A Little Bit Wicked (The Wickeds

by Melissa Foster

  “What’s the environment like? And the food?” Mike asked.

  “The environment is very upbeat and positive, and we have an amazing dining hall with top-of-the-line chefs.”

  “And desserts?” Mike asked.

  “Pop, come on. You know the docs don’t want you all sugared up,” Rob reminded him.

  Mike swatted the air in his direction. “You see, Chloe? I’m always under his thumb.”

  “This dynamic between you two is very normal. In fact, one of the biggest benefits of having a loved one move into our facility is that it takes this type of responsibility and oversight off their children. We have ways to make sure Mike’s sweet tooth is satiated without doing harm to his health.” Chloe looked at Mike and said, “But you might find you have less time on your hands to think about sweets. We offer wonderful programs and activities, like exercise classes, swimming, yoga, hiking, and gardening. We have arts and crafts, computer lessons, game and trivia nights, movie nights, group outings and bus tours. And I’m always researching new things for our residents to do. I’ve just started a program where high school students come in and spend time with our seniors, and everyone seems to be enjoying it.”

  “What about the ladies? Are there restrictions on mingling?” Mike asked.

  “Oh boy, here we go,” Reba said. “I’m sorry, Chloe.”

  “No, it’s fine. I actually get asked that question quite often. Senior citizens have needs, too, and unfortunately, it seems to be frowned upon by their families. I think even grown children have trouble thinking about their parents’ more intimate personal relationships. Facilities like LOCAL are continually grappling with this issue. It’s not just the families we worry about, but the health and welfare of our residents and where to draw the line as people begin to lose their cognition. But all the research shows that social relationships are critical to senior citizens, and even more so in assisted living facilities. Intimacy and companionship have positive effects on people’s sense of independence, it facilitates good physical and mental health, and helps with loneliness. To answer your question, Mike, there are no hard and fast rules in our facility, but the safety of our residents is always our primary concern.”

  “If I ever need an advocate, I want you on my side, Chloe,” Rob said, reaching for Reba’s hand.

  “Thank you. I care a great deal about the happiness of our residents. I have friends who have lived there for several years. I join them for lunch or dinners sometimes. Aging is a funny thing. We spend our whole lives raising families, or choosing not to, and working hard to pay the bills. Nowadays many people don’t retire until they’re in their seventies. They don’t want to worry about mowing grass or taking care of a big house, and our facility offers them a chance to spend more time enjoying life and less time worrying about some of the day-to-day responsibilities. For many families, just getting to and from medical appointments can be complicated. Having the offices in our complex makes it easier. The grocery store is a shuttle bus away, and they deliver. Friends are in the same building, dinners are hosted, events are planned, so enjoying life is easier.” Chloe realized she’d been going on too long and said, “Sorry. I get carried away when I talk about LOCAL.”

  Justin pulled her closer and said, “Don’t be sorry, babe. Your passion takes my breath away.”

  “Keep your passion in your pants, Maverick,” Mike said, causing everyone to laugh. “I’d like to see the place, Chloe. Can I take a tour?”

  “Poppy, are you sure? You know we love having you stay with us,” Reba said.

  “Darlin’, I know you do, and I appreciate you and my boy opening your house to me. But if I don’t get my own place, I am going to lose my mind.”

  Rob and Reba made plans to bring Mike to LOCAL for a tour a week from Thursday, in the afternoon. They talked for a while longer, and by the time everyone got ready to leave, Chloe was walking on air. Justin’s family was nothing like she’d thought before their talk on the beach and every bit as loving and welcoming as she’d expected after learning so much about them.

  “I’m glad you hung out with us tonight.” Dwayne gave Chloe a one-armed hug, cuddling the kitten in his other arm, and said, “Keep this dude in line, will ya?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Dwayne and Justin bumped fists. He said goodbye to the rest of the family and headed into the shelter to check on the dogs one last time.

  “I really enjoyed getting to know you, Chloe, and I hope we’ll see you again soon.” Reba embraced her for longer than she had when they’d first arrived.

  “Me too. I look forward to seeing you for the tour.”

  Rob wrapped his arms around Chloe and said, “Be good to my boy.”

  “I will be. I have months of brushing him off to make up for,” she admitted.

  Mike winked and said, “The chase is half the fun.” He embraced Chloe as Justin said goodbye to his parents.

  She and Justin walked to his truck hand in hand, and Justin said, “I’m sorry we spent so much time with my family. I had planned on taking you to P-town tonight.”

  “I loved every second with them,” she said honestly. “You’re lucky, Justin. That’s what a family should be like, and tonight has already been the best date I’ve ever been on.”

  He drew her into his arms and said, “The night’s not over. What would you like to do?”

  “Provincetown sounds wonderful, but I like being in your world, and I’d really like to see more of it. Would it be weird for you to show me your studio where you sculpt?”

  “That’s a pretty private place.” A devilish grin curved his lips, and he said, “No woman I’ve gone out with has ever seen my studio.”

