by Monica Rossi
Monica Rossi
Heart’s Folly
Copyright 2014, Monica Rossi
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
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Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
This book is dedicated to my three sisters. The one I was born with, the one I adopted, and the one who came as a bonus prize with my husband. I don’t know what I’d do without each of you.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Sample Chapter of Wounded
A Brief Note About Location:
Many of the places mentioned in the following story are real, you can visit them. Some are fictional, they don’t exist at all. And some are a combination of the two. One such location is 29 Coming Street. It does actually exist, since I used to live there, but it is not an art studio owned by a gorgeous sandy haired widower, it is owned by the College of Charleston and is amusingly referred to as ‘upper classman housing’.
All of the characters, however, are completely fictional. Much to my dismay.
Her profile was perfect. The setting sun framed her face, softening her features, causing her skin to glow. Long chestnut brown hair fell in waves, turning a fiery red where the light touched it. Her eyes, turned out towards the ocean, were full beyond their years. Something was troubling her. A boyfriend? Problems at home with her family? School? She looked young, possibly a college student, maybe she was taking summer classes and wished she hadn’t.
He didn’t really care, though. He just knew that he needed her. Needed that face.
She flipped her hair over her shoulder and looked towards him, eyes gliding over him as if he didn’t exist, she was lost in her own world, unmindful of the people or the beauty surrounding her. He watched her as she walked further down the pier, ignoring the gull that landed with perfect grace on the handrail near her.
Should he follow? Her figure was getting further away, he’d have to run if he didn’t decide soon. Sliding his sketchbook under his arm and closing the box where he stored his pencils he got up from the low stoop he’d been sitting on. He’d walk behind her a while and watched, she wouldn’t mind, she wouldn’t even notice him.
Dressed like any other girl on the shore, she wore denim shorts and a bright tank top but there was something that clung to her and set her apart. Maybe it was her absolute obliviousness to everything around her, maybe it was the deepness he’d seen in her face, maybe it was her eccentric features that combined into something a little more exquisite than what most people would call beautiful. Her eyebrows might be considered a little too full, her nose wasn’t pert and perky, her lips were full with youth but the top one was a little larger than the bottom, and she was small. Tiny and delicate by anyone’s measure, she was probably just over five feet tall, yet that wasn’t something you noticed right away. She carried herself as if she were the tallest girl in the crowd, proud and erect, shoulders back, it wasn’t her self confidence that was causing her trouble, he’d almost bet on that.
She paused again on the steps that led off of the beach and towards the public access parking lot, eyes searching the distance again, over sea grass and sand dunes, as if she’d lost something and was looking for it to come home. He stopped too, watching her.
He wanted to capture that look, make it shine out of his canvas and into the viewer’s soul. It was so human, so… true. Everyone who saw it would wonder what this girl could be yearning for at such a young age. What tragedy could have happened that would provoke such pining in her eyes.
Love. That was it every time. Some guy had broken her heart and here she was staring down the shoreline with unshed tears in her eyes. He’d bet money on it.
And he thought again that it didn’t matter what it was that caused it, he just wanted to encapsulate it, to make it his on canvas. The girl’s breath hitched and he could tell she was close to crying, she blinked fast and looked up at the sky, trying to contain the emotion, before continuing over the bleached white wood of the steps.
He hurried, he had to catch her before she drove away. There was no way he was letting her go without at least the promise of seeing that face again.
Melissa looked straight ahead as she walked through the parking lot. She didn’t want to accidentally catch anyone’s eyes and have them see the water standing in hers, threatening to leave wet streaks down her cheek. People kept telling her the pain would ease as time went on. But they were liars. Six months and still every breath felt like was sucking air through a dense filter, the tightness in her chest was relentless, and the oddest things sent her spiraling further down into depression.
