by Addison Cole
Could life get any worse?
Cosmos darted out from under the table and ran toward Andre. Even the stupid dog?
“What do you think, Vi?” Gavin said as he took the seat beside her. He’d ditched his tie, his sleeves were pushed up, and his glassy eyes told her he’d had a few drinks. He was a good guy. He’d recently moved to the Cape from Boston and partnered with Serena in opening Mallery and Wheeler Interior Design. “Is your mom crazy good in bed, or does Andre just have a thing for cougars?”
Maybe she’d have to reevaluate the good guy thought.
She glanced at the other end of the table, where Matt was holding Holly as she slept. Hagen leaned sleepily against his side as Matt talked quietly with Dean. They were otherwise occupied, but close enough to hear her speak. Biting her tongue wasn’t something Violet was used to—or good at—but she’d do darn near anything to make sure Desiree’s wedding was everything her sister had ever hoped for. Including being sober on the one night when she deserved to be blitzed out of her mind.
“You know what I think?” Gavin asked. “I think if he plays his cards right he can trade in your mother for Chloe. She’s all over him.”
“Yeah, and one touch away from getting her hands broken,” Violet mumbled as she pushed to her feet.
“Vi!” Desiree rushed toward her, but Rick swept an arm around his new wife’s waist, hauling her in for a kiss. Everyone cheered, causing Andre and the others to head their way.
Crap.
Violet couldn’t stomach another minute of Andre and Lizza’s ridiculously happy togetherness. She headed for her cottage.
Desiree caught up to her and said, “Are you okay?”
“Of course. I just have some stuff to take care of.”
“Vi…?” She sounded worried.
Violet stopped walking and feigned a smile. “What’s up, Des? I’ll be back to help clean up. Don’t worry.”
“Clean up?” Desiree’s brow wrinkled. “You’ve been acting weird all night. Does seeing Lizza with that guy bother you?”
She couldn’t look into her sister’s eyes and lie, no matter how much she wanted to put Desiree’s mind at ease, so she didn’t respond.
“Maybe he’ll make Lizza more normal, you know?” Desiree shrugged and said, “There’s always hope. Besides, if he keeps her here for a month—”
“I’ll lose my mind.” Violet strode toward her front door. She needed to get out of her dress and out of there.
“Why? I’m kind of happy for her.”
Violet walked into her cottage, and Desiree barreled in after her.
“Don’t you like Andre?” Desiree asked. “He’s a pediatrician and he knows Dean’s dad and his brother.” Dean’s father was a pediatric neurosurgeon in Boston, and his brother Doug, also a physician, worked overseas. “I asked him how he met Lizza. He said he met her in Ghana a couple years ago. I know sometimes you and Lizza traveled in the same circles, but you were in Bali before coming here, right? You said you broke up with your boyfriend and that’s why you didn’t return my calls, but that you were going to take your life back to Bali.”
Forget changing her clothes. Violet couldn’t do this right now. When they’d first come to the Cape, it had been too painful to even think about being in Ghana with Andre, and Bali had been the first place that had come to mind on that stressful day.
She shoved her feet into her biker boots, eyes downcast as she said, “Yeah.”
It was easier to lie without seeing Desiree’s face, because she remembered every minute of her last trip to Ghana, from the moment she’d set eyes on the man who would fluster her and cause her to blush, and made her feel so much that she thought she’d die, to the night she took off wondering how she’d ever go on and the months of tears that followed.
“Oh my gosh…” Desiree covered her mouth.
Violet grabbed her keys and headed out the front door toward her motorcycle.
“Wait!” Desiree kept pace with her. “Wasn’t your boyfriend also named Andre?”
Violet looked away, gripping the keys so tightly they cut into her hand. She’d slipped and mentioned Andre’s name only once, when she’d first come to the Cape. She couldn’t believe Desiree remembered it.
“Holy cow, Violet. Is that why you’re so mad? Is he your Andre?” Desiree asked, wide-eyed. She must have seen the answer in Violet’s expression, because her eyes narrowed and she clenched her hands into fists. “I’m going to kill her!” She stalked toward the party.
