The air was warm and thick with humidity, and Clay was feeling overdressed in jeans and boots. She decided to take the boots off so that she could sink her feet into the cool, damp sand at the water’s edge. The riverbank was barely higher than the water level and mostly covered in dense green shrubbery and pine trees, except for the occasional sandbar that climbed out of the water to sun itself along the shoreline.
“I talked to my grandpa again today about cutting Bo loose, but he’s decided to give him a second chance.”
“Wouldn’t this be more like his twelfth chance?” Trip snorted.
“Yeah, maybe. I sort of lost track.” Clay took a long swig of her beer.
“Well, in other news, I heard from MJ that you dropped River off earlier today at the B and B. How’d that go?” Grace refilled her wine glass from a bottle in the cooler.
“I dropped her off, along with her luggage and took her car to the shop.”
“And?” Grace tweaked an eyebrow.
“And nothing.”
“Okay, hold on a minute.” Trip came to life. She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and regarded Clay with a serious scowl. “You had the hottest woman to land in Pine Cone in the past five years in your truck and you just…dropped her off? No offer to show her around? No invitation for dinner out?”
“No, I—”
“Hottest woman in the last five years? Who’d I miss?” Grace cut Clay off.
“Remember the grad student that was working in Judge Freemont’s office? What was her name…”
“Oh, yeah. She was pretty.” Grace nodded in agreement and air toasted Trip with her glass. “Her name was Shannon. She was too young for you, by the way.”
“Hey! That was five years ago. I was a lot younger then.” Trip shuffled sand in Grace’s direction with her foot.
“Sorry for the interruption, Clay. Please continue.” Grace relaxed back onto her elbows again and sipped her wine.
“There’s nothing else to tell. I dropped her off, end of story. Oh, and then she forgot her phone in my truck, and I took that over to her on my way here.” Trip and Grace stared at her for an awkwardly long silent minute. “Why are you giving me that look?”
“What look?” Trip furrowed her brow. “This look? The one that says you’re a dumb ass?”
“I can’t deal with getting involved with anyone right now.” Clay’s last romantic involvement with a woman had gone down in a fireball. She’d barely survived with any dignity intact.
“That’s right, you don’t need any serious involvement. That’s why River is the perfect girl for you. She’s not local. She’s only here for a few days…a week tops…and she’s clearly into you.”
“Into me?” Clay wasn’t so sure, and it didn’t matter if she was.
“Yes, which is why I wouldn’t let Trip hit on her.” Grace playfully shoved Trip’s shoulder. “And trust me when I say she wanted to, with that whole doctor routine after River wrecked her aunt’s car…Puleez.”
“Hey, I’m only human. I have a weakness for damsels in distress, especially the pretty ones.” Trip grinned and took a long pull of her beer.
“Anyway, as we were saying, River was definitely checking you out. In an I’d like to go on a date with you kind of way.” Trip nodded in support of Grace’s assessment.
“I just can’t do it.” That familiar knot rose in Clay’s chest, a tightness where her heart should be. “And if you’d ever gotten your heart stomped on like I did you’d understand.” She looked at Trip. “You’re always the one doing the leaving, so you don’t ever have to find out what it feels like to be the one getting left.”
“Ouch.” Trip mimicked being skewered in the chest, her fingers curled around an invisible knife. “Listen, I’ve had my disappointments, same as Grace, same as you, but I don’t wallow in them the way you’re doing.” Trip sounded like a cross between a stern parent and motivational softball coach. “You need to get out and start dating again.”
“You act like it’s been years since Veronica and I split up. It’s only been a few months. I deserve to wallow a little.”
A knowing look passed between Trip and Grace.
“Oh no, don’t go trying to set me up. I can read your minds you know.” They were her closest friends and she knew they only had her best interests at heart, but dammit, she wasn’t ready to date.
