Almost.
The reminder that this job was paying for her apartment so she didn’t have to live with said mother definitely made it worth it.
Stella gave up and headed for her closet. She’d promised Kat tonight she would start finding things to donate to the shelter’s fund-raiser sale, but her mom’s impromptu visit after she’d heard about Chase through the grapevine had thrown her off schedule. Stella had been waiting for her mother to finish venting, but at this rate, she better get started. Didn’t look like Mom was going to run out of steam anytime soon.
“What did you tell your sister?”
Stella opened her closet door and began rifling through the contents. “That I’m working with Chase?” It came out as a question, even though it was fact. But why had she even asked in the first place? She bent down and began opening shoe boxes. Ah. That’s where her photo album had gone.
“So?” The pacing had stopped, judging by the lack of noise and lack of shadow passing in front of her living room lamp, but now the foot tapping had begun. Tap tap. “How’d she take it?” Tap.
“Better than you.”
The tapping stopped. “Stella Michelle Varland.”
“Weeelll. She did.” She hated the high pitched tone her mother always brought out in her. But constant defense did that to a voice.
“I find that hard to believe.”
Of course. Unless something was her idea, that was always the case.
Stella sighed. “Mom. Listen. It is what it is. Chase and I are working together just fine. There’s no need to gather the posse and run him out of town.”
The tapping began again. “Who said anything about that?”
“You didn’t have to. I know you were already scrolling through your mental list of contacts to find someone who could get him to move back to Texas.”
The tapping stopped. “Maybe.”
“Don’t deny it. You were.” Stella turned to face her mother, who now stood silently, rubbing her arms with both hands. “Kat is fine. I’m fine. It’s ancient history. So let’s just drop it, okay?”
Her mother opened her mouth, and Stella beat her to it, pushing the issue. “Okay?” She could threaten to call Dad, but they both knew it would be a useless bluff. He might wear the pants in the family, but he also knew good and well who washed, dried, and ironed them.
“I just don’t want any more drama from that man.”
Stella bit back a sigh as she squatted down in front of more boxes on her closet floor. “None of us do, Mom. Trust me.” There had already been more than enough since Chase’s return to Bayou Bend. But some things her mother was better off not knowing.
Stella got back to work. “If you want to stay, you can help me find some things to donate to the shelter’s fund-raiser. But I’m not going to talk about Chase anymore.”
“All right. I understand.” Her mom joined her at the closet, then shot her a sidelong glance. “So, is the job going well? Just in general?”
Sincere concern and interest radiated from her mom’s eyes for one of the first times in . . . well, a very long time. Maybe the first time since Stella had quit entering pageants. The warmth of the acceptance spread through her chest. She nodded slowly. “It is. Was a little rough at first, but I’m finding my way.” She hesitated. “I’m really glad you helped me get the position.” Ironically enough, she meant it.
Her mom made eye contact, then nodded briskly. “You’re welcome.”
They filtered through the closet in silence for a moment, the shock of the connection nearly knocking Stella off balance. She opened the lid on another box, staring blankly at the contents as her mind raced. She and her mom, bonding? Not arguing? That was rare. They used to be close, back when Stella had big hair and did everything she was told to do with a shiny white smile onstage for hundreds of people.
But since her divorce, she felt as if her mom looked right at her but just didn’t see her anymore.
Which was probably fair enough, considering Stella didn’t really see herself, either.
Maybe things could change between them after all. The relationship between Kat and their mom had improved radically after Kat and Lucas got married and Kat learned to stand up for herself. Maybe Stella and her mom could find that same common ground of mutual respect.
Maybe then she’d finally stop being thought of as the baby who needed taking care of.
For that to happen, of course, she’d actually have to stop needing to be taken care of.
The prick of tears came, as it always did when she thought about her divorce and all the consequences afterward. She blinked rapidly. No. She wasn’t sad about Dillon. Not tonight. It’d just been a long week, and with Chase and work . . . just emotionally overwhelmed, was all.