  “A virgin studio?” She hooked her finger in the waist of his jeans and said, “My, my, Mr. Wicked, that makes it even more intriguing.”

  Chapter Twelve

  REBA HAD ALWAYS said nothing felt as good as coming home, but as Justin pulled up to his secluded pond-front home Saturday night with Chloe by his side, he knew Reba was wrong. Coming home was great, but coming home with Chloe made it a million times better. He was nervous and excited to share this part of his world with her. He’d been honest about having never brought a woman he was dating into his house or his studio before. He knew how it felt to live someplace tainted with negative energy, and that was something he never wanted to do again. His home was his sanctuary, where he could kick off his boots and relax in peace, free from bad mojo. He hoped to one day raise his own family there, teach his kids to fish in the pond, to hike the woods, and if they were interested, he’d foster their artistic abilities the same way Preacher had with him.

  “Whoa, Justin. Is that your house or your studio?”

  He parked next to his motorcycle and said, “That’s my house. There’s a pond behind it, but it’s hard to see in the dark. The studio is down there.” He pointed to where the driveway veered off down the hill to the glass greenhouse-type roof of the enormous stone and glass building that never failed to help center him.

  “Your house is gorgeous. It looks like that famous house by Frank Lloyd Wright. You know the one with all the cantilevered decks and roof overhangs.”

  “Fallingwater. That’s the property that inspired the architect who built this house.” He got out of the truck and came around to help her out.

  He put his arm around her as they walked down the hill to the studio, and even though he’d often put an arm around her before she’d agreed to go out with him, it felt damn good to do it as her boyfriend.

  “My studio is a mess inside,” he said as he unlocked the door. “And however you define mess, this is probably about ten times worse.”

  “I assume messes go hand in hand with being an artist. I’m excited to see where you create and to gain a little insight into how your artistic mind works.”

  As they stepped inside, the scents of cold stone and shattered ghosts surrounded him. While his home was his sanctuary, free from bad memories, his studio was his lair. In his stud
io he unleashed his anger, wrestled with his demons, celebrated his happiness, and found his way to the peace he carried into his home at night.

  He tried to see the studio through Chloe’s eyes as she took in the concrete floors, tables, and shelves covered with stone dust and littered with sculpting tools, books, and other paraphernalia. Easels held sketches of future sculptures and ones he’d already finished. There were old pieces of wood and metal and several large slabs of stone placed throughout the studio. Two of his current works in progress were covered with sheets, one in the center of the room and the other to their left on a worktable. Against the far wall were two large stainless-steel sinks, several work areas, and an enormous kiln.

  Chloe eyed the worktable to their left and said, “This is kind of a turn-on, like I’ve been invited into your secret refuge.”

  “If I’d known that, I would have dragged your pretty little ass here long ago, princess.”

  She touched the sheet covering his work in progress. “Can I peek?”

  “Sure.”

  She lifted the sheet, revealing an enormous slab of marble, partially carved into a woman, huddled forward. Her shoulders were mostly defined, her head was bowed, her hair spilling toward the ground like a stilled river.

  Chloe looked sorrowfully at the piece and said, “Is this what you’re making for the rally?”

  “No. That’s a commissioned piece for a guy in Brewster.” He put a hand on her back and said, “I have a long way to go until it’s done.”

  “Do your clients choose what you make?”

  “It turns out I don’t like to be told what to create, so I guess the answer is no. I made two commissioned pieces where the clients asked for specific designs, and I hated every second of making them. It stifles my creativity and the process becomes frustrating.” He shrugged and said, “Now I design what I want to make, and if a client likes it enough to commission it, I’ll make it for them.”

  She ran her fingers over the marble and said, “What will she look like when she’s done?”

  He reached for the drawing he’d sketched for the piece. “Like this. Her legs will be tucked beneath her, her arms crossed over her face, and she’ll be holding her shoulders.”

  “And what are all these dark lines?”

  “Her body will be marred and scratched, with deep pits and angry slashes. The dark lines are representative of the thoughts and fears that bind her. All of that will be polished to a shine, and see that slab that looks like a turtle shell on her back?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s the weight of those thoughts and fears holding her down. That part will be rough and ugly, not polished.”

  “Justin, your work is so powerful. That piece might be the saddest thing I’ve ever seen, if I hadn’t seen the ones at the gallery. Did you sell them all?”

  He shook his head. “I sold most, but I kept two. They’re in my house.”

  “Which two?”

  “Do you remember a piece called Cornerstone?”

  “Yes, if it’s the one I’m thinking of. A woman’s face emerging from chipped stone, right?”

  He nodded, thinking of the sculpture. He’d defined and polished her lips and nose, but from the apple of her right cheek to the bridge of her nose he’d made it appear as though it had been violently broken off.

  Chloe walked a little farther down the table to the sketches he’d drawn for the suicide-awareness auction. Her gaze moved over the image of a woman breaking through a brick wall, a woman with angel wings, and a dozen other sketches of images that just hadn’t felt right.

  Chloe lifted her eyes to his and said, “Which other sculpture did you keep from the gallery?”

