Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5)

by Heather Wardell

  Boredom set in after about five minutes and I made some tea. Back for three minutes, then I had to go to the bathroom. Then the apartment felt cold. Once I'd found my favorite sweatshirt, and put away some laundry, I was too hot, so I fiddled with the thermostat for a bit.

  "Sit down and work already," I said out loud, hoping to drive my rebellious self back to the table. I did sit down, but the silence of the apartment hung heavy on me and I couldn't concentrate, so I got up again to find a CD to entertain me. The first few I tried didn't work, so in desperation I grabbed a rap CD Forrest had given me during his rest week.

  The pounding beats fired me up and I worked for nearly fifteen minutes before I started to feel hungry. I did try to ignore it, but in mere moments I was starving. I had worked hard at the pool, after all.

  After lunch, and an episode of CSI I'd taped and never found time to watch, I ordered myself back to the table. Staring at the flower garden and the one miserable little cabbage squatting in the corner, I sighed. I had to finish it. But all I wanted to do was the swim one.

  The bargains my mother had made with Pam and me to get us to eat vegetables, involving the pain of Brussels sprouts and the pleasure of a banana split, came to mind, and I made myself a deal: Finish this thing and you can do what you want for the rest of the day.

  I turned Forrest's CD back on and let my conscious mind occupy itself with the music and the raging words while my sketches and plans directed my hands. Thus divided, I finished the piece when the CD was halfway through for the second time. It didn't speak to me, but it was done.

  I tidied up my table and shut off the CD. I didn't want it any more, didn't need it. Pulling handfuls of materials at random from my storage bins, I scattered them over my table and began to try them out. A piece of me craved the outlines I'd been working from, but the rest reveled in the freedom of letting the fragments become the whole.

  Through fits and starts, it came together, surprising me when it was done. I'd been about to add another bit but froze just before I did, recognizing it was already complete. I'd expected it to show the pool, and maybe even my qualifying time, but that hadn't felt right so I'd kept exploring. The final result was nothing I'd ever have planned.

  A woman, naked but without detail, stood with her arms raised in triumph, a silver-painted letter A gripped in one hand. All around her, piled up to her ankles, lay the detritus of earlier attempts: letters missing parts or with lines the wrong length or at odd angles.

  Not just As either: at a quick glance I could see Rs, Ss, and Ts, Fs and Es, an O, a Q, and a four. I'd made the letters as they came to me, and even though the rounded shapes didn't seem to belong they felt right to me. The whole piece felt right.

  I pushed my shoulders back to stretch my chest, and my stiffness surprised me. I hadn't been sitting here that long, had I? A glance at the clock stunned me. I'd been at it four hours. Four and a quarter, to be precise.

  Clearly my ability to keep track of time as I worked was suspect, but it could have been fifteen minutes since I'd added that four to the piece. Had some part of me known, or was it a coincidence? And if the four had meaning, did the others? What about the Q, for example?

  I got up, shook out my legs, and set the new piece beside the starfish one on my TV. I collapsed onto the couch and studied them, my two little beauties. Could I bring myself to sell them? If not, how would I meet Jayne's demands?

  The garden, even with its detailed outlines, had taken me fifteen hours of forced labor. While the swim one had been much faster, it didn't fit the rules. The ones that did all took longer, so I had at least forty-five hours of work to have three more pieces ready for Saturday's lunch with Jayne.

  Tough, especially with massages and swimming. I looked at my two pieces again and tried to convince myself I could sell them, but I couldn't. What Harold had done to the riverbed wouldn't happen again, but someone else would own a piece of either my night out with Forrest or my swim triumph, and I couldn't bear the thought.

  And Jayne probably wouldn't want them anyhow. She'd been clear that she wanted me to stay close to her guidelines, and the starfish lemmings and the letter A weren't remotely what she'd asked for. She'd taken the lemmings once but she hadn't wanted to, and I didn't want to hear her say she didn't like the letter A piece.

  I'd just have to find the hours somehow.

  No time like the present. I pushed myself to my feet and trudged back to my table, where I began flipping through the sketchbook I'd filled in Denver, hunting inspiration I could use for a piece I could actually sell.

