Love Arrives in Pieces

by Betsy St. Amant

  “He’s just focused. Busy.” Stella smiled reassuringly, even though she didn’t believe her own words for a minute.

  “You better follow that example, son.” Bob gestured after Chase. “I bet there’ll be pretty girls at the grand opening. You don’t want to keep them waiting.”

  Tim rolled his eyes, then winked at Stella. “I know for sure there’ll be at least one there.”

  “Well played, my boy.” Bob laughed and all but shoved Tim toward the theater. “Get to it, then.” He shook his head at Stella after Tim had vanished from sight. “You must have had an interesting time working with this bunch.”

  “It hasn’t been too bad. They’re all talk.” Some more talk than others. Of course, if Chase had been just talk instead of action, maybe she wouldn’t be so torn up right now. Stella forced a smile, turning her attention back to the painting and away from Bob’s curious expression. “I’m glad you’re pleased with the progress.”

  “It’s more than I could have hoped. And the color scheme . . . well, I’m happy to hear a compromise was reached.” He smiled gently, suddenly more father figure than wannabe cowboy. “Funny how things work out sometimes.”

  Funny? Maybe.

  Crazy? Definitely.

  She kept painting. Changed the subject. “You going to wear your boots to the grand opening?”

  “Just try to keep ’em off me.” Bob chuckled. “I think your friend in there would look pretty nice in a pair too. Don’t you think?”

  Great. Now the Downtown Director was attempting to play matchmaker. Stella shrugged as if she’d never considered the idea of Chase in boots or anything else out of the ordinary.

  But he’d totally make an amazing cowboy. The memory of their conversation about the horse statue rose to the forefront of her mind: I like living on purpose, he had said. Living out loud.

  What if she had that kind of courage? What if she put her fears aside and embraced the idea of something intentional? Intentionally scary, but also intentionally amazing. She couldn’t deny the connection she and Chase had—and not just physically. Their conversations over the last few months of working at the Cameo just brought back all the good times they’d had years ago before he moved to Texas.

  Before life had robbed them of a second chance.

  But maybe—in his fiancée’s death, in the abandonment of her husband—they were being given a third one.

  Chase brought out the real Stella, the Stella she’d thought long buried. Her old sass, her former spunk. What had he called it that day? Moxie. That was it. Chase brought out in her all the things Dillon had tried to smother.

  Chase made her want to find her colors again. For the first time in years she didn’t want to stay neutral and bland. She wanted to shine. Wanted to find a different, deeper kind of beauty that went beyond wardrobes and hairdos and tiaras. Wanted to embrace her true self. And feel safe within it.

  Within him.

  Hope built a slow crescendo in her heart. Was there a chance she could get Kat to relieve her of her promise? She hadn’t been ready before. She still needed to heal. Dixie helped her see that. So did her mom, for that matter. And Chase.

  They said it took a village to raise a child. And maybe so. But she’d swear all day long it also took a village to recover from divorce.

  Chase was right. Dixie was right. She was afraid of healing. But maybe admitting that was the first step toward recovery.

  “Sorry to interrupt whatever big daydream you’ve got going there, miss, but I’m going to head back to the office now, get this date on the calendar all official-like.” Bob grinned and nodded at her. “I’ll see you at the Grand Opening, if not before.”

  She snapped out of her trance. “Yes, sir.” She waved absently. Her mind raced as Bob headed toward the exit.

  “And Stella?” Bob turned before slipping out the lobby door and tipped his cowboy hat at her. “You be sure to bring yourself a date that night. You hear?”

  Oh, she would. She definitely would.

  Just needed to find out what size boots he wore.

  It seemed like all Chase did lately was either catch Stella Varland or apologize to her.

  Sometimes both at the same time.

  Chase watched as Howard finished cutting in the back wall of the theater. He was torn between heading back into the lobby to confront Stella about last night, or just picking up a paintbrush and letting it all go.

  Letting her go.

