Within Reach. Sarah Mayberry

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Within Reach - Sarah  Mayberry

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through her as she saw that while the dull gray metal was scarred and pitted around the locking mechanism and it had been dragged a few feet from its position in the corner, the door remained closed.

      “Oh, thank God,” she said, closing her eyes for a brief second.

      That was one disaster averted, at least. She turned to inspect the rest of her space and sucked in a dismayed breath when she saw her workbench. The intruders had sprayed black paint over all her tools—the leather hammer she’d used for more than ten years, her vernier caliper, her flexi-drive drill, all the drill bits and mops and burrs… Again, she reached out but caught herself in time.

      Angry tears burned at the back of her eyes. She didn’t understand why anyone would be so destructive. She was a stranger to the intruders, yet they had made a concerted effort to maliciously destroy her creative space.

      Her phone rang. She pulled it from her bag. Michael’s number showed on the screen.

      “Everything okay?” he asked the moment she took the call.

      “Yes and no. They didn’t get into my safe, which would have pretty much been the end of my business. But they’ve absolutely trashed everything else they could get their hands on. Including my tools.”

      “Shit. I’m really sorry, Angie.”

      “Yeah. Me, too. Stupid assholes.”

      “I take it you’re insured?”

      “Yeah, but I think it’s mostly going to be cleaning up, not replacing stuff. Apart from what’s in the safe, most of the things I had here have value only for me, you know. They’re hardly worth claiming on insurance.”

      “Anything I can do?”

      Despite the situation, his offer warmed her. Suddenly she didn’t feel quite so alone or overwhelmed.

      “Thanks, but there’s nothing anyone can do at this stage. The police won’t let me touch anything until their fingerprint people have—” Her roaming gaze fell on a spray of dirt on the floor near the window.

      The burn of tears intensified as she saw that her Japanese maple bonsai tree had been thrown to the floor and stomped on. The pottery base was shattered, and half the tree’s roots were exposed and broken.

      “Angie? Are you okay?”

      She sank to her knees and reached for the fragile tangle of leaves and tiny branches.

      “They smashed my bonsai.”

      There was a small silence. She knew Michael understood the significance of the loss. Billie had given her the tiny tree as a gift to brighten her workspace, even though Angie had what could only be described as a black thumb. At the time, Angie had given Billie her word that she’d keep it alive, and so far the bonsai had survived almost three years of benign neglect.

      She lifted the tree gently. It was crushed, the main trunk almost completely severed. Utterly beyond saving.

      “If you want, I can be there in half an hour. I’m sure Mrs. Linton could look after the kids for a few hours.”

      She sniffed back her tears. “I’m okay. Just angry. It’s so destructive. And completely pointless.”

      “You sure you don’t want some company?”

      “I’ll be all right. But thanks for the offer.”

      It wasn’t until they ended the call that it struck her that ten months ago, Billie would have been the one on the phone, insisting on helping. It was hard facing a crisis without her best support and cheerleader, but it was also nice to know that Michael cared enough to have made the call.

      Of course he cares. He’s your friend. Just as you’re his friend.

      She heard footsteps in the corridor and the policeman stopped in the doorway.

      “I’m sorry, ma’am, but our team is here now. You’re going to have to leave.”

      “Okay.”

      She took one last look around her devastated studio. As she’d said to Michael, there was nothing she could do here till tomorrow.

      Shoulders straight, she headed for home.

      * * *

      MICHAEL WORRIED ABOUT Angie all night until he went to bed and then started again first thing when he woke the next morning. She’d done so much for him and the kids and he hated the thought of her having to deal with the invasion of her creative space all on her own.

      After he’d dropped Eva at school, he drove into the city. Charlie was asleep in his car seat by the time Michael found a parking spot. He unstrapped him and carried him the block to Angie’s building. Charlie began to wriggle in his arms as he approached the entrance and he set his son on his feet and took his hand.

      “You happy now?”

      Charlie nodded.

      “Shall we go visit Angie, then?”

      “Angie?” Charlie’s face was a study in delight.

      The directory in the foyer told him A. Bartlett was in studio twenty-three on the fifth floor. He eyed the ancient cage elevator suspiciously before deciding to take the stairs. After the first flight, Charlie allowed himself to be carried again, a capitulation which shortened their upward trek by several minutes.

      Glass crunched underfoot, and when they arrived at the fifth floor more piles of broken glass were stationed periodically along the corridor, clearly waiting to be collected and disposed of. Michael winced when he saw the damage to some of the studios he passed.

      “Down. Down!” Charlie commanded as they neared Angie’s.

      Michael set him on his feet but kept a tight grip on his son’s hand as he searched for number twenty-three. Belatedly it occurred to him that he probably should have called first—for all he knew, Angie might be out arranging repairs or talking to clients. Then he saw that the door to what he assumed was her studio was open and lifted a hand to knock on the doorframe to announce himself. His hand froze inches from the wood as he registered that Angie was inside and that she wasn’t alone.

      Not by a long shot.

      Instead, she was in what looked like a fervent embrace with a tall, muscular man with long dark hair. The other man’s hands were splayed possessively over the small of her back, his face nuzzled into the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her arms banded around him, the muscles in her arms flexing as she held him close. Michael couldn’t see her face, but it was blindingly obvious that he was about to step into what was clearly a very private moment.

      He would come back later. Maybe take Charlie for a walk around the block, then pop in again. Give Angie time to do…whatever with her friend. Or whoever the guy was.

      He took a step backward, already pivoting on his heel.

      Charlie resisted, straining against his grip. “Angie.” He pointed at the object of his affection.

      Angie’s head came up, eyes wide.

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