The Art of Rivers

by Janet W. Ferguson

  The estate—the term Cooper had almost said but stopped himself—was her responsibility, at least for the time being, so she’d better find out what in crazy-town was going on.

  Cooper guided her toward the back of the spacious open room, speaking softly, hand resting on the small of her back. Why wasn’t she recoiling? She didn’t know this man, but somehow he calmed the raging sea of grief roiling inside. What was he saying?

  She turned to focus on his soft words and moving lips. The lips captured her attention, but not the way she’d intended. Her breath hitched. He was a bit of a masterpiece in his own haphazard way.

  Pay attention, Rivers.

  “Local artists consign, but we need the extra income from the projects the clients at Re-Claimed donate. Some of them have real talent. I donate my own pieces, as well, to cover part of my rent.”

  “Rent?” This just kept getting more bizarre. What mad world had she stepped into?

  His gaze fell to the thin gray carpet covering the floor, and his hand left her back to fumble through his dark locks. “I live in the loft above the gallery. It’s only one room, a bathroom, a kitchenette, but it’s convenient for running the gallery and working with Re-Claimed down the street.”

  He lived here, and there was that term again. Re-Claimed. Please let the place be a facility for mental illness or eating disorders...maybe an odd term for a rehabilitation center for physical injuries. “What kind of place are you referring to?”

  “Two sober living houses for those with substance and alcohol addiction. One for men, the other for women.” The dark gaze returned to meet hers and delved there, searching, waiting for a reaction.

  Rivers swallowed back the words she wanted to spew out. How her mother’s binge drinking had stolen her childhood after the car wreck. How at thirteen she’d had to give up dance and every other after-school activity to be a parent to her mother. How the children in her art therapy sessions had often been neglected or abused by their drug-addicted parents. How the carelessness of an addict had cost Jordan’s sister her life and had torn apart his family. How a probable addict’s bullet had torn through her shoulder and ripped through Jordan’s heart.

  “Rivers? Are you okay?” The hand touched her again, but this time she did recoil.

  “This”—she waved around the room—“is not okay.” She pivoted and stomped out of the gallery. She’d find Shane Turner and get to the bottom of the situation. There was no way Jordan’s step-uncle, Shane, had told Jordan’s mother and aunt about what was going on in St. Simons. Brooklyn and Pearl would’ve warned her.

  Chapter 5

  STILL STEAMING, RIVERS wound around the island until she found the real estate office where Shane worked. After passing the same storage facility three times, Cruella-GPS-lady had finally guided her in.

  Shane had said he’d meet her at the gallery this morning, but apparently some other client took priority. Or maybe he was a chicken. He had to have known she’d be livid about his abuse of trust. Jordan’s grandmother had left everything to Jordan when she’d died. The family paid Shane good money to take care of the property. It was a wonder no one had been throwing a keg party in the cottage when she’d arrived.

  Stopping right behind a red Audi, hopeful that she was blocking Shane in, she parked and stomped out of her car. Well, stomped as much as she could in her stupid flip-flops. The shoes slapped against the soles of her feet as she traversed the sidewalk toward the tan stucco building. She climbed two slight concrete steps between fluted white columns and let herself into the office building, the volcano bubbling in her chest ready to blow.

  The reception desk was deserted, empty, and dusty, as though no one had worked there in weeks. Weird. Could he not afford an assistant? Or at the very least, a cleaning service? The building was small, so maybe this was a one-man show. Lights filtered down the short hall, but she lost some of her zeal to barge in and throw a fit. Instead, her scalp crawled as if she had head lice like one of her little clients. “Hello, Shane? Are you here?”

  The clatter of a door opening sent a skip through her heart. She didn’t really know this guy after all. “Hello. It’s Rivers. From Memphis.”

  “Oh, hey.” The man’s voice was deep. “Sorry. Be right there.”

  A chill scampered down her spine, and she eyed the front door, tempted to bolt. She could’ve called to bless him out. But since when had she become so skittish?

