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

by Heather Wardell

  "I figured it belonged with me or with you. It'll look good beside my first one."

  "Your puck replacement." It felt like years ago. The last piece I'd been able to make slowly and deliciously. The way I'd make all the pieces from now on. I'd had the first inklings of an idea the night before as I fell asleep but I'd done nothing yet but let the thoughts percolate. No need to rush. "Thank you for buying it. Thank you for getting me the career in the first place."

  He nodded then took another step away from me.

  I knew he wanted to leave but I couldn't bear it. "You know about Corey, right?"

  "Filmore suckering Montreal into taking him? Can't say I'll miss him."

  I gave a half-laugh. "Me either." Although Forrest and I wouldn't have been anywhere near as close without his influence.

  "Take care of yourself, Tess. And thank you. For everything."

  He left before I could reply.

  I sat on the table and wrapped my arms around myself. I didn't have Forrest, and I wanted him more than I'd known. But he could play again. His heart wasn't healed, but he had the sport he loved. And I had my art back. And Pam would get help, and Jen appeared to be well on her way to getting both the bathroom and the boyfriend of her dreams, and I had thirty-odd clients out there fighting for their chance for my services.

  Yes, it had all worked out.

  Epilogue

  The following Monday, two days before Christmas, I was playing with my newest miniature. It wasn't clear yet, something about a pond and my championship silver medal, but I was in no hurry. I was still finding my way back to the days before I'd started trying to sell, but even the slight discomfort of working at my own pace felt good, reminded me how much I loved my art and how close I had come to destroying it.

  A knock at my door startled me, since nobody had buzzed up from the lobby. I checked the peephole anyhow, and my hands went so weak I could hardly turn the lock. "Forrest. Hi."

  "I should have called first, but can I come in?"

  "Of course." We'd seen each other a few times at the arena, and he'd smiled at me but hadn't made any effort to talk. Why was he here?

  After closing the door, he said, "Okay, I have three possible Christmas presents for you."

  "You didn't have to--"

  "I did. I wanted to."

  A little flicker of hope shimmered in me. "Do you want to go sit in the living room?"

  He shook his head. "I need to do this now, before I... well, I just need to."

  That didn't exactly sound promising. The flicker shrank. "Okay."

  He dug in the plastic bag he held. "You can take them all, or one or two, or none. Whatever you want."

  His intensity making me nervous, I nodded.

  He pulled something from the bag and held it out on his palm.

  A hockey puck? I was about to ask why when I spotted the scrawled date and initials. "This is the puck, isn't it? From your first goal?"

  He nodded.

  A grin stretched my mouth almost too far. "I'm so happy for you. Where'd you find it?"

  "It got mailed to the rink."

  I shook my head in delight and disbelief. "Was there a note or anything?"

  "Nope. I guess Corey's conscience got the better of him."

  "Does he even have one?" I said, and then realized who did. Someone who knew Forrest had been upset, and who never received his own first goal puck. Could Magnus have--

  I pushed the thought away. I couldn't believe he'd have taken the puck, and even if he had, he'd made it right. No point in bringing it up. "Well, I'm thrilled for you."

  He held it out to me. "I want you to have it. If you want it, I mean."

  "Oh, no. You won it."

  "If you hadn't made me rest, I wouldn't even have been in the game. If you don't want it, that's okay, but I do want you to have it."

  I took the puck and set it on the hall table. "Then I'll take good care of it. Thank you."

  He smiled, but his nervousness was clearly growing. What were his other presents, and was he that afraid I wouldn't want them?

  After pulling out a white box like I used for my pieces, Forrest crumpled the bag and stuffed it into his pocket. The third present obviously wasn't in there. He placed the box on the hall table and said, "I don't know how you'll feel about this, but I had to do it. Open it."

  Afraid of what I'd find, I undid the tape holding the box closed then stood staring. My riverbed piece. The one Harold had destroyed. Tiny traces of paint, the brightest and ugliest blue I'd ever seen, clung to the threads I'd used for grass along the lush side of the river, but otherwise the piece had been washed clean.