  A little voice inside said, "But you promised. I don't want to do this now."

  I have to, I thought, still busy with the sketches. There's no time.

  Fine. Good luck doing it alone.

  Whatever that little voice was, it was right. I couldn't create art without its help. I worked for hours, playing Forrest's CD over and over, and did get part of a piece done, but it wasn't art. Not even close.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I massaged Magnus, touchingly happy about my swim success, and a quiet Forrest Monday morning then buried myself in the pieces for Jayne. Rather than obsessing over one, I worked on all three at once, switching every fifteen minutes when the kitchen timer beeped.

  Forrest's mid-afternoon text message lightened my schedule but darkened my mood.

  Watching game tonight not a good idea. Better we stay professional instead. Right?

  I imagined a hint of doubt in the last word but had no reason to believe it was there. He'd been so sweet Saturday night, and I'd let myself think he might be interested, but I'd been wrong. He'd been sympathetic, nothing more, and I had to stop dreaming of what I couldn't have. If he didn't even want to watch a hockey game with me, we weren't going to be together.

  I sent back my own 'right' and tried to focus on my work, but the dull sick ache surrounding my heart dimmed my already faded energy and creativity until I had to switch pieces every ten minutes because I couldn't concentrate on one piece for fifteen. I wanted to take a break, let that little voice inside me regain its energy, but I simply couldn't spare the time.

  Forrest and I were carefully polite at his evening massage, without mentioning our broken 'date'. He didn't wear his MP3 player, but we talked so little he might as well have. I did my job then went home and continued working, switching from piece to piece when my dictator of a kitchen timer commanded, forcing myself to keep slogging.

  I worked every waking moment, and a few I should have spent sleeping, and by Tuesday afternoon I was tired, frustrated, and faced with three pieces I couldn't finish. I stopped an hour earlier than I'd planned, hating the pieces so much I couldn't stand it another second, and decided to take a relaxing bath before heading to the arena for the night's game.

  My foot was hovering over the steaming water when the phone rang. I sighed but made myself answer it, knowing it could be Forrest or Magnus.

  It wasn't.

  It was Pam.

  Pam, who hadn't responded to my tentative email after Denver. Pam, so angry she could barely talk. Pam, clearly blind drunk at two o'clock in the afternoon.

  "Never mind," she snapped when I asked how she was doing. "You don't care."

  "I do."

  She rolled on like an intoxicated tank, her words flattening what little energy and happiness I had left. "I couldn't figure out why you wouldn't let me see him. It wasn't that you were ashamed of me, I didn't think, not just that."

  I hadn't wanted her to guess why I hadn't asked Forrest. Hoping she hadn't, I said, "I've never been ashamed of you." I hadn't been. I'd been afraid.

  "Bullshit." She took a long swallow from some drink. "You all are. All my life, it's been, 'Be more like Tess.' But I never thought you would think the worst of me."

  She'd been told to be more like me? "Pam, I don't--"

  Her shriek cut me off. "You thought I'd ask him for money!"

  The fury and pain in her voice joined forces with my guilt and choked me
silent.

  "Knew it." She gave a laugh, nearly a sob. "How could you think I'd do that?"

  I sighed. "You said he was rich, and then you wanted to meet him. Yes, I thought a bad thing, but I had reasons."

  "To think I'd ask a total stranger for cash?"

  Far easier to make eighty-five pieces for Jayne in an hour than to have this conversation. "I'd seen your place, and I knew you weren't exactly well-off. Look, I'm sorry. I am. And at least you did get to meet him, right?"

  She muttered something I couldn't catch. When I asked her to repeat it, I wished I hadn't. "Lost my job for it."

  "Oh, Pam. What are you going to do now?" I hoped she'd say she'd come home. Being there alone wasn't doing her any favors.

  "You'll help me, right?"

  Her instant switch to a wheedling tone set my skin crawling. "How?"

  "You have money. You'll help me out."

  "I can't." I wanted to, though, and my mind raced. Could I somehow get her the money without her using it on alcohol?