  Oh, right. Since she’d been shot. Fight or flight was a normal post-traumatic response to the unknown. She could handle this. She was a grown-up. Had been since she’d been forced to become one at thirteen.

  A second later, footfalls thudded on the carpeted floors, and a man appeared. He had dark auburn hair, stunning blue eyes, and some sort of designer button-down shirt in a weird shade of purple. Not quite lavender but not mauve either.

  “You made it. That’s a long drive from Memphis.” He grinned and extended his hand.

  She couldn’t imagine Jordan or her father choosing that color shirt. His smile remained unwavering while his hand waited for hers, and it was becoming awkward. She’d shake his hand, but she was still going to give him a talking to. When she took it, his grip was soft, and he held on.

  “I’m so sorry for all you’ve been through. Jordan was one of the good guys.”

  Hearing him speak Jordan’s name ripped at the scab over her heart that never seemed to heal. She slid her hand from his and steered her thoughts back to why she was here. Jordan’s parents had taken her in and treated her like one of their own. His mother, Brooklyn, had often claimed to love her like a daughter. Brooklyn and her sister, Pearl, had taken her shopping for her wedding dress, helped plan the ceremony and reception, picked out flowers and the food—all the things Rivers had wished her own mother could help with, but Mom no longer had the skills. Rivers had looked forward to being a part of Jordan’s family. That would never happen now.

  Her throat tightened. Nothing could change the past, but she needed to get to the bottom of this gallery situation. After the accident with Jay and Savannah, she sure didn’t think allowing addicts to run the place was what Pearl or Brooklyn had in mind.

  “Why are you allowing that Cooper guy to use the gallery for his rehab? Good grief, the residents even work there. I don’t think Brooklyn or Pearl know about any of this. They couldn’t. Not after what happened to Savannah.”

  Shane’s smile wilted. “They don’t know, but they never came back. When Jordan’s grandmother died, they hired me to take care of the cottage and do what I felt best with the gallery. They didn’t want to hear anything about it, and I felt sorry for Jay when he got out of rehab. He was alone, deserted by every member of his family, homeless and jobless.”

  He paused and stared at her as if what he was saying made sense. “So I let him run the gallery as payment for renting the loft. I didn’t see any harm in him using the back studio for art therapy. No one else was painting there after his grandmother passed away.” His mouth twisted. “I mean, Jay is an artist, so he knows his stuff—”

  “Jay? You mean Cooper...?” A heavy wave of adrenalin swept through Rivers like a levee breaking after a flood. The onslaught heated her face and stole her breath.

  Cooper had looked, and felt, almost familiar. Suspicion rolled through her mind. Could he be—?

  Shane’s eyes widened, and his throat made a gasp, as if he’d just choked on a giant gumball.

  The truth blasted through her. It all made sense now. Or it made no sense, rather. “Jay is Cooper. Cooper is Jordan’s cousin.” Pearl’s son. James Cooper Knight. Now she remembered only the family used the nickname Jay for Jordan’s cousin.

  Steam wrestled with shock for a stranglehold in her buzzing mind. Why hadn’t she realized the truth right away? She pinned Shane with a hard stare. “You’re letting him live and work there? With addicts?”

  “Look.” Shane took a step toward her, but she backed away. He planted his feet and gestured, palms up. “I know this is...unexpect
ed, but the main thing is that you can sell the gallery. I have a buyer. You can get rid of it if you just look over the offer and sign on the bottom line. The future owner wants to tear the building down and build a Shrimp World franchise. You know with the restaurant, playground, and gift shop? It’ll be like the gallery was never even there. Like Jay was never there.”

  He shuffled through some papers on the dusty counter. “I have a buyer for the cottage too. If you accept the offers, you can forget St. Simons and everything about this place. I’ll hire someone to clean out both properties. Let me get the contracts ready. You could leave tomorrow and get on with your life.”