  I raised my eyes to his. "How did you get this?"

  Without looking away, although I could see he wanted to, he said, "Mom said Harold likes new artists. I figured he might be willing to trade for a one of a kind piece."

  I frowned. The riverbed was one of a kind. What was he implying?

  Forrest looked horrified. "No, I mean the only piece ever to be made by an artist. If you can call me an artist."

  I didn't understand at first, and then I couldn't believe it. "You made a piece for Harold?"

  He nodded. "Only grass and a river, but I made it the exact size and shape he wanted and he was happy enough, especially after I signed autographs for his grandkids."

  "And he just gave you back this one?"

  Forrest rocked his head from side to side. "A little money might have changed hands. It doesn't matter, though."

  He'd bought the piece from Harold, and made his own substitute piece, and signed autographs. And had he also... "What happened to the paint?"

  "Cotton swabs and paint thinner."

  He had. Tears welled, but I forced them away. I didn't have time. "You fixed it for me."

  Eyes cast down, he bent over the piece, as he must have spent hours doing. "I couldn't give it back covered in paint. The grass soaked it up so I couldn't quite get it all, but I did the best I could. It was kind of a mess."

  But he'd done it. For me. "How long did that take you?"

  He shook his head without looking at me. "I wasn't counting. I got it back the day after he took it and I finished yesterday, for what that's worth."

  "Forrest."

  He looked up.

  "It's worth everything. This is the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me."

  He smiled, and the tenderness in his eyes brought the tears up again. Then I remembered Marika and took a step back from him, afraid to get hurt.

  He nodded slowly. "And that brings us to the last present." He rubbed his hand over his face. "I've been rehearsing this but I don't know where to start."

  "Start at the beginning," I whispered, afraid to hear but knowing I needed to.

  "The beginning. Well, when I first saw you I decided right away not to hire you, because you look like..." He swallowed. "You looked like Marika."

  He hadn't said her name to me before, not while he'd been awake anyhow. "But you changed your mind."

  "It was that massage in the waiting room. You didn't know who I was, but you still cared. I spent ages out in the hall trying to decide what to do, and finally realized I needed you."

  I remembered Filmore dragging out the small talk at my interview while casting annoyed looks at his silent phone. He'd been waiting for Forrest's call.

  "From our first session I knew I'd done the right thing. You took such good care of me but you didn't let me wimp out either. Wimp out or overdo it. You kept me balanced. After a while, you didn't look like her somehow, you just looked like you. And then, then we went to Denver."

  I hugged myself without meaning to.

  "Why do you think I left you?"

  "You were thinking about her, not me, so you felt guilty afterwards."

  His eyes softened, pain and sympathy mingling. "I did feel guilty, but you've got it backwards. I have to admit I've been with other women since her, but with them she was always still in my mind. With you, it started that way, but then I told y
ou, and from then on..."

  He shook his head. "All I could think about was you. When it was over, I realized I'd forgotten her for the first time and I felt awful. I felt worse after for walking out on you, but I couldn't undo it."

  His eyes right before we'd made love, that overwhelming sweetness. It had been for me.

  "I tried to convince myself it was just the emotion of losing the game or something. I didn't want to care about you like that because I was afraid I'd end up hurting you. But when Harold wrecked your piece, I was ready to kill him, and whenever I saw Magnus hugging you, it felt like... like a skate blade slicing across my heart."

  My tears welled up and one escaped.

  He smoothed it from my skin. "I tried to stay away so I wouldn't hurt you, but not being with you hurt me. After the skate sabotage I needed you so much, but I freaked out and pushed you away and then I hated myself even more for hurting you again. Those practices I missed recently? I wasn't with my mother or step-father. I was hiding from how I feel about you."

  He put both hands on my shoulders, and their shaking rippled through me until my knees shook too. "I'm so screwed up, Tess, and you deserve so much better. You deserve someone like Magnus, a nice uncomplicated guy who'll make you happy. That's not me, and I don't know if it ever will be. But I want to try, more than I've ever wanted anything in my life."