  The thought ripped his heart into shreds, and he couldn’t bear it. Not again. It’d been torture to leave her the first time. If he hadn’t been trying to do what he could to save Stella’s relationship with Kat, he would never have bailed for Texas in the first place. He’d been scared—of his own feelings for Stella, of the way he’d handled Kat’s heart. It’d been too much. He freaked and took the coward’s way out.

  He had vanished, just as Stella accused him.

  He had known then, without a doubt, that his continued presence in Bayou Bend would only continue to cause a rift between them. In their entire family.

  Maybe Stella was onto something. Maybe he was the one in denial. The issue, although years old, had been one of apparently epic proportions.

  And from his experience, issues with women didn’t tend to shrink over the years. If anything, they expanded.

  Maybe after the Cameo was completed, it would be time for him to move again. Not back to Houston. But maybe find a fresh start somewhere else. His mom would kill him for getting her hopes up, but he couldn’t go backward. And he couldn’t really stay here, either, if he wanted to move forward. Not with his feelings for Stella as deep as they were, not with the walls between them as solid as they were.

  A light hand tapped on his shoulder, and he jumped.

  Stella.

  “You were right.” The words rushed out in a heap, jumbling and tangling in the space between them. “I was wrong, and Dixie was right.”

  Wait, who? Him or Dixie? Oh wait, they’d said the same thing. He tried to focus, but her eyes shone with such depth and grace he couldn’t think straight. A swipe of gold paint shimmered on her left cheekbone. He made a mental note to check the quality of the paint job in the lobby.

  Just in case.

  He tugged her away from the back wall, away from Howard and toward a little bit of privacy. “Go on.” Then he crossed his arms over his chest so he wouldn’t give in to the temptation to pull her into a hug.

  “I was hiding. Hiding behind Kat, and the past, and everything else I could find in order not to risk my heart again.” She pressed both hands against her chest, over her dark T-shirt also speckled with gold paint. “I didn’t think I had enough of a heart left to give.”

  She had no idea how big that broken heart really was. How fragile and perfect it was. How much he longed to protect it, guard it, love it. Love her.

  He was up for it.

  But he’d clearly misunderstood God’s timing. Darren had been wrong, or, most likely, he’d read Darren’s advice wrong. Rushed ahead, as he always did, and messed it up. Would he ever learn?

  Apparently they both had demons to wrestle.

  “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. And last night . . .” She pressed her fingers briefly against her lips, and his gaze followed. He swallowed hard, looked away.

  She continued. “I wasn’t offended by your kiss. It was wrong of me to say so when clearly—clearly I wasn’t.”

  Clearly. Yeah. There’d been that. He shifted his weight, unsure of what to say, wanting to say so much but finding it completely pointless because they’d looped around this way before. Maybe not to the letter, maybe not in the exact same circumstance, but this back and forth was too familiar. One of them was always getting their courage up to approach the other, and the other was always shooting it down for various reasons.

  If it was too soon to stir up or awaken love, then it was just too soon. It was never going to work. They couldn’t force it.

  A fact they both needed to realize and acce
pt.

  “I’m glad to hear this. Really.” He clenched his arms harder against the urge to unfold and embrace her. “But it doesn’t matter, Stella.”

  She frowned, confusion puckering her brow. “What do you mean?”

  “It matters, of course. I mean, for you. For your healing. It’s good for you.” He shook his head, the pain of denying her burning a hole through his heart. “But this still isn’t right.”

  “Because of Kat?”

  “That. And other things.” Like the rest of her family, a bullet he kept putting off having to dodge. Claire Varland would be even harder to convince than Kat. And did he or Stella have what it took to fight that war?

  He thought so. Or he used to. But now he was just so tired of the uncertain, the unknown, the wondering. He wasn’t sure he could fight anymore. He just wanted to go home.

  And he didn’t have anywhere to go.