  Forgetting would be good. Less agonizing. Her thoughts rambled to the cottage, the pictures of Jordan and his family, the little handprints in clay where once flesh and blood had pressed. The familiar ball of sadness twisted in her midsection, the clammy drape of death weighed down her shoulders. Forgetting would not be possible no matter how much she wished for it. Her intellectual side knew she wouldn’t have a chance at healing without putting in the required work.

  “No,” she whispered. “I need to process.” She pressed her fist to her forehead. “You should’ve warned me though.”

  A vision of Cooper from the night before revisited. The brokenness she’d sensed, the worry about her drowning in the surf, the way he gawked when he’d let her out at the cottage. No wonder.

  For a split second, she felt a twinge of sympathy for the guy. She’d wanted Jordan to forgive Jay—Cooper. But that was before...

  The sound of the mugger’s bullet echoed in her mind. The red spewed from Jordan’s chest and her own.

  She’d wanted to forgive Cooper, but that was before some addict had shot her and Jordan like targets on a video game.

  Not so much anymore.

  “YOU HAVE REACHED YOUR destination.” The electronic voice came through the Stink Bug’s speakers as Rivers put the car in park and gripped the steering wheel. Dizziness made it hard to think, and a heaviness weighed down her limbs.

  Finally back in the cottage driveway, she couldn’t stop the tears streaming down her cheeks. Good grief. Why was it so hard to find her way? Frustration was chewing her up and spitting her out like a rotten fish. She turned off the engine and pushed open the car door. The leaves of the ghostly oaks dripping with moss rustled as a cool wind kicked up.

  “Rivers, are you okay?” A soft masculine voice met her ears.

  Still in the driver’s seat, she turned to see who was near. Dark eyes met hers—expressive, caring—and shells crunched under Cooper’s deck shoes when he walked closer.

  Fire exploded in her belly. What was he doing here? Cooper or Jay or whatever he was going by now... And why did he have to look so compassionate?

  “I’m fine.” Even though the thought of walking into the house exhausted her.

  The breeze licked her damp cheeks, reminding her she’d been crying. She ran her fingers across her face to try to clear the evidence.

  “I don’t think you’re fine.” Cooper leaned one arm against the door of her VW. “I’m really sorry. I hadn’t put all the puzzle pieces together until after you left. Now that I have, I can see why you were upset.” His voice exuded sympathy.

  “Puzzle pieces?” What did he have to work out? She’d been the one kept in the dark.

  “You were engaged to my cousin.” More soft words.

  “Yes. And I don’t think anyone in the family, other than Shane, knows about this cozy little setup you’ve had going, do they?”

  Gaze falling to the ground, he gave a slow shake of his head. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? I think Jordan would’ve mentioned it.” Pain overflowed the banks of her heart and spilled out. “Before some drug addict shot him, I think I would’ve heard about you living in Jordan’s gallery and letting those people work there.”

  “I’m sorry. Really.” Liquid pooled against his dark lower lashes. “I guess I wanted to think my family was okay with it, and that someday they might forgive me. But I haven’t seen any of them for five years.” Emotion pressed his lips together as he paused. “I’ll find a place to move. Shane keeps the books, but I can show you what I do for the gallery so you or whoever you hire will know how to manage it.”

  The way he held himself, the regret that slumped his shoulders, those lines near his eyes that hinted at great sorrow, all of it formed a picture in her mind. A young man completely alone after a tragedy. His own fault, but still, she knew how harsh a blow a sudden death dealt.

  Her anger receded. Jordan’s family hadn’t kept up with the property or Cooper. Jordan had said as much. They’d left the tragedy in St. Simons and never looked back, as if they could pretend none of it ever happened. She’d wanted Jordan to deal with the loss, had told him not doing so was unhealthy.

  Now she understood how hard her appeal had been.

  A drop of liquid rolled to her chin, and she realized she was weeping. Again.

  Suddenly self-conscious, she glanced in the rearview mirror. No mascara under her eyes because she hadn’t remembered to pack makeup for the trip, but her hair... One piece in the middle stuck straight up. “Oh man, I look like a Teletubby.” She pushed her fingers through the wayward strand.