  His hands dropped to his sides. "The third present is me. If you want me."

  If? I raised a trembling hand to touch his cheek. He leaned into me, hope growing in his eyes, and my heart surged with so much love I could barely breathe. My hand slid around his neck, and my other hand joined it, and I kissed him.

  The moment our lips touched, I sighed, as if I'd been holding my breath since the last time we kissed and was only now able to release it. Soft and sweet, tender and warm, and filled with so much emotion. If we ever got married, we'd kiss just like this at the end of the ceremony.

  When it ended, we held each other close, and he whispered, "Say it. Please."

  With great pleasure. "I want you, Forrest Williams. Don't you change a thing."

  He tightened his arms. "You wouldn't rather have Magnus?"

  I shook my head against his chest. "He asked. I said no."

  Forrest held me away from him. "He did?"

  I nodded.

  "Smart man," he said, pulling me back against him. Into my ear, he murmured, "I'm so afraid I'll run away again, hurt you again. Are you sure you want me?"

  My heart clenched and melted at once. "Do you promise to come back?"

  "Absolutely. I'll try not to go, but I'll always come back."

  His fervor made me smile, and I snuggled into him and kissed the forehead of the Hog on his t-shirt. "Then I'm sure I want you."

  "Not Jeff? Cameron? Tim, maybe?"

  "Nope, nope, and nope." I knew who he'd name next, and I was already grinning in anticipation.

  "Corey?"

  I leaned back to look at him, trying to force my face into some semblance of outrage. His eyes shone with a joy I'd never seen in them, and I couldn't help laughing with delight even as I said, "I'm insulted you'd think I've got such bad taste."

  "Hey, I had to make sure," he said, laughing too.

  "You want to be sure? Get over here." I pulled him closer and kissed him. It started out sweet and playful, but ended, eventually, with my back pressed against the wall and both of us utterly breathless.

  "Sure now?" I gasped.

  He shook his head, putting on a mock sad face, and ran his hands up and down my sides. "Not even close, I'm afraid. Anything else you could do to convince me?"

  His touch, and the heat in his eyes, sent shivers through me, and I kissed him again before saying, "I have an idea, but I think you're supposed to refrain from it before a game."

  "You know, everyone says that but I don't think it's ever been tested."

  "No time like the present," I suggested, wrapping my arms around his neck.

  Grinning, he scooped me up and carried me into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind us.

  *****

  Forrest danced down the ice, the joy and passion I'd seen in his old games finally, finally restored, and Magnus flipped him the puck. He wove between the opponents as if they weren't moving and scored his third goal of the night.

  As the crowd cheered, he high-fived his teammates then pointed up at me. I pointed right back and he wriggled his fingers at me before skating off.

  "I'm afraid to ask," Jen said over my giggles.

  "He thinks he deserves a hand massage."

  She laughed. "Will he get one?"

  "Most likely," I admitted.

  She hugged me for at least the tenth time since she and Don had arrived and I'd told them. "I guess the universe doesn't hate us after all, my friend."

  I laughed. "Guess not."

  I watched Forrest play the game he loved and a new miniature began to grow in my mind, one for us, for our relationship. Something like the riverbed, but lush everywhere, nothing dry and lifeless.

  I'd build it, when it felt right. I had all the time in the world.

  PLANNING TO LIVE

  Chapter One

  When I open my eyes I see only a blurred whiteness, so I blink, confused, until the haze resolves into an airbag beneath my cheek.

  Images rush into my mind, scrambled snapshots of my car skidding off the icy road and plunging into trees and darkness, and I jerk upright and grab for the door handle.

  Huge mistake. My stomach lurches below my suddenly kilometer-a-second heart and my brain seems to twist and spin in all directions at once.

  I collapse onto the airbag and take slow deliberate breaths to force back the panic and nausea. In, hold, out, hold, repeat. At first it dizzies me even more but I persist, counting the breaths in my head and focusing on the numbers, and begin to regain my much-needed control.

