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

by Heather Wardell

  "I hope I'm an okay substitute."

  I dropped the envelope on the desk and forced myself to smile. "Of course."

  "How'd the meet go?"

  "I came second."

  "Nice." He pulled me into a hug, holding me closer than he had before.

  I hugged him back then eased myself away, not wanting to stay in his embrace too long.

  He pulled off his t-shirt and settled onto the massage table face-down so I could work his back and shoulders. After a minute, he said, "Guess who requested a transfer to another team?"

  My heart lurched. He didn't sound bothered, but I was. Forrest was leaving Toronto?

  "Not requested, really, more demanded. He smoothed that ridiculous tiny beard and told Filmore he'd just stop showing up if he didn't find him a new team."

  I frowned. "Beard?"

  Magnus pushed up onto his elbows and waved a hand in front of my eyes. "I know you haven't seen Corey in a while, but have you forgotten him already?"

  "Corey. Of course."

  "Who'd you think I meant?"

  I shook my head. "No idea. I'm tired, sorry. It's been a long day." I frowned again. "Is that how it usually works to get a transfer?"

  Magnus laughed. "If it is, nobody told me. You can ask, and if the team can make a good deal you'll probably get it, but you don't go demanding one and refusing to play otherwise. That makes you far more likely to end up with no team at all."

  "Couldn't happen to a more deserving man," I said, and we grinned. Mine faded, though, as I realized what might have driven Corey to it. "So, he did all that stuff?"

  Magnus sobered too. "I guess he did. He 'got sick'," he said, his tone making it clear how much he believed in Corey's illness, "the day after Forrest's skate was sabotaged, and he hasn't been back since. I guess once he knew we all knew, he figured it was time to go."

  "How'd he know you knew?"

  "When your guy takes an unfair hit, you help him up if he needs it and you always make sure the other team pays. Remember the game that night?"

  "Yeah. He got hit and you guys did nothing. So he knew what that meant?"

  Magnus nodded. "You'll defend guys you don't even like, because they're part of the team. Corey knew he wasn't part of it any more, and he knew why."

  "Ah. But wouldn't it have been easier to talk to him?"

  Magnus's forehead creased. "About what?"

  "Say you knew what he'd done?"

  "Fighting makes it much clearer," he said. "Talking's too ambiguous."

  "Boys," I muttered, making sure he could hear me, and we laughed.

  "So Corey's running away," I said. Would quitting the art business be running away?

  Magnus lowered himself to the table and I resumed his massage as he said, "Guess so."

  "He must feel guilty." I didn't. I'd worked hard, harder than I'd ever worked on my miniatures before. But the career hadn't been what I'd expected, and I couldn't continue in it without ruining my experience of art.

  "I doubt it. He just knows he got caught."

  I'd been caught up in the rush of Jayne wanting my pieces, the idea of making money from something I loved. I didn't love it quite so much now, though, did I? Essentially an assembly worker not an artist.

  "Tess, is Forrest still upset about that puck going missing?"

  "I don't know. Why?"

  His neck turned a dull red but he didn't lift his head from the table. "I never got the puck from my first goal. An oversight, but it did bother me. I thought if he was bothered too I could try to get his puck back for him."

  I gave his shoulder a squeeze, friendly instead of therapist-like. "That's so sweet of you. He didn't say much, but I think he was more hurt than he let on. If you're asking if he's crying himself to sleep over it, I'd say no. Would he like it back? Probably. But Corey wouldn't give it back, would he?"

  Magnus shrugged. "I'll see what I can do."

  "You're such a nice guy."

  To my surprise he slipped off the table and stood in front of me. "Do you mean that?"

  His intensity confused me. "Of course."

  He moved closer and put his hand on my shoulder. "I like you, Tess, and I think we'd be good together. Can I take you out for a date tonight?"

  Shock stilled my brain. I scrabbled for a not-too-painful way to let him down, but my sluggish thoughts took too long.

  He released my shoulder. "No, huh? Because I was your client?"