Casual sex wasn’t going to work for her. And she certainly wasn’t ready to date someone like River, not when her self-esteem was at a lower elevation than Death Valley and her spirit just as desolate. She was in a low place all around and had no business inflicting that on anyone else.
* * *
It was dark by the time Clay reached the warehouse space she rented on the far end of town. The large, open space had previously been a packing house for peaches, and on especially warm days you could still smell the sweet hint of fruit.
When she’d returned to Pine Cone, she’d needed room to breathe.
She couldn’t bring herself to move back into her grandparents’ tiny frame house, and she didn’t want to be trapped in some boxy apartment. She’d been lucky to stumble across the For Rent sign for this place a day after she returned home.
The warehouse was barely functional for housing, with exposed, weathered brick that bore scuffs of various shades of previous paint colors, and rugged exposed beams across the vaulted ceiling. Rudimentary plumbing ran down the walls at opposite sides of the large main living space. On one side, there was an industrial sized sink mounted to the wall, on the other, a bathroom set apart from the room with partial walls made of glass blocks. There was no tub, only a shower, a toilet, and a vintage pedestal sink.
If she felt like painting, this would be the perfect studio. Plenty of fresh air from large crank style windows all across the upper part of the front and back wall. And concrete floors that could withstand any number of spilled or spattered disasters. There was even a drain in the floor in the event that the entire place needed to be hosed down.
But she wasn’t painting. She hadn’t painted anything since leaving New York. Naked canvases were stacked along the wall, surrounding her, holding her captive. Frequently, when sleep eluded her, she’d pour herself a whiskey and pace in front of the vacant canvases waiting for inspiration to find her. Nothing came of it.
Canisters of liquid acrylic paint lined metal shelves along the back wall. Colors dripped down the sides, tempting her to open them, but still she didn’t. She’d considered loading up all the art supplies and unused canvases and hauling them out behind the warehouse and lighting a bonfire. She’d sacrifice the virgin canvases to the art gods in hopes of finding some peace. But she hadn’t done that either, yet.
There were a few finished paintings on the other side of the large open room. Equally spaced along the floor, leaning against the wall. These five paintings were almost the most painful things in the room, so of course she kept them where she could see them at all times, to remind her not to be stupid, to remind her not to forget. These were the five paintings that hadn’t sold in her solo show in New York. The show that had been the bright beginning of the catastrophic end, all in the same twenty-four hours.
An industrial looking wrought iron floor lamp stood near the paintings. After Clay pulled one more beer from the refrigerator, she switched on the light and stood looking at what had been her future, on five vibrantly colored canvases.
The gallery had been packed. Buyers had already claimed most of the pieces. Clay’s head had been spinning from all of the attention. It had almost been too much.
Veronica wanted Clay to go out for a celebratory late dinner with some of her more ardent patrons, but Clay was spent. Being mostly an introvert, she’d already far exceeded her capacity to mingle and make small talk. She’d thanked Veronica and begged off. She was high on life and art and wanted some time alone to allow all of it to sink in.
The next morning, Clay had picked up coffee and scones and headed to Veronica’s place to surprise her. It
turned out Clay was the one who got the surprise when she discovered Veronica in bed with another woman. To add insult to injury, a woman who’d bought two of Clay’s paintings the previous night at the opening.
Veronica didn’t even try to explain the woman in her bed. And Clay stood at the bedroom door holding breakfast for Veronica like an idiot. Like someone who couldn’t quite wrap their head around what they were seeing. She was hurt and embarrassed to have been so easily played. Clearly, Veronica hadn’t taken her seriously.
What do you say when you find your lover in bed with someone else?
Clay’d been replaying the scene in her head and crafting clever monologues she wished she’d delivered. But she’d said nothing. She’d just stood there, holding blueberry scones, exposed as the novice she was. She’d been out of her depth with Veronica.