  The rage returned. "Forrest's loaded, and you are too. They say you're getting a million to work with him."

  "I'm not."

  Again sounding like a child begging for candy even though she didn't finish her dinner, she said, "Just a few grand. Just for a little while. Just... until I finally catch a break."

  I had the money. But would it help her? Or would it destroy her?

  "I can't believe this," she spat after a few seconds. "Everything that's happened to me is your fault and you won't help me."

  "My fault?" My own anger rose. "How do you figure?"

  "You didn't set the meeting up with Forrest and I got fired."

  I drew breath to point out I hadn't made her skip work but she added, "I've spent my life trying to be more like you and I can't do it. So it's your fault."

  Fury spilled through me. "They told me to be more like you!" I screamed into the phone. "Be more artistic, be more sensitive, be all deep and shit. And I couldn't do it either. But I'm not making you drink, so don't you dare blame me, because it's your fault."

  "I'm an addict, damn it, I can't help myself!"

  I sat frozen. Had she just said that? Admitted to being an alcoholic?

  She must have surprised herself as well, because she didn't speak for a moment. Then she said, each word a little dagger in my heart, "Fine, if you won't help me, screw you."

  And the phone went dead.

  *****

  Though Magnus didn't question me until his massage was nearly over, he was so sweet throughout his session I knew he'd picked up on my tangled emotions.

  "I'll be okay. Tough day, that's all."

  "You fixed my shoulder, so it can handle you crying on it if you want."

  I gave said shoulder a squeeze. "You're a sweetheart, and thanks. But I'm fine."

  He turned his head and upper body around toward me, his face faintly pink. "If you change your mind, let me know."

  "Will do." I wouldn't. Over-involvement with one client was bad enough. "Hey, look how far you can turn. Your mobility's so much better. Good for you."

  "For you, you mean," he said, blue eyes intense. "You did it."

  I shook my head. "We did it."

  He faced forward. "Have you thought about what you'll do when your contract is up?"

  I looked down at his blond head, wondering why he was asking. "Not really. Filmore said we'd renew if Forrest wasn't healed."

  "But he is, yes? His leg works well now."

  True, but his heart didn't. And I didn't know how to help.

  "Would you consider working with the whole team?" Magnus said when I didn't speak.

  "No." I explained my fledgling art career.

  "Well, I'm glad for you, but I'm sad for me, for us. You'd be good for the team."

  "Aw, thanks."

  He stood, pulled on his t-shirt, then put a hand on my shoulder. "We'd be lucky to have you, but I hope the art makes you happy."

  I'd never been so far from happy with my art. I looked up into his eyes and tried to smile. "Me too."

  The smile obviously didn't come off, because Magnus drew me toward him, hesitantly at first then with certainty when I didn't pull away, and folded me into his arms. "You take care of yourself," he said, rubbing my back. "And talk to me if it'll help."

  I slipped my arms around his waist and rested my head against his chest, listening to his heart. Solid, steady, stable. Like Magnus himself. "Thank you."

  We held each other for several more of those heartbeats, then he leaned back and smiled at me. "You're quite welcome."

  I smiled up at him.

  Forrest came in, freezing just inside the door as if he'd forgotten how to walk.

  Magnus released me, calmly and without embarrassment. "Tess, thanks for today. Forrest, see you on the ice."

  He gave me another smile and left.

  I wanted him to stay.

  "Well, that was sweet." Forrest jerked his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor. "Sorry I interrupted."

  A spark danced through me at the jealousy in his voice, but it was incinerated by the heat of my anger. How dare he complain about who I hugged? My words came out blazing. "Yeah, me too if you're going to be like this. I've had a rough afternoon and he was being nice. And at least he didn't--"

  Our eyes locked. The words "didn't sleep with me and then run away" rang in my head but I kept them to myself.

  He knew, though; his face turned a dull red and his eyes slipped away from mine.

  "I deserve that." He shucked off his pants and settled himself on the massage table. "Look, Tess, I still feel terrible. I didn't mean to do it."