  Such an easy way out, but I couldn't take it. He deserved better. "It's not that." I sighed. "I'm sorry, it's just..."

  He gave me a wry smile and pulled his t-shirt back on. "Not into blonds?"

  Not into guys who aren't Forrest. "I guess not. If I were, you'd be top of the list, though."

  "That's something, I guess."

  "I'm sorry."

  He shook his head. "Don't be. You can't control how you feel."

  "I wish I could," I said, looking up into his eyes. "And I mean it. You're awesome."

  Blushing, he wrapped his arms gently around me. "You're not so bad yourself."

  I hugged him back then disengaged, and he said, "I do still want to stay in touch, if you're willing. Maybe go out as friends sometime?"

  I smiled. "I'd love that. All of it."

  He ruffled my hair. "I'll see you around, Tess."

  "Bye," I said softly, and he left me.

  Inside Forrest's envelope was nothing but a five dollar bill. Our bet. My throat tightened.

  I wished I felt differently about Magnus. But I didn't. He was solid as a frozen puck, but Forrest was so driven and passionate, and I couldn't help it: I much preferred the latter to the former, even though it was harder to live with. Preferred it in men, and in myself. My new-found artistic life was sucking the life right out of my art, and it had to stop.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  I went home after Magnus's massage but was too restless to stay. Since I still had access to Forrest's gym, I gathered up a dry bathing suit and towel and was soon swimming up and down the deserted pool, lost in thought.

  If I ended the art career, Forrest would think I'd quit. But would I think that? Forrest's opinion didn't matter, and neither did anyone else's. This was my life, my career, my passion. I had to figure out what I truly wanted.

  I listed options in my mind. I could do the pieces for myself and not try to sell them. I could do them for myself and then try to sell them. I could do what Jayne told me to do and sell them. I could do what Jayne told me to do and not sell, although why would I? Or I could quit altogether.

  The idea of never building another piece made something in my chest curl into a ball and shudder, and I rolled onto my back so I could breathe more easily.

  "I won't quit," I told that poor cringing part of me. "I love them too."

  But what would I do?

  I drifted along, kicking gently, then stopped to float beneath one of the huge skylights. Big snowflakes danced above me in the dark sky, some landing on the skylight and some fluttering past, and I felt like a snowflake myself, watching a snowbank growing flake by flake above me.

  Could I build a piece to duplicate that, so however people looked at it they'd have the feeling of snow settling down on them?

  I turned the puzzle around in my mind, enjoying the search for a solution, then sighed. Jayne would never want it. If it couldn't sell, what was the point of making it?

  A shock seemed to pass through the water, zapping me. The snowflakes falling above me. Did they have a point? Did they need one? Or were they simply beautiful?

  I hadn't expected my pieces to justify their existences before Jayne came along. I hadn't judged or analyzed them, I'd let them grow and become what they were meant to be. They'd been my hobby, my entertainment, my way of expressing who I was and what I loved.

  I needed that back.

  Ten minutes later, I was showered, dressed, and on my way home, wishing I'd brought my cell phone and laughing occasionally from sheer joy. My art would be my own again.

&
nbsp; A letter lay on the carpet in front of my apartment door, probably mis-delivered in Friday's mail, and my heart skipped a beat at the sight of Pam's writing on the envelope.

  Only an envelope, so she hadn't smashed the piece and sent it back. She could have sent a picture of it destroyed.

  I held the envelope in my shaking hand and realized it wouldn't change anything if she had. The piece had existed. In the act of creation, I'd changed the world, at least a little bit, and that could never be undone.

  Inside the envelope I found a sheet of lined paper and a photograph. I read the paper first.

  Tess,

  I found some things for the shelf. Thought you might like to see.

  Call me if you want.

  Pam

  The photograph sent tears cascading down my cheeks. She'd put the miniature in the middle of that gorgeous oak shelf. To the left, she'd propped up the business card Forrest had signed at the hotel. While those were sweet, it was the item on the right that overwhelmed me.