  “A naked, armless woman lying on her back on top of what everyone thought were waves. Her head was tilted back, eyes closed.”

  “I remember her. She was big, right? Her features were intricately carved, and she had wide paths of stone wound around her torso and legs like an enormous flat snake squeezing its prey.”

  “That’s the one. I call her Beholden. That thing you think is a snake is obligation, and the foundation supporting her that people thought were waves is love.”

  “Justin,” she said softly, touching his arm. “When you showed me the picture of your mother, I thought I had seen her before. Now I know why. Is Beholden Mary?”

  His chest constricted. He turned away and draped the sheet over the sculpture she’d uncovered to give himself time to think. No one had asked him that question before, although he wondered if people who knew about his past had put the pieces together.

  “Justin…?”

  “They’re all her, Chloe,” he said, turning to face her. “Every damn one of them, or at least a piece of each of them. And they’re me. I’m the obligation that bound her so tight she chose to leave this world instead of risking my life by leaving my father.”

  “That’s a lot of guilt on your shoulders, and when you put it together with the guilt you felt about your father’s crime, it’s a wonder you’re still standing. Doesn’t all that guilt take a toll on you?”

  “No,” he said softly, wanting her to understand. “It’s not guilt. It’s reality, and it’s how I keep my mother alive in my head. Remembering what she went through, creating her face over and over again, in all the ways I’ve seen it, so I never forget how beautiful she was, all that she went through, and all that she gave up so I could survive. It makes me stronger, and it makes me want to continue being the best man I can be, because she gave me that chance. If anything has taken a toll, it’s trying to conceptualize a sculpture for the rally.” He waved to the dozens of drawings he’d attempted and said, “Nothing I come up with feels right.”

  “Can I ask you something? Rob said the rally honors Ashley. Is there a reason they don’t also honor your mother?”

  “I asked them not to. The rally is important. It offers support for all the people who have been affected by suicide. The people who are left behind. I want to support it, but it’s not an easy event for me, and I don’t want that kind of attention on me.”

  “Then why did you agree to make a sculpture for it?”

  “Because my aunt Ginger asked me to, and there’s no way I’d ever let her down.”

  “You’re such a good person. They’re as lucky to have you as you are to have them.” She looked at the drawings again. “You said the event is for all the people that have been left behind, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “All these sketches look like you’re trying to set your mother free. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel right, because you can’t change what she did.”

  He mulled that over for a moment. “Maybe. I haven’t thought of it that way.”

  “If this event is for everyone who has been left behind, and of course to honor Ashley and all those who were lost, then shouldn’t your piece do the same? I’m not an artist, and I don’t understand how it works, going from a concept to the beautiful pieces you make. But what if you created something that represented all of that? What comes to mind when you think of receiving support from others? People catching you when you fall? Letting you lean on them? Lifting you up?”

  He could feel it, the energy of the support she described. “Hands,” he said, looking down at his own.

  “Oh, that’s good. You can show the hands of people who have helped the ones who have lost loved ones to suicide, lifting and supporting—”

  “The faces of the people left behind, not the ones that we’ve lost,” he said excitedly, reaching for a pad and pencil. “That’s brilliant. That’s it, baby. That’s exactly what people need. Hope.”

  “Yes. Focus on survival rather than on loss or trying to change what can’t be undone.”

  She peered over his shoulder as he sketched faces pointing out in every direction, at different heights, as if they were decorating a pillar. And that was exactly what they should be on. A pillar of support. As he sketched, he said, “They’ll all come out of one base, and these whirling lines
I’m drawing between and around the faces will be carved like the energy from the support they’re giving each other. Sweet cheeks, you are one hell of a muse.” Beneath the pillar, he sketched a circle of arms from elbow to wrist, hands bent back, palms up, supporting the pillar. “The elbows will act as the stand for the sculpture, and the hands will hold up the pillar. This piece will give a world of support a whole new meaning,” he said as he drew the hands around the base, overlapping each other, giving endless support.

  “Can you sculpt the hands of people who have been there for Ashley’s family? And the people who have been there for you?”

  “There’s nothing I can’t sculpt, baby.” It was the perfect concept to give hope and draw people out of the darkness suicide left in its wake. Even him. “I can ask them to come in and model their hands while I work.” The more he sketched, the more he felt the hope in the piece and the coming together and love that he had felt over the years.

  “What if you surprised them?” Chloe asked. “Can you create hands from pictures?”

  “Of course. What are you thinking?”

  “That Reba, Rob, and the others have done so much for you, this is something you can do to show them how much you appreciate their support. It’s a way of calling them out individually, so each person knows how special they are. Not that they don’t already know how much they mean to you. But think about it. Rob, Tank, Baz, Zander, and Dwayne have tattoos on the backs of their hands, and Reba and your aunt and uncle have wedding rings that will distinguish them. I don’t know about Zeke or Blaine, but maybe they have something unique about their hands, too. We’ll have to check it out.”

  “I love this idea, babe. But how can I get pictures of their hands without them knowing?”