  Which part, sleeping with me or bolting? I didn't ask: I couldn't handle the answer. Instead, I pushed away my rage and said, "I know. It's over." I again considered telling him I knew about Marika, but we were leaving our lovemaking in the past and moving on, so what good would it do? "It's like you said. We should stay professional."

  He sat up partway, then lowered himself back down. "That's probably for the best."

  Ignoring the pain stabbing through me at his neutral tone, I said, "Probably," and laid my hands on his leg, working in silence for a few minutes and letting my regular movements relax me.

  He cleared his throat. "Did you want to talk about your rough afternoon?"

  I sighed. "Pam."

  "We never talked about my meeting her, did we?" He sounded awkward but kept going. "Seemed to be a lot of tension between you."

  "You should have heard today's phone call."

  He waited.

  I sighed again, suddenly so drained. "She wanted to meet you and I didn't set it up. Today she figured out why."

  He raised his head. "But I did meet her."

  "Yeah, but..."

  "But you didn't arrange it. Why not?"

  I bent to focus on his leg. Without looking up, I said, "How'd she seem to you?"

  He put his head back down. "She, um, she looked a lot like you, of course." His tentative words made me think he knew she'd been drunk, but I let him go on to see how honest he'd be.

  "She looked way more tired than I've ever seen you, though, and she was sort of extra hyper." He paused. "And, I think she might have been drinking. I could be wrong, though."

  "No, she was. She's an alcoholic. And I was afraid..." My throat locked against the words but I forced them out, needing to explain myself, to justify what I hadn't done. "Afraid she'd ask you for money."

  "I'd have given it to her." His voice held nothing but matter-of-fact calmness.

  My hands dropped from his leg, shock stealing away my muscle control. "But you don't even know her."

  He shrugged, still lying flat on the table. "If you wanted me to help her, I would."

  The sweetness of his words, and his slight emphasis on 'you', choked me up so completely I couldn't make a sound.

  He sat up. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult you. It's not that she needs charity or something."

  I shook m
y head, still unable to speak.

  Forrest leaned forward and touched my shoulder. "Do you want me to give her money? Because I will if you think it'll help."

  It wasn't the cash; I knew he had more than enough to spare. It was his concern, his kindness, his willingness to help that made my chest feel like a light bulb glowed within me. Overwhelmed, I wrapped my arms around his waist, and he slid off the table and pulled me against him, closer and tighter than Magnus had. I held on tighter too.

  After a few seconds of his strong arms around me, I'd regained enough control to speak, albeit shakily. "That's so incredibly kind of you. But no, I don't think it'd help. She'd just blow it and need more."

  "She has to want to fix it herself, I guess. You can't force healing on someone."

  I pressed my forehead against his bare chest, avoiding the scar. If anyone would understand the need for healing, it'd be Forrest. "You're so smart."

  "Hardly," he said into my hair, tightening his arms around me. "I'm the stupidest man alive."

  Confused, I tried to see his face, but he held me so close I couldn't without pushing away from him. Which I didn't do. His embrace felt too good.

  *****

  After the game, won courtesy of a goal by Magnus and two by Forrest, my clients insisted they were both too tired for a session.

  I looked from one to the other. "Too tired for a massage?"

  Forrest nodded, his mouth twitching.

  Magnus was a better actor. "I'll fall asleep on the table and have to stay here overnight."

  "I could wake you up, you know."

  He leaned in and stage-whispered, "I snore."

  We all laughed, and he added, "I don't want to embarrass myself in front of you. Plus, the guys want to play Guitar Hero. They said they'd wait, but we don't want a riot on our hands."

  I wavered. They'd clearly discussed my issues, which bothered me, and I shouldn't be shirking my responsibilities. I could use the time for my art, though.

  "We'll see you tomorrow morning, okay?" Forrest smiled at me, his eyes warm.

  Without meaning to I threw my arms around him. He hugged me hard then set me away from him. I hugged Magnus too, not wanting him to feel left out, but though he was tall and cuddly being in his arms after Forrest's felt like drinking skim milk after a perfectly rich milkshake.