw her arms around his neck, and they stood together while she inhaled his smell for courage. No matter what happened in this world, she was never going to be alone, because Cole would never let her fall. That thought rang through her head, clear as a bell, as he literally held her up in the air.
Once he was gone, she dropped deeply into her art zone. While making the ornaments for Cass’s tree, she had immersed herself in the process, losing track of time and going into a meditative state of Mod Podge and sparkle to channel the spirit of Cass.
This was different.
As Miriam gessoed a canvas for the first time in a decade, her soul relaxed into her body in a way she’d forgotten was even possible. She thought she’d been present—at Cass’s shiva, at Hanukkah, in bed with Noelle—but laying paint down on a canvas required her to exist in her body so fiercely and completely that she finally understood why Noelle thought she was always on the verge of flight.
She had been, without even knowing. She’d never even met Noelle with her whole self present.
As day turned into dusk, Miriam settled into the corners of herself she hadn’t used in so long she’d assumed the locks had rusted shut. The painting, both the act and the subject, were instinctive. They came from the parts of herself that existed without intellect or distance, and to access them she had to let herself simplybe.
As dusk turned to darkest night, she finally let herself feel everything she had been scared of feeling for Noelle—every dream for their future, every ounce of yearning. She poured her adoration into her paint, her lust and her hope and the electricity she felt every time they touched.
More than howshefelt, much more, she poured who Noelle was into the painting. Her sensitive love for her trees, the way she cared for Hannah and the Matthewses, how she always showed up without having to be asked. She painted Noelle’s confidence and swagger, her ownership of her own body, her smolder and her comfort in who she was and wanted to be. She painted Noelle’s sly humor, her raw surprised laugh when something tickled her. Noelle’s commitment to Cass and her grief, still so big and unwieldy, at losing her.
Miriam painted her own regret that they’d never met before, before Noelle was mad at her for abandoning Carrigan’s—and, underneath her fear and her rage at Richard, she painted her anger and disappointment that Noelle couldn’t see that her knee-jerk trauma response wasn’t who she was as a human being. It wasn’t a set of character flaws she could overcome by sheer determination.
She painted what Noelle deserved and what Miriam wanted to give her, which was the world and everything in it, someone to stay and choose her every time. She also painted whatshedeserved and wanted Noelle to give her, which was the space and grace to become herself without always being afraid that she was doing it wrong.
At four o’clock the next morning, covered head to toe in paint and with every part of her insides now on the canvas, she lay down in the path of the moonlight coming through the carriage house windows and stared at the stars. She didn’t know if she and Noelle would make it. She didn’t even know if they’d get a chance to start again. She didn’t know if they could save Carrigan’s, if they could make a success of the business, or how they would hold her dad at arm’s length forever.
What Miriam did know was she’d done something she thought she’d never be able to do again. She’d painted.
The morning of New Year’s Eve, Miriam dragged Hannah into Advent, back to Marisol’s boutique. Nothing she had with her was suitable for the party, and she didn’t have time for Tara to send her something (nor did she think that phone call would go well). Now that Miriam had painted her entire soul for Noelle, she was moving on to phase two of her plan to fight for her girl: buy a slinky dress and make Noelle swallow her tongue with lust.
Marisol took one look at her and ushered her toward the vintage section at the back of the store. “I have something for you. It’s real short and real shiny.” She pressed a dress into Miriam’s hands. It was liquid silver, original 1970s, and composed of very little fabric.
“I don’t have shoes for this,” Miriam said, smoothing what there was of the dress over her thighs, exhilarated at how it felt against her skin. She was going to look hotter than she’d ever looked in her life.
If she could find the right shoes.
“I have shoes!” Marisol exclaimed. “So many shoes!”
“I hate to throw a wrench in your perfectly planned and color-coded schedule for the day,” Miriam said to Hannah, “but I also need your help with a surprise.”
“What are you cooking up?” Hannah asked skeptically.
Miriam grinned. “I hereby officially declare a Shenanigan.”
Chapter 23
Noelle
The ceiling of the work shed needed to be powerwashed. Noelle knew this because she was lying upside down in her chair, feet on the back and head hanging off the seat, as she stared up at the ceiling. She was thinking about her conversation with Ziva, about everything she knew about Miriam’s past and about trauma triggers in general. Mostly Noelle was thinking about how profoundly poorly she had treated the girl she loved.
A long dark blonde braid swung into her vision, haloing a face bathed in late winter light.
“You’re taking this ‘too gay to sit in a chair correctly’ thing a bridge too far,” her best friend said.
“How did you find me?” Noelle sounded petulant even to herself.
“Well, (a) I know you, and (b) Mr. Matthews ratted you out.”
“I’m going to get him. Meddling old man trying to fix my life,” Noelle grumbled, knowing Hannah understood that Mr. Matthews trying to fix her life was maybe her favorite thing.
“Why aren’t you dressed yet?” Hannah asked. “Everyone else is ready, and it takes you one actual thousand years to do your hair.”