That was part of the problem of being with Veronica. She always made Clay feel just the least bit unsafe, at risk, unsettled. Being with Veronica was like perpetually flailing in the deep end of the pool. It wasn’t a good feeling, and in truth, Clay had begun to grow tired of Veronica’s little head games, but she hadn’t said as much to Veronica.
On some level, she’d hoped that Veronica sensed Clay needed her after the show. That what Clay wanted was some assurance that Veronica was with her because of who she was, not because of the success of her work. But it turned out she was simply Veronica’s pet project of the moment and she’d obviously moved on without giving Clay the courtesy of a heads-up.
Clay dragged a chair over in front of the canvas on the far right and sat down. This was the last one she’d painted, and she couldn’t separate what had happened with Veronica from the rendering in front of her. She hated this one most of all. Everything she’d felt at her highest point, right before the exhibit opened, was smeared across the canvas. It mocked her.
It wasn’t that she’d really thought what she and Veronica had was true love. Thinking back, she knew it wasn’t. But she’d thought they at least had respect for one another, enough respect to be honest. As it turned out, Clay was the only one being honest, and once the show was over and a success, Veronica was finished with her. She’d been discarded and now she was completely off center and uninspired. Nothing came to her. Color, the strongest part of her artistic voice, held no meaning for her.
She reached for the canvas, carried it over, and dropped it onto the floor in the center of the room. The paint canisters stared back at her until she reached for the only color that made sense, black. Holding the jar about three feet above the prone, already painted surface, she drizzled black acrylic with slow, circular motions. After using nearly the entire jar, hues of red and violet still peeked through the dark wet ooze. She knelt beside the canvas and used the palm of her hand to smear the viscous liquid in sweeping arcs.
Clay stood, pulled a cloth from her back pocket, and methodically wiped the paint from her hand. The entire canvas was black now, just like her mood, perfect.
Clay finished the beer and then heaved the empty beer bottle across the room in a half-hearted attempt to hit the large plastic trash bin. She missed. The loud clatter of glass shattering on concrete was oddly satisfying.
She crossed the room to tumble facedown onto a king-sized mattress on the floor. The broken glass and the defaced painting, along with her wounded heart, would still be there in the morning.
Chapter Seven
At seven thirty the next morning, the scent of warm cinnamon rolls was wafting upstairs. By eight thirty, the temptation was more than River could tolerate. She trotted downstairs to the dining room.
She was surprised to see the police officer that’d been at the accident scene the day before sitting at a small window table covered with a red gingham tablecloth sipping coffee. What was her name? Oh yes, Grace Booker.
River returned Grace’s smile as she served herself coffee from a large carafe and eyed the tray of pastries.
“You should try one. MJ’s cinnamon rolls are not to be missed.” Grace smiled over the rim of her coffee cup.
“If they taste half as good as they smell, then I’m in serious trouble.” River used a silver spatula to hoist one of the generously sized buns, oozing icing on all sides onto a small china plate.
She turned, breakfast in hand, considering where she should sit.
“Please join me.” Grace motioned toward the empty chair across from her. “That is unless you’re less of a morning person than I am and would prefer some alone time.”
“Not at all. Thank you for the invitation.” Sitting across from Grace in uniform was a little bit intimidating before coffee, but River did her best to relax.
Grace’s auburn hair tumbled around her shoulders softening the law-and-order aspect of her attire. Grace’s green eyes reflected the early morning sunlight from a nearby window and practically sparkled. She smiled at River, and River decided right then, in another life, she and Grace would have been friends. If she weren’t living in New York and Grace wasn’t living in Georgia.
River had never really known anyone who was a police officer before. There’d been a sheriff in the small community where she grew up, but he’d been a friend of the family and a lot less intimidating. River tasted the coffee. It was better than she expected, rich and full of flavor. She was glad she hadn’t been overcautious by adding sugar. She certainly wasn’t going to need sugar if she ate the cinnamon roll in front of her.
“How is your head this morning?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where you bumped your head on the steering wheel.”
