Lawyer, Mike guessed.
Lethal was the next word that came to mind.
Bethany pressed her body back against him. “I said leave Mike alone.”
His fingers curled around the lithe muscles that nipped in at her waist. She relaxed a tiny bit more, tempting him to stroke. Instead, he glanced at her increasingly concerned girlfriends and beyond to their avid audience.
“Humiliating your sister in public isn’t what I had in mind,” he said to Bethany’s siblings. “I doubt it’s what you do for kicks on a Thursday night.”
The Brothers Grimm exchanged uneasy glances.
“Bethie.” Oliver’s expression looked too soft suddenly, for such a hard-edged man. “We didn’t mean . . .”
“To treat me like I can’t handle my life,” she asked, “and whomever I invite to be in it?”
Mike felt her tremble and hated it. His thumb rubbed reassuring circles against her palm. She absently squeezed his fingers back. He wasn’t certain she realized what she was doing, but three sets of male eyes took in the intimate gesture, and her brothers’ granite jaws tightened to the breaking point.
Bethany looked down at her and Mike’s intertwined fingers.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She wrenched her touch away and dashed tears from the corners of her eyes. Then she pushed through the crowd, heading straight out the door to the parking lot.
Her girlfriends slid from their stools in a wave of exotic-smelling perfume. They each slipped an arm through one of Mike’s.
“Why don’t you go see if she’s okay?” Vodka Cranberry said.
“We’ll take care of these boys,” purred the blonde who preferred Belgian beer.
They smiled and turned their attention to the other three men.
“Thursdays aren’t usually your scene,” the blonde said to Travis. “Is it some kind of early bachelor party?”
The police officer nodded, doing a double take at the beauty’s classily displayed bosom, which she’d pressed against his arm.
“Everyone’s slammed with work,” Travis explained. “It’s the last night we could all get the time off.”
All three men glanced toward the door that had swung shut behind Bethany. To their credit, they looked like they wanted to kick their own asses for upsetting her.
“Let’s order another round at your table then.” The brunette led Oliver and Brad away from the bar, her friend and Travis following, the friendly group ignoring Mike now as if he’d never been there.
Instead of being relieved and getting back to proving his bartending chops to Law, Mike battled the impulse to trail after the woman who’d just publically written him off.
“You two really dating?” Law poured bright green liquid out of a shaker into two long-stemmed glasses, their rims coated in sugar. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Bethany Darling that genuinely into a guy.”
I heard you’d started chasing whatever warm body crossed your path . . .
Benjie’s description of Bethany’s love life hadn’t rung true to Mike, even before Law’s insight. There was something about the woman’s sweetness, the innocence of her reaction to Mike’s kiss, that had warned he was holding the kind of woman a man cherished forever and always.
His heartbeat stuttered at the memory, halted altogether. Then it was trying to beat its way out of his chest as the rest of Law’s revelation sank in.
“What did you say?” Mike asked.
Law handed the drinks to a waitress. “I’ve only been in town for a few years, but I’ve never—”
“Her name.” Mike couldn’t process anything else. He pushed his way between the couple who’d claimed the girls’ seats at the bar. “What did you say Bethany’s full name was?”
Law rinsed the shaker in the sink and reached for the vodka to start the next drink. “Bethany Darling? She’s a real sweetheart. You’d be crazy to let her get away without—”
Mike raced for the door, past Rick, who’d finally made an appearance, wearing an apron stained with whatever mishaps were plaguing the kitchen.
“What the hell’s going on out here?” Rick demanded as Mike blew by him. “Someone said you took on the Dixon boys and lived to tell about it.”
“Nah,” Mike heard Law say while Mike threw open the door to the parking lot. “He helped put Benjie Carrington in his place. Oliver and Travis will thank him for it, once . . .”
Mike ran outside, leaving Law to deal with Rick’s recap.
Bethany Darling?
He scanned the parking lot, coming up empty. He was the only one there.