She pushed the emotion back and replaced the lid on the shoe box she’d just opened. “Any luck?”
“I’m not sure. What kind of things do you want to get rid of? Old clothes?” Her mom slid hanger after hanger across the rack over her head. “All of this looks old, Stella. When was the last time you went shopping?”
Stella tilted her head. She honestly couldn’t remember. “Um, last spring?”
“That’s not possible, dear. None of this was in stores this spring.” The hangers screeched across the iron bar.
“I meant last year. Like, a year ago spring.”
“Oh, dear heavens.” Her mother let out an exasperated sigh. “If you needed money that badly, Stella, you could have asked.”
It had nothing to do with money. She didn’t want to be seen anymore, so why spend money on new things that would just draw attention? Put her back in the spotlight?
Bad things happened in the spotlight. Dangerous things. Things like men thinking they were in love. Thinking she could be worth something beneath the glitter and the tiaras.
Tiara. Chase’s nickname rubbed a raw spot on her heart, and she cleared her throat in an effort to rid him from her thoughts. “I’m good, Mom. Don’t worry.”
“Well, I do worry, dear. It’s a mother’s job.”
“I thought preachers’ wives were supposed to pray instead of worry.” She stood up beside her mom and started shoving hangers from the opposite direction, working to meet her in the middle.
“We do that too.”
She abandoned the middle ground and traded it instead for the far end of her closet, where she’d stuffed all her pageant dresses. A rogue thought began to form. “There. This. It’s perfect.”
“What’s perfect?” Her mom craned her neck to see in the shadowed corner of the deep closet.
“My pageant dresses. I can sell those at the fund-raiser.” She began pulling them off the bar, eight in all. No, probably ten. They wouldn’t bring in a ton of money, but it would definitely be a real contribution. Some high school girls could probably use a discounted dress for Homecoming or Prom. Save their parents the trouble of going to a high-end store.
Besides, there was no reason to preserve the dead in her closet.
“Are you crazy?” Her mom grabbed for the teal one on top of the stack in Stella’s arms, sending a smattering of sequins to the carpeted floor.
Stella widened her eyes. “Um, no, but you might be.” What had gotten into her mom? They were just dresses. Old dresses that wouldn’t even fit her anymore, most likely. Not that she had anywhere to wear them, even if they did.
“These aren’t fund-raiser type dresses, Stella.” Mom took the heap of material from her. “These are memories. These are mementos of an . . . an era.”
“I’m glad you’re not being melodramatic.” Stella rolled her eyes and exaggerated a swipe of her forehead. “Because whew. That would be really unfortunate.”
“I’m serious.” Her mother’s southern accent grew stronger when she was on a mission, and right now, it was thick enough to wade across. “You can’t sell these.”
“Mom. You have to let go.” Stella tugged at the dresses her mom clenched with both arms. “And I mean that literally and figuratively.�
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“Maybe you were too quick to let go. Did you ever think of that?” Her mother finally released the material and watched as Stella moved the dresses to the couch, spreading them out one by one. She followed her, running her fingers across the taffeta and silk and beaded designs. “Don’t you miss it, at all?”
No. Yes. Sort of. Maybe some parts. But the aftereffects—the misplaced identity, the overconfidence, the sass—they’d only brought heartache. It’d hooked Dillon.
She just hadn’t realized she’d been fishing catch and release.
She straightened the skirt of her favorite dress, a deep pink that had complimented her skin tone so perfectly back in those days. All of these dresses held memories. Some good. A lot of bad. “Some eras need to end, Mom.”
Her mother crossed her arms, sinking onto the couch in defeat. “Maybe. But maybe you need to realize not all of your past is terrible.”