  A slight chuckle came from Cooper. “I haven’t heard that term in a long time.” He sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

  She pinned him with a sarcastic stare. “The Stink Bug, remember?”

  “I won’t forget now.” He crinkled his nose, and his lashes mashed closed. Dark, long lashes most women would pay to have. They looked masculine on Cooper, though. When they opened, he held out one hand. “Walk on the beach?”

  Really?

  Dear Lord, help me.

  What should she do? Part of her wanted to hear what he had to say. She hadn’t expected him to be so kind. Hadn’t expected to suddenly feel so needy.

  COOPER WAITED WITH his hand out while she deliberated. Offering to walk on the beach with her had just slipped out. Why would she ever want to be anywhere other than a thousand miles away from him?

  But something about those cobalt eyes—tears sliding from them down her high cheekbones... And her mouth...

  He couldn’t even go there, but an overpowering urge to kiss away those tears ached within him. Other than his coworkers and his clients, solitude had been his only close companion since the accident. He’d been around broken men and women on a daily basis, but none had embedded into his heart like this woman.

  Rivers.

  And in only twenty-four hours. There was something—

  “Okay.” Soft fingers slid into his, stalling his breathing and ability to think. Her slim form stood and stepped toward him. A sniffle followed. “Lead the way. I seem to stay lost in St. Simons.”

  “You’ve been lost?”

  “In so many ways,” she mumbled.

  “Don’t you have GPS?” Guiding her with slow steps down the street toward the shore, he stared at her, acutely aware of her hand still in his. Was he supposed to let go now that she’d exited the car? She hadn’t let go yet. Her walk was almost a stagger, and she looked so frail and thin.

  “She’s mean.”

  “Who’s mean?”

  “Cruella. She’s always like ‘Turn around when possible,’ or ‘Get back to the route.’ If I knew the route, I would obviously get back to it.”

  He couldn’t stop the laugh. “Sounds like someone’s directionally challenged.”

  “Cruella’s just messing up all the time. Not saying something until it’s too late, or telling me too early so I turn too soon.”

  “I better not let go of you.” He lifted her hand and smiled. “You might never be found again.” And he’d be blamed, of course.

  An adorable wave of pink flushed her face. “We’re just crossing the street.”

  “But if we walk down the beach, do you know where to come back through to get to the cottage?” Because letting go of Rivers was the last thing he wanted to do. The longer
he held onto her, the more right it felt to keep her hand protected in his.

  Her chin lifted, and she rolled her eyes. “No clue.” They neared the water’s edge and waves lapped at their shoes. “Which way, leader?”

  “I’m not much of a leader.” He’d not been called that by anyone outside of the treatment program. “Jordan was always one, though.”

  Her grip tightened.

  Why would he say something so stupid? Some days he wished he still had his lisp. Maybe she wouldn’t have understood his idiotic words. And it wasn’t like he ever talked to anyone about his family. He slid a glance to check her reaction.

  “He was.” Her head bobbed. “Tell me about your life with him. And coming here.” She made a sweeping gesture with her free hand.

  Clouds thickened overhead, and a wind kicked up, as if the ghosts of the past waited to see if he would paint them in a good light. How could he do anything but brag on Jordan? Everyone else in his family had.

  “Jordan excelled in everything. Sports, academics. He was good with people of all types. I can’t think of one person who didn’t admire Jordan. I did.”

  “Not a surprise.” Head tilted, Rivers stared out toward the gray horizon. “I’ve seen his awards from school and sports. Did you play together on any teams?”

  A bitter scoff escaped. “Not hardly. I was born premature, was small and stayed sick a lot as a child. Something about an immature immune system. And I had a terrible lisp, went to speech therapy, and I sure didn’t talk to kids my age if I didn’t have to. My big growth spurt didn’t arrive until I was, like, seventeen, and by that time...” Cooper shrugged off the memories of the teasing and the isolation. “Jordan tried to include me.” Not that it helped. “He did what he could.”