“Oh.” River ran her fingers over the raised spot above her eye. She’d tried to cover the faint purple of the injury with powder. “It doesn’t hurt. MJ was kind enough to give me an ice pack for it yesterday. That really helped.”
“Good.” Grace studied her. “It doesn’t even show.”
River smiled and forked a small bite of the pastry into her mouth and couldn’t stop the involuntary moan of contentment. “Hmm, so yummy.”
“Hmm, yes. Yummy indeed.” Grace’s words were barely audible.
River followed the trajectory of Grace’s gaze and knew right away that Grace wasn’t talking about MJ’s cinnamon rolls.
A woman was standing near the serving table pouring coffee into a paper cup. Short ebony hair contrasted with pale complexion on a tall androgynous body dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt. She glanced in their direction briefly, almost shyly, and then left.
“I was talking about the pastry, not tall, dark, and gorgeous over by the coffee pot.”
Grace laughed. “You saw that, huh?”
“Was that your attempt at subtlety?” River smiled around another bite of the heavenly pastry.
“Maybe I need more practice.” Grace sighed.
“Do you know her?”
“I wouldn’t say I know her.” Grace leaned forward, holding her coffee cup with both hands, spinning it on its saucer. “But I’d like to. That’s Dani Wingate. She’s the new veterinarian at Trip’s clinic.”
“Well, she’s super cute.” River was reminded of another tall, dark, androgynously good-looking woman. But did she dare ask Grace about Clay? She took another bite, closed her eyes, and savored the sweetness.
“This is the best cinnamon roll I’ve ever had.”
“I warned you.” Grace laughed.
“Does MJ make these every morning?” River blinked rapidly as the glorious cocktail of caffeine and sugar started to kick in.
“Thankfully, no. If she did, I’d be as big around as this table.”
“Do you…do you live at the B and B?” River didn’t want to pry, but the question popped out before she could stop it. She blamed the sugar rush.
“No, I own it. I live in the cottage out back.” Grace motioned with her thumb over her shoulder. “I inherited this place from my parents.”
“Wow, you’re a police officer and you run a B and B? When do you sleep?”
“I probably wouldn’t if it weren’t for M
J. She keeps everything running smoothly for me. And in return, I get to eat breakfast here every morning.”
“Well, it’s a beautiful place. Very charming and inviting.”
“I hope you don’t feel pressured to say that because I’m armed.”
River laughed. “Not at all.”
“Good.”
“Wait, that means Dani is staying here? At your B and B?” River’s brain was finally waking up. Her ability to add one plus one improving by the minute.
“Yes.”
“So, you get to see Dani coming and going every day?”
“Yes, it’s torture. Thanks for noticing.”
“I’m so sorry.”
They both laughed.
River relished a few more bites of the warm cinnamon roll between sips of coffee.
“I don’t suppose you know where I could get a rental car?”
“There isn’t a place anywhere close. I’d say the nearest rental office would be over in Savannah.”
“Oh.” Wow, this really was a small town.
“But I think they might have a loaner you could use at Cahill’s shop, where Clay took your car.”
“Really?” River took note of the tiniest tightening in her stomach at the mention of Clay’s name. The thought of seeing Clay again was definitely appealing. “I was supposed to meet the Realtor today to go over my aunt’s property. I suppose I could call her and see if she’d come pick me up—”
“No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary. I’m sure Clay can get you a loaner.” Grace finished her coffee. “I was about to drive to work. I could drop you off on my way if you like.”
“If it’s no trouble.”
“None at all.” Grace stood. One side of her mouth tipped up playfully. “Then you’ll have a chance to see Clay again.”
“I suppose I need some lessons in subtlety too.” River followed Grace toward the door.
“Heightened observational skills are part of my job.” Grace turned partway to look at River.
“Noted.” River wondered how close Grace was to Clay. It was conceivable that they’d even dated. She decided to be brave and ask. “So, you know Clay well?”
Take My Hand Page 4