“I don’t think that.” But she did, didn’t she? She continued smoothing the fabric, avoiding her mother’s gaze. She’d connected all the yarn of her past into a big, tangled ball until now, it was so knotted she just wanted to ditch the entire thing. She might have had a misplaced identity when she was caught up in the world of pageants, but today she didn’t have one at all.
She wasn’t sure which was worse.
“That one was your favorite, wasn’t it?” Her mother pointed to the pink dress.
Stella nodded.
“This was mine.” Mom touched the shoulder strap of a royal blue gown that had done amazing things to Stella’s eyes. “You were always so stunning.”
Were. Yeah, that stung, a bit. But not as much as she used to fear it would. That part of her had died. That desperate need for attention, for compliments, for security in her appearance . . . gone. Buried.
But nothing had been born in its place.
Her gaze darted to the closed door of her art nook. Well, maybe something. Nothing worth anything to anyone else, though.
But at least she was hidden. No more lights. No more pressure. No more perfection. She could eat what she wanted, wear what she wanted. Actually feel her face instead of layers of makeup. She’d traded her high heels for flip-flops, and she was safe. Tucked away.
Invisible.
So why the constant ache, if she’d achieved what she wanted?
“Maybe we’re both right.” Mom stood up, moving in front of the dresses and picking up the hangers one by one. “Maybe it is time to let go.” She draped the heap of dresses off to one side of the couch, then pulled the royal blue and the deep pink gowns off the top of the stack and laid them in a separate pile. “And maybe it’s time to realize not all of the past is bad.” She shot Stella a pointed look.
Stella studied the two piles, the one containing everything she had to give away, and the one containing her and her mom’s favorite gowns. Preferred memories of an era long gone. Pieces of the past.
She nodded slowly. This wasn’t just about the dresses. This was about her and Mom. This was a truce, a compromise on her mother’s part, an offer of acceptance that went far beyond mere fabric and beads.
“What do you think?” Her mother was wringing her hands again, which meant she was worrying. And probably praying, too, by the furrowed line between her perfectly plucked brows.
And in that moment, she wasn’t intimidating at all. She was a mom—her mom—who probably had been affected by the last few years of Stella’s life a lot more than Stella could ever realize.
They all needed to be cut a break.
And she’d start here.
Stella gave her a soft smile in return. “I think you’ve got a deal, Mom.” Maybe this compromise would hold her mom for a while, last her until she got a new bee in her proverbial bonnet.
“So you’ll try the dress on for me? Just for old time’s sake?”
Nope. Never enough. Stella fought back a groan. But the hope in her mother’s gaze made her wonder if maybe it’d be worth being seen again, just for a moment.
A very brief moment.
“Fine. Why not?” She took the blue dress and tried not to be hurt by the beaming expression on her mother’s face. It still mattered too much to her. But they’d reached a new line in the sand, and it seemed like a good one so far. What was one more dress in the grand scheme of things?
She disappeared inside the bathroom, pulled the dress up over her now-slimmer hips, and twisted around for the side zipper. She latched the hook at the top of the seam and adjusted the spaghetti straps.
Then she faced the mirror.
And saw a ghost.
A wan gray ghost swimming in an ocean of blue that once hugged her curves perfectly, but now hung loose on her thinner frame. Her face looked hollow and gaunt, her eyes pale and stark against a cream background of surprise.
Despite the royal blue gown, a colorless existence stared back at her.
Where had she gone?
Her mom knocked on the door and Stella jumped, clutching the loose top half of the dress against her chest, heart pounding. “You okay in there?”
No. She shook her head, then realized her mom couldn’t possibly see her.
“Do you need help with the zipper?”
She shook her head again. And then she remembered.
This was the dress she’d worn the first time Dillon had seen her.
With a strangled cry, she dropped the dress into a heap on the floor, puddled blue on the tile. Voices echoed. The judges’ comments that night, Dillon’s approval afterward. The victorious announcement of her win ringing over the loudspeakers. And first place goes to Stella Varland!
The winner’s tiara being set carefully on her head.