The powerful grumble of a well-tuned engine caught his ear. A flash of color streaked by. A pixie-sized pickup fishtailed out of the lot. The thing was painted in a pink-and-white camouflage pattern. And sitting behind the wheel as it took off down Main Street was a still-pissed redhead.
A cluster of early twenty-somethings walked past Mike, staring after the truck. He shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked onto the heels of his hiking boots. Snagging another minute before heading back inside, he tried to make sense of what had just happened.
He’d kissed himself and a woman senseless, that’s all that had happened. Except she was a woman clearly dug into her close-knit community and her family. And an artist who’d talked with her girlfriends about her painting, while they’d complained about her work taking up even more of her life lately—and about her spending too much time in Atlanta. How was he supposed to have put two and two together and known that sticking his nose into this particular artistic vixen’s life was the very last thing on earth he needed to be doing?
He scratched the side of his head, realizing only then that his Stetson had fallen off somewhere inside.
Bethany Darling lived in Chandlerville?
Well, wasn’t that a kick in the pants.
Chapter Three
It was just after noon on Sunday, and Bethany was late.
Late made her crazy. Which meant most days she was more than a little nuts, because late had a perpetual hold on her life. She’d tried to master a better sense of the kind of time other people moved in. The kind where she’d turn up where she said she’d be, when she’d promised to be there.
But as a little girl, living first with her mother and then her grand, the world had been a reality she’d desperately needed to escape. Time had become her sanctuary, where she could disappear and resurface occasionally, only to discover that no one really cared that she was back. So losing herself had become a peaceful, fluid stream where her reality could stretch and reshape itself, relinquishing its hold on her to the dreams about things and places and experiences that no one else could spoil.
When she’d learned in high school that she could paint those dreams into being, she’d thought she’d truly found heaven. She’d disappeared into her art then, losing herself in her own world for even longer stretches of time. Only by then, she’d been shutting herself away from a foster family that was desperately trying to reach her.
From the start, Marsha and Joe Dixon had wanted her for themselves. For always. She understood that finally. But at fifteen, the only safety she’d really known had been those long, sweet flights of imagination. Then that world crashed around her, too, along with her relationship with Benjie. Leaving her eighteen, aged out of foster care, unable to paint, and refusing to go to art school.
So she’d run for years after that, desperate to avoid anything else she could lose simply by letting herself want it.
When she’d finally come home, everyone had welcomed her back as if she hadn’t tried to forget them. The very least she could do now was not worry people with having to wait on her, wondering if she’d show for something she’d said she’d do, and if she didn’t, how long it would be before she resurfaced.
She and time remained a work in progress. But she couldn’t believe she’d let herself be late today of all days. She’d promised to make extra time for Shandra. One-on-one girl time that was supposed to have started fifteen minu
tes ago. Which might not have seemed a big deal to most people. But to a kid like Shandra, who was trying to believe in her own place with Marsha and Joe, fifteen minutes of wondering whether or not you mattered to someone you wanted to matter to might as well be an hour.
Bethany rushed through her foster parents’ home, barely registering the kids sprawled in the living room and the racket of a video game war filtering down from an upstairs bedroom. She didn’t see Joe, her foster father, and she’d meant to get there early enough to check on him. But she didn’t dare stop until she found her sister and made some serious amends.
Bethany and Shandra had clicked instantly. Bethany didn’t know the high school junior’s whole story. Probably no one at the Dixon house ever would. But like Bethany, Shandra had fended for herself, at least emotionally, for most of her young life. And Bethany knew better than most how hard that could make it to open up and let anyone else in.
Meanwhile there Bethany was, looking like a no-show for grabbing lunch with her sister who, before coming to Marsha and Joe two years ago, had been dumped from two other group homes—for underage drinking and her willingness to do whatever her friends wanted, as long as it sounded like a good time. The two of them had connected over their compulsion to escape, as well as the guilt that came with never really meaning to hurt anyone in the process.