  A booklet, "Congratulations on joining Alcoholic No More, Toronto chapter."

  I unlocked my door and stumbled inside. If I could have asked anything of my art, it would have been this, Pam recognizing my meaning and using it to help herself. She'd understood it. Even if nobody else on the planet would have, she had.

  By no means was it all my doing. Pam was the one with the guts to recognize what she needed and make it happen. But I'd helped. My sister was coming home, and with time she'd be free of alcohol.

  I took a deep breath, pushing away the tears, and dialed the phone.

  "Tess, lovely to hear from you. Listen, I have a favor to--"

  "Jayne, I need to ask you something."

  "Yes?" So neutral. Always so neutral. I wouldn't live my life in neutral any more.

  "I want to make my pieces my own way, with no influence from you. No guidelines, no rules, no suggestions. Can we do that?"

  She sighed. "No. I can give you more freedom, but I can't take just anything and attempt to sell it. I know what my customers want, and I need to guide you to make what I can sell."

  The only guidance I wanted was from myself. My art career was over. A single snowflake of disappointment found itself buried in an avalanche of relief and happiness, and I had no doubts when I said, "I'm finished then. And I won't be changing my mind."

  "Tess, you won't get another gallery to let you--"

  "I know. I'm not even going to try. You've been wonderful to me and I appreciate it so much. But I'm just not meant to do this."

  After a short silence, which I spent studying Pam's photograph, she said, "I should tell you, several people asked about commissioning pieces. Would that be better?"

  I set the picture down and considered. It might. Working for people who liked my pieces enough to want one made for them?

  But sooner or later I'd be making something that didn't inspire me and I'd be lost again. I took up Pam's photograph again. "I'm sorry, but no."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. I thought you'd learn to handle it."

  Her words could have been harsh, but her tone made them compassionate, and I realized she'd known how hard releasing my work had been for me.

  Pam, though. In our talk in Denver she'd told me that part didn't bother her. "Do you know who can handle it, Jayne? My sister."

  "She makes miniatures too?"

  "No, she paints. Big gorgeous paintings," I said, getting faster as excitement filled me. "She's sold a bunch but she could be doing so much better. Can I email pictures to you?"

  "You can." She made neutral sound excited. "I'm not promising anything, but you can. Take care, Tess."

  "You too. Oh, and thank you again. For everything."

  I found a few pictures of Pam's paintings and sent them off, then made myself some soup and toast, suddenly ravenous. I'd only taken a few bites when the phone rang.

  "Number, please."

  "Pardon?"

  "For your sister," Jayne said. "Those are great. I need to talk to her."

  Delight filled me like sparkling water, but I couldn't pass along Pam's number without her permission. "Can I have her call you?"

  "Works for me."

  We started our goodbyes and she said, "Wait, I keep forgetting. Get Forrest to pick up his piece, would you?"

  "Pardon?"

  "The one he bought on Friday. My PDA died and I can't remember his cell number."

  I sat silent, stunned.

  She took a sharp breath. "Oh, hell. You knew about that, right?"

  "Of course." I tried to sound relaxed. "Which piece was it again?"

  I knew before she said it. "The starfish."

  "Right. I'm at the arena tomorrow for the last time. I'll tell him."

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Filmore held the dressing room door for me, after first yelling in, "I have a lady with me. Everyone decent?" and getting affirmative replies.

  "Mascot!" Jeff called as I walked in, and several others echoed him.

  "Gentlemen, shut up," Filmore said before I could respond. "I'm happy to announce that Tess has signed a full-time contract with the team. Don't make her regret it too much, okay?"

  The guys burst into applause and cheers, and I burst out laughing at their delight. I'd been ecstatic since I'd called Pam the night before. We'd laughed together, then cried together, then laughed again, and since then I'd been laughing.

  I'd held my giddiness under control in Filmore's office that morning, but only just. After grilling me on what I'd done in my two months with the team, he'd shocked me and Jones by offering a permanent contract. Jones had been touchingly pleased but also annoyed Filmore hadn't told him, to which Filmore had simply replied, "Well, now you know."