  “Kat is still an issue.” Stella nodded, though the light in her eyes had dimmed. “I wasn’t trying to say anything had changed. Other than I see what you mean, and . . . thank you. Thank you for making me see the truth about myself.”

  No way. That hadn’t been all she was wanting with this conversation. But she’d realized that was all she was going to get, and was slipping quickly into self-defense mode. Survival measures. He could read her exactly.

  He knew, because that’s what he would have done in her shoes.

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  She waited, shifting her weight from one foot to another, as if hoping he’d say something else. But what else was there to say? They’d done this dance enough times now. It was time for the music to end before they were tortured any further.

  He’d stepped on her toes enough.

  “Okay, so . . .” Her voice wandered, then she cleared her throat. Determination lit her eyes. “Friends?”

  There was the final death blow. He nodded slowly, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. “Of course. Friends.”

  She took a step back, awkward, unsure. He hated this. Hated all of it.

  But loved her enough to quit putting them through it.

  Despite her new revelation, she wasn’t going to change her mind about them if Kat didn’t. And there was no way Kat Varland—make that Kat Brannen—was ever going to have any opinion of Chase Taylor other than completely negative.

  The Varland women all wore stubbornness like a tiara.

  Stella just somehow made hers look good.

  “Guess I’ll get back to my wall, then.” She looked lost, whereas moments before, she’d seemed so confident.

  He shook off the guilt. He was doing her a favor, doing both of their hearts a service. “I’m sure you’re doing a good job.” He’d go double check after she left.

  “Let me know if you need anything else.” Now she was stilted, as if they were partners. Or worse, like they were employee-boss.

  He nodded stiffly. “Will do.” He turned back to watch Howard finish painting, debating once again on going home for the day or grabbing a brush and jumping in. He couldn’t stand by idly, not while Stella was in the next room, working on making more things beautiful.

  That’s it. He had to paint.

  He took three quick steps forward, then stopped as two arms launched themselves around his torso. What?

  He looked down at the two thin, gold-speckled arms, and felt a chunk of his defense melt away. “Stella.” He pried them off, turned, but she stayed close and burrowed back in before he could block her.

  “You owe me a hug.” She whispered the words into his shoulder, and he hesitated, knowing the feel of her in his arms was going to be his undoing. But then she snuggled closer, and he was toast.

  He wrapped his arms around her, held her tight. Breathed in her scent, memorized it. Memorized her.

  Tried to remember exactly what he was staying strong for, again.

  Then she was gone.

  Back to the lobby. Back to work. Back to reality.

  While he clung for a moment longer to the past.

  If she had to paint Chase Taylor into some form of art, she’d choose abstract. He was all over the place. Bright here, sullen there. A blur of shiny and shadow and shapes all mixed into one mesmerizing and disturbing work.

  Which was more than she could say for her mosaic tile project. She had all but given up on it. Still, something kept her drawn to it, kept her reaching for redemption in the darkness. She couldn’t see what this thing was yet, but something told her it was going to be a thing, and the artist in her couldn’t ignore that drive. She had to find out what.

  Even if it killed her.

  She rearranged the pieces on the canvas again, wishing she wasn’t so distracted. But Chase had been one giant puzzle earlier, one she couldn’t quite work out. She thought he’d be happy to hear her revelation about herself, to think she was on the right track toward healing. But he’d almost just seemed to tolerate the news, rather than revel in it. Did he not understand she was going to try to talk to Kat again, and try to smooth the way for her and Chase to be together?

  The familiar wave of doubts began its slow assault.

  Maybe he had changed his mind about her. Wasn’t that what everyone did eventually?

  No. She rearranged the random shards on her canvas, fighting back the shadowy lies. She was on her way to healing now, and that started with the truth. She wouldn’t be afraid anymore—not afraid of the brokenness, and not afraid of the healing.