Bethany had wanted to show her younger sister an alternative to chasing empty relationships that would never be enough. She, along with Marsha and Joe, wanted to help Shandra put the broken pieces of her self-confidence back together. They were determined to prove to her that she could trust people—before Shandra was in her twenties, with her own avalanche of regrets crashing down on her, not certain what it really looked like to dream free and happy in the real world.
One of those pockets of happiness Bethany had found, thanks to a suggestion from her older foster sister Dru Hampton, had been the volunteer work Bethany did several days a week at the Midtown Youth Center in Atlanta, teaching art classes to inner-city kids. And on Sundays over the last couple of months Shandra had become her eager assistant, falling as in love as Bethany was with the students and their excitement for art.
It had become their thing, an easy, effortless connection Bethany treasured. And on their way into Atlanta they always grabbed brunch at Grapes & Beans, Nicole’s bistro. It was a little extra girl time just for Shandra, where they could talk about her crazy love for fashion and her hopes to get into a design school when she graduated from Chandler High. But last night—for the last three nights—Bethany had stayed up late painting. She’d kept at it most of this morning, too. And by the time she’d surfaced long enough to realize what day it was, it had been a few minutes before noon.
She hadn’t bothered with more than washing her hands and face before peeling out of Dru and Brad’s driveway and heading for Bellevue Lane, knowing she’d be late. She rushed into the kitchen now, her Army surplus boots skidding to a guilty stop at the sight of Shandra eating a sandwich at the center island.
“Hey,” she said to their foster mother, who was pouring a glass of lemonade.
Marsha’s worried expression brightened. “Thank heavens you made it. How’s the painting going?” she asked, while Shandra ignored them both. “Dru won’t say a word about what you’re doing, and none of us are allowed to peek into your studio when we go over to the Douglas house. When do we get to see what you’re up to?”
Bethany bypassed the question she had no answer for and dropped onto the high-backed kitchen stool beside Shandra. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
The girl’s clothes were a trendy explosion of color and unique craftsmanship, testimony to her ever-expanding sewing skills. Marsha and Joe’s budget didn’t stretch far enough to cater to Shandra’s lust for something new to wear every day. So the teenager had gotten a part-time job at the Dream Whip, helping prep when she could for Brad and Dru’s busier shifts. And when she wasn’t spending every cent she made on fabric and patterns, she was repurposing clothes she already had, turning them into a constantly evolving wardrobe that was the envy of the richest girls her age in town.
“I totally blew it,” Bethany admitted. “I forgot to set my alarm last night. Actually, I never went to bed . . .”
She shook her head.
Excuses were a gateway drug to believing she couldn’t stop making the mistakes that kept shaping her life. She’d been hiding the last three nights from the debacle she’d made out of girls’ night at McC’s—secretly obsessing over the cowboy she’d debacled with. And she’d used her art as an excuse for not talking to anyone yet about Mike and Benjie, not even Nic and Clair. Certainly not her family.
She’d lost track of time, because that was exactly where she’d wanted to be—lost again, in a world of her own.
“I should have been here on time, regardless,” she said. “I let myself get too caught up in trying to figure out how to paint . . .”
She clammed up again.
The new art pieces plaguing her were supposed to be a surprise for Marsha and Joe’s thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. Which, not by accident, coincided with Dru and Brad’s wedding day.
“I shouldn’t have worked until the morning was nearly gone,” she said to her sister. “I’m sorry. Really. I didn’t forget about you.”
Shandra shrugged. “Whatever.”
Marsha pulled another tumbler from the cabinet beside the sink, poured, and gave Bethany and Shandra both some lemonade.
“Are we going to get to see whatever you’re trying to figure out this time?” she asked Bethany. “It can’t be easy, painting after taking so much time away from it. Your father and I admire you so much, the way you keep fighting to get your art back on track.”