Violet snagged her wrist, stopping her in her tracks. “If there’s going to be any killing, I’m the one who’s going to do it.”
“But—”
“No, Desiree. Let this go. Lizza didn’t know about me and Andre.” It even hurt to say his name.
“But the nerve of him, getting everyone to like him when he’s a…a…scoundrel!”
Violet smiled at her oh-so-proper sister and said, “He’s not a jerk, Des. I am.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s okay. Neither do I.” She didn’t know how Lizza and Andre had ended up together, but Andre was right, and the truth cut like a knife. She’d left him and had never looked back. She had no right to be jealous or anything else for that matter. But that didn’t stop the pain from seeping in through her pores like poison.
Desiree tilted her head. “You’re okay with him and Lizza?”
“Not even a little,” Violet said honestly. “I need time to clear my head.”
“Of course. Go.” She waved at Violet’s bike. “But don’t you want to put on pants?”
“No. I want to get out of here. You know I love you, Des, but so help me, if you tell one person about this—even Rick—I will go crazy on you.” Feeling guilty for leaving, she gave Desiree a quick hug and said, “Don’t give this another thought. Go get your man and devour him.”
“Violet!” Desiree whispered, crimson staining her cheeks.
Violet chuckled as she walked back to her bike, hiked up her dress, and climbed on. She took comfort in the familiar hug of her helmet, the powerful roar of the engine, and the sting of the air against her flesh as she sped out of the driveway.
VIOLET HAD BEEN to Justin Wicked’s house so many times since she’d moved to the Cape, her motorcycle could probably guide itself there. The knots in her chest eased as she cruised down the narrow road and his pond-front home came into view. She’d met Justin the summer she’d turned twelve, during one of her visits to the inn to see Desiree and their grandmother. She’d taken off down the beach to escape the discomfort of feeling like a stranger within her own family, and she’d ended up sitting on Wellfleet Pier. Justin had been a long-haired, lanky thirteen-year-old with an attitude as big as Violet’s. He’d watched her from a few feet away, kicking at the pier with the toe of his black high-tops, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. She’d finally gotten sick of being watched and said, “Sit your butt down.” They’d been friends ever since.
Justin’s motorcycle, along with one she didn’t recognize, were parked out front of his house. She passed the house and turned down the driveway that led to his studio. In addition to being a stone sculptor, Justin owned Cape Stone, a stone distribution and stonemasonry company, with his brother Blaine. His other two brothers, Zeke and Zander, worked with their father in their family business, Cape Renovators, and had renovated the inn when Desiree and Violet had first moved there.
She parked out front and walked into the large secluded stone and glass building that had been her safe haven since moving back to the Cape and reconnecting with Justin. The familiar, calming scents of clay and stone greeted her. She turned on the lights, set her helmet on the table, and exhaled a breath she felt like she’d been holding for hours. She sank onto a metal chair, still trying to process seeing Andre again and his being with her mother. Her chest constricted, and she pressed her palm to it, futilely trying to ease the pain. The truth was, she hadn’t been holding her breath for hours but for years. She closed her eyes,
but all she saw was him and the anger and hurt in his eyes. His accusatory tone cut through her thoughts. You washed your hands of me years ago.
She opened her eyes, staring up at the greenhouse-type glass roof. She ground out, “Forget it,” and pushed to her feet, telling herself she was not going down the pathetic path of a woman pining after a man. She flicked on the stereo and forced herself to focus on the sculpture she was making for the Wilks, whose six-year-old daughter, Erin, had passed away last spring from a brain tumor. Violet volunteered in the pediatric ward of the hospital, and she’d spent a lot of time with Erin, working with art as a means to ease the sweet little girl’s anxiety. She’d loved Erin like a younger sister. The Wilks were holding a memorial for her in March, and Violet was making a garden sculpture of Erin for them.