  He'd offered seventy-two thousand dollars a year, and I'd countered with one hundred twenty thousand to see what he'd do. He'd shot me the look, but then grinned and suggested eighty-five, and in the end we'd agreed on ninety thousand and four sixth-row season tickets. I couldn't wait to tell Jen that part.

  My eyes fell on Forrest, who was clapping with the rest but looked stunned, and a cold shiver ran through me. Would he be uncomfortable having me around? I hadn't even considered that in my surprise at being offered the job, and I'd already signed the contract.

  "I get first massage."

  "No way." Cameron punched Jeff's shoulder. "I'm first."

  "In your dreams," Tim said.

  Forrest moved to my side and took my arm, setting my skin tingling. "Nice try, guys, but I saw her first."

  "We need a schedule," Jeff said. "I get first choice, well, second after Forrest."

  "Third, after me." Magnus winked at me, and Jeff punched him.

  I shook my head. "Please don't hurt each other, okay? Don't make my job harder."

  They laughed, and I left with Forrest. He closed the massage room door behind us. "Congratulations."

  His neutral tone gave me no clues to how he felt. "Do you mind me still being here?"

  He shook his head and his eyes warmed as he smiled. "Not at all. I'm just surprised."

  "I decided last night," I said. "I kept thinking I couldn't quit the art business, like it was one thing, but it's not. There's the 'art' and there's the 'business'. I kept the first one. I know you didn't think I should quit, but this is right for me."

  He took a step closer. "I'm not arguing with you."

  "I know how you feel about quitters."

  His hand closed over my shoulder. "You did it, Tess. You made it. You were a professional artist. And then you decided it's not what you want. That's nothing like quitting."

  I hadn't realized, until he spoke, how badly I wanted him to understand my decision. "I get to make just the pieces I love now."

  "Good for you," he said, his eyes full of pride. "How shocked was my mom?"

  I grinned. "She didn't seem too concerned once I sent her pictures of Pam's paintings."

  "Really?"

  I nodded. "Pam's coming home. She's getting help, and now she has a
job too." At my own words, giggles burst from me. "Sorry, I'm just so happy for her. Everything's working out."

  "That's amazing. But I wish your career had worked out."

  Our eyes met, and my mouth curved into an involuntary smile. "It did work out."

  He winked at me, and I laughed.

  Then we fell into each other's arms.

  Amusement gone in an instant, I buried my face in his chest, breathing in that soft soapy scent, and closed my eyes to savor his embrace. He held me hard, his cheek against my head and his arms locked around me, and I realized I didn't just like him, or care about him.

  I loved him.

  Overwhelmed, I burrowed in closer, and he squeezed me tighter, but far too soon he pressed a kiss to my hair and set me away from him, disengaging my hands from his waist when I wouldn't let go. "I think we shouldn't work together any more." He sounded like the words were fighting not to be said.

  I looked into his eyes, letting all I felt for him swirl through me. "But I want to. I want to help you get better. Not just with massage, but... but with everything." The words trembled on my lips, but I couldn't tell him I loved him. He wasn't ready to hear it. I settled for, "Please, Forrest. Let me help you."

  His eyes filled with mingled pain and longing. "I'm as good as I'm going to get, I think, and I'd only drag you down."

  "You wouldn't."

  He swallowed hard. "I can't do it, Tess."

  Should I tell him how I felt? I looked into his eyes and knew he already knew. He knew, and he couldn't handle it. He had feelings for me, maybe equal to mine for him, but he wouldn't let them out of their cage and wouldn't let me help him release them. There was only one thing to say, and it hurt so much. "Then I guess we're done. If you're sure."

  He turned away, nodded once without looking back at me, and took a step toward the door.

  "Your mother has a request, though."

  He froze.

  "She wants you to pick up the piece you bought," I said, feeling my voice shake but unable to control it. "You didn't have to do that."