Safe Harbor (Provincetown Tales #1) by Radclyffe

Author:Radclyffe [Radclyffe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, lesbian, romance, Adult, Doctor, Sheriff, Law Enforcement, Toaster Oven, Butch-Femme
ISBN: 9781602822429
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2001-03-27T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

As Tory walked up the driveway of Reese’s house at 7:20 the next morning, Brianna Parker, in a body-hugging black T-shirt, low-riding leather pants, and motorcycle boots, appeared from around the rear and started toward her. The split-level wood dwelling stood on a hill overlooking the wetlands at the end of Bradford Street, and when Tory stopped to appreciate the view, Bri halted silently by her side. Tory looked out over the marshes and dunes. They were alive with the flutter of gulls and other birds searching for breakfast.

“Hi, Bri,” Tory said. “Pretty spectacular morning.”

“Yeah, I guess,” the teen responded unenthusiastically.

“Tough class?”

“No, it was great.” Bri’s face brightened. “Sensei’s teaching me to breakfall.”

“Already? Hey, that’s terrific.”

“Yeah.” Bri looked away, her smile fading.

Tory had the feeling the youth was about to say more when she abruptly mumbled a goodbye, strode to a red motorbike, and retreated hastily. Watching her disappear in a torrent of dust and gravel, Tory wished she knew how to make a connection with the teenager. Each time she saw Bri, the girl seemed a little more withdrawn and a little more unhappy.

Realizing the time, Tory turned and hastened up the drive. The side door to the attached garage was open, and she stepped over the sill into a large square space that was almost completely covered with tatami mats, a traditional shock-absorbent material found on the floors of most dojos in Japan. Along the near wall were a bench and a rack for shoes. On the wall opposite the bench were a small hand-carved shelf with a vase of flowers, several ornamental statues, and a picture of a formidable-appearing Japanese man. Tory bowed in the direction of the kamiza, the traditional altar, to show her respect for the training hall and Reese’s former teacher, then slipped her shoes onto the rack.

Reese had been kneeling on the mat with her eyes closed when Tory entered, and she looked up now with a smile. “Welcome. I’m glad you could make it.”

“Thanks. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

As she spoke, Tory sat down and leaned over to remove the metal brace from her right leg. She replaced it with a much lighter short plastic air cast that prevented her ankle from dropping into its paralyzed position.

“Tell me about that,” Reese said, indicating the support.

Tory’s hands tightened and her shoulders grew tense with the automatic resistance to any inquiry about her condition. Invariably, such an inquiry was accompanied by thinly disguised pity, discomfort, or misconception of her abilities. It didn’t matter that Reese had never seemed the least bit judgmental or dismissive. Tory’s response was fostered by years of anger and disappointment. She couldn’t find the words to answer and didn’t look up.

After a moment, Reese asked, “How long has it been since you’ve trained with anyone?”

“Since before my accident.” Tory met her eyes defiantly.

“Well, then, I guess we’ll just have to find out together what you can handle. Can you stand with that?”

Reese was so direct, and so matter of fact, that Tory relaxed.

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