She began unwrapping the plastic that kept the clay moist. Her specialty was pottery and batik work, both of which she sold in the gallery at the inn, but neither felt special enough for Erin’s parents. She looked over the partially finished sculpture. She was sculpting Erin from memory, sitting with her knees bent, legs at her sides, her little feet pointed out. Erin was leaning back on one hand and looking up at a butterfly that had landed on her other hand. Her beloved pet cat, Igor, had remained by her side through the worst of times, and he’d been with her when she died, which was why Violet was sculpting Igor snuggled against Erin’s leg.
She hadn’t begun working on the finer details yet, and she wasn’t confident in her ability to create a face as sweet and innocent as Erin’s, but she hoped she’d do a good enough job to do Erin justice. This would not only be Violet’s first time sharing a sculpture, but it would also be the first time anyone other than Justin and Andre would learn she sculpted. She was nervous about that, but her love for Erin was bigger than her fear of exposing this piece of herself.
She set the plastic aside, and her thoughts moved to her other large-scale work in progress on a neighboring table, where the torso of a man, recently fired, waited to be glazed. Her heart ached, remembering how Andre had helped her take her love of working with clay to a larger scale. When she’d stumbled upon him in a tent behind the clinic in Ghana, standing barefoot and shirtless, his hands covered with wet, murky clay, her heart had nearly stopped. Not only because she hadn’t had access to supplies to do pottery for a long time, but also because standing before her was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and he was completely engrossed in his artwork. His hair and broad chest were streaked with clay, as were the jeans that rode low on his hips. He was working by candlelight, and she was utterly captivated. She’d been around artists her whole life, but she was drawn in by the energy Andre radiated. She wanted to walk over and put her hands on his as he molded the face of a woman. She didn’t know how long she’d stood there, but at some point his gaze found hers, and to this day she still felt the burst of light in her chest that their first glance had caused. She didn’t find out he was a doctor until later that evening.
He may have wowed everyone else—in Ghana and at the wedding tonight—with his medical skills, but it was their shared love of art that had first brought him and Violet together, sparking the most intense connection she’d ever experienced.
She looked away from the torso to try to push those memories aside. Her hands were shaking. Darn it. Huffing out a breath, she went to fill a bowl with water and organized her tools. Then she set to work smoothing an area on the sculpture that had become too soft, adding and molding clay, willing her mind to become absorbed with the process. The feel of the clay and the concentration it took to get the lines of the sculpture just right usually overshadowed every other thought. But as she moved on, dampening an area on the little girl’s leg that was too dry, and began molding the gentle curve of her calf, she was still shaking.
Half an hour later, she was still consumed by thoughts of Andre. She dropped her tools on the table and began pacing. What am I doing?
The door opened, and Justin sauntered in. He lifted his bearded chin and said, “Hey, babe.”
“Hey,” Violet said as a tall, thin redhead followed him in.
“Hi,” the redhead said, strutting toward Violet wearing a T-shirt that had WHISKEY BRO’S emblazoned across the chest, a pair of skintight jeans, and knee-high black leather boots. She had tattoos on both arms and gave off a tough vibe.
Justin came to Violet’s side, and she feigned a smile. He was thick chested, hard bodied, and had a chip on his shoulder the size of Iceland, which went nicely with his ice-blue eyes.
His eyes raked down her body, and he said, “Nice outfit, babe. Say hello to Dixie.”
“Hello, Dixie,” she parroted, holding his gaze and wondering why he’d bring Dixie into the studio when he knew she kept her sculpting private. The last thing she wanted to do was make small talk with some chick he was banging.
Dixie came to her other side and admired her sculpture. “You’re making a little girl?”
No. I’m making a snake. “Mm-hm.”
“Shouldn’t you be at your sister’s wedding?” Justin asked.
Violet turned back to the sculpture and began using her thumbs to smooth the clay. “Shouldn’t you be entertaining your date?”
She probably sounded jealous, but she didn’t care. Sure, she’d slept with Justin a few times, but the last time was right after she’d returned to the Cape, when she’d tried to bang Andre out of her system. It hadn’t worked. She and Justin had gone back to being just friends who liked to hang out, create art, and ride their bikes.