  Dixie’s words rang in her mind from the grave site that day, fighting back the lies like sunshine burning off a fog. Stella breathed a prayer of gratitude and focused once again on the pieces before her. But her internal monologue wouldn’t turn off. Now Dixie’s words were running together with Chase’s.

  Don’t be afraid of the rain. I’m more for stomping in the puddles than dancing in ’em.

  She listened absently as she worked, mixing up all the broken pieces like a puzzle. At least the words were truth, this time, and not going to destroy her or derail her.

  God tells us to come to Him with faith like a child. I figure that means with our storms too.

  If it’s going to rain anyway . . . might as well make something out of it.

  She picked up the curved piece, dotted with rhinestones, remembering how Dixie had handed it to her after digging it out of the trash bag. As if she’d come for that express purpose, and then left.

  She fitted the piece on the canvas, then tilted her head and gasped.

  She quickly moved a few more pieces, trading sharp edges for blunt, rounding this edge, pointing this one into an angle.

  Until the broken shapes before her resembled an almost perfect umbrella—an upside-down umbrella.

  Instead of hiding under umbrellas, we should stomp in the puddles.

  She stared in disbelief at the project before her, so caught off guard by the transformation that she felt as if she’d had nothing to do with it. Here was living proof. Beauty from the broken.

  She’d made something beautiful. Out of the fragments of what others deemed refuse. Trash. A waste.

  She adjusted the curved rhinestone stick—the handle of the umbrella—and smiled. She’d done it.

  And if she could do something like this with literal pieces of junk . . . what could God do in her heart?

  Suddenly she knew the answer to her own question, as if God had revealed it just to her.

  Nothing was ever too broken to be healed.

  She laughed, long and loud and surprised, her voice echoing in the small room until the entire space seemed to overflow with joy. Hope. Potential.

  Beauty.

  Tears welled up in her eyes, and Dixie’s words from the afternoon at the graveyard suddenly struck loud and clear.

  Told you you needed an umbrella.

  eighteen

  The next two weeks flew by in a blur of touch-up paint, fabric glue, and Dustbusters. Just when they deemed the Cameo perfect, another detail would pop up to tend to.

  Finally, on th
e night of the shelter’s big fund-raiser, Stella put down her duster and grabbed Chase’s arm. He had hung, rehung, and straightened the same picture in the lobby at least four times. “You do realize at some point, we just have to stop.”

  “I know.” Chase glanced around the finished lobby. There had to be at least one more thing that needed tweaking before the Grand Opening the next night. But Stella was right. They just had to stop and be done.

  “Besides, I have something to show you.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and began scrolling through her photos.

  He packed his tools into the toolbox and snapped the lid shut. “What’s that?” He’d been surprised, but somehow, he and Stella had managed to find a rhythm over the last two weeks, a rhythm of friendship they both could live with that didn’t lead to too much awkwardness.

  He still wanted more. And wanted to believe she felt the same.

  But he remained convinced friendship was the only real option. Until he could pack up and head out again, anyway. He wouldn’t vanish on Stella again, not completely. No way would he be responsible for doing that to her mending heart.

  There’d been a change in Stella over the last two weeks. A light inside her that hadn’t fully existed before, a security and confidence he hadn’t seen since she’d been on stage. Except now it was stronger, somehow. Deeper.

  Stella Varland was healing.

  And it had nothing to do with Chase Taylor.

  “I finally figured it out.” She held her phone against her chest so he couldn’t see it yet, a shy smile creeping up her face. “I wanted to show you, because, well—you’re the only one who knows my secret.”

  He knew a lot of her secrets.

  “Remember all the pieces I’ve been collecting from the Cameo?”

  “Right. The mosaic tile project.” She had voiced her frustration over it more than once, and he had gladly listened—though he rarely chose to bring up the sore subject after the ordeal of him accidentally stumbling across her art room. He knew not to push.

  “I finished it.”

  “What?” A genuine happiness rose in Chase’s chest. He reached for the phone, grinning. “Let me see! When? What is it?” He couldn’t wait.