Isn’t she a vision, folks?
Dillon’s eyes lighting up.
You’re beautiful.
Constant applause.
Want to grab some coffee?
The scratch of thorns against her bare arms as she accepted the paper-wrapped roses.
It wouldn’t stop. They wouldn’t stop. The voices wouldn’t stop.
She shoved back the shower curtain and crawled into the bathtub, still in her underwear and cami, and huddled in the corner, arms wrapped around her drawn knees. Her hands shook, and she squeezed them into fists. The room dipped and darkened, and she shook her head, eyes focused, concentrating on her breathing.
Her mom kept knocking. “Stella? Stella, let me see.”
No. No one could see her. No one ever had.
“It doesn’t fit, Mom.” Understatement. Or maybe, she just didn’t fit anymore. “Sorry.”
About so many things. So very many things.
“Stella? Are you sure?” Her mom’s voice pressed close to the door.
She reached over and turned on the water, raising her voice above the flow and struggling to keep it even, hide her meltdown. “I’m just going to take a shower.” Weak excuse. She tried again. “I got a lot of dust on me from the closet.”
“I can wait.”
“No, you go on, Mom. I’ll call you later.” Go. Now. Please, just go.
“All right, then.” A reluctant acquiescence, followed by fading footsteps and the shutting of the door.
Then, wet, alone, and invisible, Stella buried her face in her knees and cried.
Chase knocked on Stella’s apartment door, then again, louder. He’d been outside on the street when he saw her mother leave. She had even turned and called something back into the apartment before she’d left, so Stella had to be inside. He had wisely waited in the car until Claire Varland drove away.
He wasn’t scared of the woman, exactly. Just figured there was no reason to deliberately throw himself before a firing squad.
He knocked again, his stomach roiling with nerves. He’d had an idea earlier at work, one that wouldn’t go away, and when Stella hadn’t answered her phone a while ago, he’d decided to pop by and ask her about his idea in person.
She’d be less likely to say no to his face.
He waited, one shoe scraping the c
oncrete outside her door in an anxious rhythm. Nervous to talk to her? Maybe. He really wanted her to say yes to his idea—not only would it help the Cameo, but it would help her. Well, them.
Okay, maybe him. It was probably two parts selfish, really. He just wanted to see her. But if they were going to be friends, they needed to spend some time together away from the construction, and it made sense to go live out his plan tomorrow while the plumber was finishing up the restrooms. He needed this truce of theirs to be real.
He knocked again, hating the anxiety in his gut, hating that it mattered so much that she say yes.
Hating that she wasn’t answering the door.
Was she avoiding him? They’d made up at the theater yesterday—he hadn’t even had time to tick her off or offend her again. Unless she and her mom had argued, and then, well. He’d probably hide out too. Claire Varland could do that to a person. But hiding wasn’t healthy, and it wasn’t like Stella.
And if they had fought, she probably needed a hug.
That was the reason he told himself why he kept knocking, anyway. “Stella?” He yelled louder, knocked harder. “Stella!”
No answer. But what was that sound inside the apartment? He pressed his ear against the door but couldn’t identify the noise. A vacuum cleaner? Maybe she just couldn’t hear him.
But his instincts told him otherwise. Something was wrong. The way Claire had stomped to her car, the way Stella refused to answer the door . . .
Even when she’d been upset with him that first day, she’d answered.
Slammed the door shut in his face afterward, but she’d answered.
What if she’d passed out again . . . and she was in there, alone? What if she’d hit her head this time?
She could be hurt. He couldn’t leave. Not without knowing. He looked under the welcome mat for a key but found only piled up red dirt and a crunchy leaf. There was no other decorative rock or figurine nearby. He stepped back, studying the door, then felt up and around the top of the frame. Ah, there. Cold metal met his eager fingers. He made a mental note to remind her to quit hiding her keys in such obvious spaces.
Love Arrives in Pieces Page 14