“Ha! Holy cow, Jus,” Dixie said. “She thinks we’re dating.”
The edge of his lips curved up as he said, “Not dating.”
“Whatever,” Violet mumbled.
“He’s my cousin,” Dixie said. “I live in Maryland. I’m just passing through, and don’t worry. He told me no one knows you sculpt. I’m not going to spill your secret.”
She grabbed a rag and wiped her hands, glad Dixie wasn’t a loose-lipped local. “Sorry. I’m not jealous. I’ve just had a crappy day. Your cousin can sleep with whoever he wants.”
“Wanna talk about it?” Justin asked.
“Not really.” She sighed and said, “I can’t even focus on this.” She picked up the sprayer to spritz the clay and rewrap it, but Justin grabbed her hand.
“I’ll do it. You’re too upset. You’ll mess it up.”
She tried to wrench the bottle away, but he snapped it from her hand.
“Guy trouble?” Dixie asked as Justin began spritzing the clay.
Violet shook her head and headed for the sink.
“You’re wearing a killer dress,” Dixie pointed out. “Justin said your sister’s getting married—”
“Already married,” Violet said as she washed her hands.
Dixie joined her by the sink and said, “When my brother got married, it made me realize how single I was. So if that’s what’s going on, I feel your pain.”
Violet dried her hands. “I like being single. I just have a thing for my mother showing up at the wedding with my ex as her date.”
Justin slammed the spray bottle on the table. “What the heck?”
“That’s horrible,” Dixie said. “If I were you, I’d have blood on my hands—from the dude.”
Violet began pacing again. “He didn’t know she was my mother, and she didn’t know we were once together. Nobody did.”
“Glad I’m not the only one who’s been left in the dark on that subject.” Justin glared at her as he wrapped plastic around the sculpture.
Violet snapped, “Nobody knows about you and me, either.”
“So you two are hooking up?” Dixie asked.
“No,” Violet and Justin said in unison.
“Okay, just getting my facts straight. But now he knows she’s your mom and she knows he was your guy?” Dixie asked.
“He knows,” Violet clarified. “She doesn’t.”
“And he’s still with her?” Dixie folded her arms, her eyes narrowing as she said, “The
n it’s time for blood, and I’ve got your back if you want to take care of him right here and now.”
Violet smiled. “You’re all right, cousin Dixie.”
“Hey, we Whiskeys put family above everything else,” she said. “Justin is family, and from what he’s told me, you’re one of his closest friends. That makes you family, too. Our great-grandfather founded the Dark Knights motorcycle club in Peaceful Harbor, Maryland, and there are a lot more bikers who’ll come to your aid if you need it.”
“Whiskeys?” Violet asked.
She knew Justin and his brothers and cousins were members of the Cape Cod chapter of the Dark Knights and that his cousin had committed suicide when she was in college, prompting their first annual suicide-awareness rally, but she’d had no idea about his connection to the original founder.
“Whiskey is my last name. My aunt Reba is Justin’s mom,” she explained.
“You know my aunt Red and uncle Biggs,” Justin reminded her. “They come to the suicide-awareness rally.”
“Oh right, the big guy with the cane? She looks like Sharon Osbourne?” Violet said.
“Right. They’re Dixie’s parents. But that’s enough family history.” Justin wiped his hands on a rag and stepped closer to Violet. “Listen, you want me to take care of this? Show up at that wedding with you to prove you’re over him? Run the guy out of town?”
Violet shook her head, wishing it were that easy.
“You want him gone, right?” Dixie asked. “That’d probably do it. No dude wants to see his replacement.”
Justin’s eyes were locked on Violet and full of concern. She looked away, and he touched her hip, bringing her eyes back to his.
“You don’t want him gone, do you?” he asked.
She ground her teeth together, unable to answer.
“Oh…” Dixie said. “You’re not over him?”
“I don’t know what I am.” Violet stalked away. “I’m angry at Lizza for bringing him here, angry at him for existing, and angry at myself for being so pathetic that I’m standing here so messed up in the head that I can’t even sculpt.”