Bethany nodded. She didn’t want to worry her mother with the truth that the creativity that had once given Bethany so much pleasure felt more like a crucible these days. A frustrating battle of wills, when painting had once been as easy as breathing.
The last thing her parents needed was to be even more worried about her. They were already dealing with enough. Of course her parents had sensed, regardless, that something was off with her art. They’d most likely ferreted out whatever Dru thought she knew. Marsha and Joe were like nurturing ninjas—their hearts ambushed yours before you had a chance to duck and cover, understanding and caring you into submission.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Bethany said. Her foster parents’ unflinching support never ceased to amaze her. “It’s no big deal. Painting’s . . . just not like it was before.”
“Maybe this new residency you landed will do the trick. You must be so excited.”
Marsha and Joe had been over-the-moon thrilled for her when Bethany broke the news a few weeks back that she’d have professional studio space at her disposal in Atlanta come September, thanks to a grant program she’d applied for—using her high school paintings as her portfolio.
“It’s exciting.” Bethany would never forget opening the acceptance email that she’d weaned herself down now to rereading only about ten times a day. “And terrifying.”
“This Artist Co-op. It’s near Midtown, too, right?” Marsha glanced at Shandra, who hadn’t looked up yet from the sandwich she’d barely touched.
“Near the youth center, yeah.” Bethany wanted to pull her sister into a hug.
But the fifteen-year-old was skittish when it came to physical displays of affection that she didn’t initiate. It had taken Bethany a long time, too. Some foster kids never warmed up to casual touching. It was one of the many things that made kids in the system different. Marsha and Joe made clear at the start of each placement that whatever one of their kids was comfortable with was perfectly okay with them. And they expected everyone else in the community to follow suit.
“I can take you by the loft after we finish class,” Bethany told her sister. “Show you around for a few minutes, unless you need to get back before I do Dru’s thing tonight.”
Marsha consulted the enormous
whiteboard beside the laundry room. She used it as a family calendar. She could teach a Fortune 500 corporation a few things about team planning and managing a labyrinth of conflicting commitments.
“There’s nothing much going on this afternoon,” she said. “Just homework and chores. You girls go enjoy your day.”
Shandra stared at Marsha through the sweep of braids framing her oval face and exotic features.
Marsha nodded encouragingly. She switched her smile to Bethany. “How long’s the new residency? Is it really covering all your expenses?”
“As long as I meet the requirement for volunteer hours.” Bethany’s insides flipped at the once-in-a-lifetime chance she was being given. It still didn’t seem real. “Which I already am, teaching my classes at the youth center. And any supplies the artists use while they’re on site are provided. We just have to email the business manager a list of what we need. The co-op raises money through corporate grants and from art shows the first Friday of every month.”
“Maybe you’ll have something to show in a few months,” Marsha said, while Shandra came out of her funk a little more—enough to listen for Bethany’s answer.
They’d been texting back and forth since the news broke, Shandra excitedly saying that one day she wanted to be a real artist, too, like Bethany. Only with clothes, maybe working for a designer in New York or Paris or somewhere fabulous.
“I’m going to do my best,” Bethany promised over a knot of panic.
Everyone pulling their weight with fund-raising was crucial to the community of artists she was joining. She’d no longer have the luxury of floundering in the obscurity of her makeshift studio at Dru’s.
“Joe and I know you will.” Marsha patted Bethany’s hand. “Don’t let wanting something as badly as I know you did this opportunity spook you into thinking you can’t do what you were born to do. This is your chance to prove to yourself that you can.”
This was Bethany’s new chance, her mother didn’t say, not to let what had happened to her in the past define the rest of her life. Not that Marsha would push Bethany to talk about her past unless she wanted to. Just like Bethany’s mother had no doubt heard about Thursday night’s scene at Rick Harper’s bar, but would wait for Bethany bring it up. Another of her parents’ superpowers was letting people come to terms with difficult things in their own time.
His Darling Bride (Echoes of the Heart #3) Page 4