  Once I reach twenty, I cautiously sit up and run my mind over my body. My head's not spinning any more, and my pounding heart and churning stomach are settling down. Nothing else is clamoring for my attention.

  Relief fills me, soothing my insides even more, along with amazement at my luck. I could have been badly hurt, but I've escaped without a scratch. Not wanting to spend another moment in the car, I undo my seatbelt then open my door and swing my legs around to get out.

  Unbearable pain rips through my left leg, and the whiteness rises to claim me again.

  Chapter Two

  This time when I return to alertness I don't even consider moving. Instead, I rest on the airbag and try to understand.

  I'm still entirely in the car, so my legs obviously didn't swing around before I fainted. But why not?

  And what hurt so much? Even with my head down I'm shaking and dizzy, and my whole body's whimpering in sympathy with the fading but still all-too-present pain.

  I'm too afraid of another burst of that agony to move, but I eventually realize I'm shaking at least partly because the car's full of cold air and swirling snowflakes, so I gather my strength over several breaths and push away from the airbag.

  Once I'm sitting upright and not too dizzy, I pull the door closed then repeat my self-assessment. Considering one body part at a time, not letting myself jump ahead to what I know already, I move both arms then check my head and torso. Some soreness where my seatbelt lay across my chest and hips but nothing seems serious. My right leg works fine. I knew it would.

  Both wanting and not wanting to know, I focus on my left leg, which throbs with a sickening sensation somehow both achy and sharp at once. After a few deep breaths to calm my nerves, I take one more and make myself give a tentative pull as I blow out.

  Though I can feel my muscles straining, it's like my foot's nailed to the floor. The only response to my efforts is the return of the vicious pain, more tolerable because I'm expecting it but still far too strong. I stop pulling and the pain begins to recede, although it might only be disappearing beneath my rising panic. My leg won't move. Why?

&nb
sp; Throwing myself forward against the airbag, I push my hand down my calf until I touch the car. Far sooner than I should have.

  I snap myself up again, ignoring the dizziness the sharp movement causes. I can't see much through the windshield, a crazy quilt of broken glass, so I peer out the cracked side window at my car's front corner.

  It's crumpled against and around a huge tree, leaving my foot and leg the meat in a car sandwich.

  No sandwiches for me. Too many carbs. Giggles shudder through me at the inanity of remembering my diet at a time like this, and soon I'm laughing hysterically and then I'm sobbing. The pain and fear and shock are taking over and I can't hold it together.

  Until I slap myself across the face.

  The spark of tingly pain clears my head a bit, and I take a deep breath while I can.

  "That's enough," I say out loud, and the shock of my own weak and wobbly voice is more sobering than a slap could ever be. I never sound like that. I can't let myself sound like that.

  After a few more breaths I repeat, "That's enough," and am pleased with my calmer controlled sound so I keep talking, letting my own words soothe me.

  "It's okay. There you go, see? Good girl. No more freaking out. You'll be fine. Sure, you're stuck, and that's scary, but you're all right. Call Dad and..."

  I trail off as I look down at the passenger seat where I always leave my cell phone. Nothing there. My eyes scan forward and I see its metallic silver self, glimmering in the faint twilight through the trees, at the car's far corner.

  I drive a white Tiburon. It's not a big car. Sandra calls it my go-kart, which is unkind but somewhat accurate. Still, it's a long stretch from where I am to where the phone is.

  Assuming it's not broken.

  Panic bubbles in me again, like a pot coming to the boil, but I turn off the heat by simply refusing to accept it could be broken. Not possible.

  I lean hard to the right and reach for the phone.

  Not even close.

  I try leaning forward first and then to the right. Under and around the airbag. I even try to pull my right leg over the center console and reach with that, though I know there's no chance. Even Gumby would have trouble reaching the phone with one of his big flexible green feet, and since I haven't done yoga for months I am no Gumby. Every movement sends pain shuddering through my trapped foot, but I can't give up. I need that phone.