Maybe one day, she kept telling herself, maybe one day it won’t be so hard. But she didn’t believe it. This was her life now. A life set apart, a life of constant pain and regret, a life alone. And she was coming to terms with that. Slowly, but still faster than she’d thought she would. Once you stopped calling people, going out, or interacting with anyone around you, they stopped trying to force themselves on you. Or most of them did. Her mother wouldn’t leave her alone. Or her best friend, Somer. But otherwise she’d successfully abandoned everyone else in her life. No more parties, no more nights hanging out with girlfriends talking about boyfriends, no more boyfriends. She kept telling herself it was better, every time she was around those old familiar things she felt the missing pieces so much more sharply. She’d see a friend, remember something, and pain would come flooding , fast and jabbing deep, and she wouldn’t be able to breath at all.
No, it was better, less hurtful, to be alone. She’d come to their favorite spot, trying to give herself time to be normal again, trying to lose the part of herself that felt so broken. Golden yellow and orange tinged the sky, promising darkness would fall soon, and Melissa looked across the dunes , the same as she’d done a thousand times before, watching the tourist and locals alike packing up from their day at the beach. Some would be anticipating the night, just like she used to when they’d visited, getting ready to go back to their hotel for a shower before hitting the brick paved streets to find a bar to hang out in or a house party someone might invite them to.
The only thing Melissa had to anticipate was a lukewarm dinner microwaved in the little kitchenette of her rental house. Maybe a hot bath. She kept her head forward, walking towards her cottage, it didn’t matter that the night held no allure for her anymore. It really didn’t. How could she miss it when she missed so many other things more. Just the simple knowledge that there was someone who’d be at her side forever, no matter what, had been stolen from her. That comfort had been ripped away, in what seemed like an instant she’d gone from secure and happy, to wondering if life was even worth living.
The smell from the
coffee house filled the air. It was a good rich smell, and at one time she’d have relished going in and paying six dollars for a cup of coffee so she could sit around and listen to the live music and feel sophisticated. A small smile touched her lips, they both would have loved that. The sun still had a little to go before she’d be walking home in the dark. It couldn’t hurt to go in and get a coffee for old time’s sake. Even though she’d be doing it alone. That was just something she’d have to get used to, because she’d be doing everything alone from now on.
The place didn’t look any different than it had the last time she’d been in. Deep rich browns and reds covered the walls, abstract paintings hung tastefully, and comfy leather chairs and couches were placed in what seemed to be a random pattern across the floor. In the corner a white guy with dread locks sat on a stool, fingers trilling up and down the strings of his guitar as he sang. Melissa didn’t know the song, but it reminded her of some combination of Phillip Phillips and Old Crow Medicine Show.
Settling into a worn overstuffed chair, one furthest away from other people, she sipped her hot mug of gourmet coffee and tried to soak in the atmosphere. It should be nice, she told herself, she should be able to enjoy this small thing. But she didn’t. As she sat, warm and comfortable and surrounded by cozy ambiance, all she felt was numb. It had been a really long time since she’d felt anything at all.
“Hey,” a guy said as he sat down across from her. That was unfortunate, because she wasn’t really interested in conversation or being hit on.
“Hi,” she replied and picked up a magazine off the coffee table in front of her. She flipped the pages open, eyes scanning the pictures without seeing them.
“You like golf?” he asked.
Why in the world would she like golf? “Not particularly,” she hoped the distance in her voice and the fact that she didn’t raise her eyes would dissuade him from trying to continue the conversation.
“Oh, well. I just saw you looking at that magazine and thought…”
She flipped the magazine over and looked at the cover. Golfer’s World Weekly, of course. “No actually, I was just trying to avoid conversation.” She might as well be blunt, there was no need to drag things out. It’d just end up making her feel more uncomfortable and letting him waste his energy on her wasn’t very kind.
“Ah, I see. I apologize for interrupting you,” he didn’t seem disturbed at all by her rude rejection of him. She didn’t respond, hoping that would make it even more obvious that she didn’t intend to make small talk.
“It’s just that,” he continued, “I’m an artist and I saw you on the beach and was wondering if you would sit for me sometime?”
An artist, she eyed the sketch book perched on the table under his cup of coffee, and her gaze drifted up to him. Mid to late twenties, probably. Longish sandy blonde hair that curled around his ears. In good trim shape, tall. Open, honest face with intense eyes.
She wanted to be interested. This was something she should jump on. She should go sit for this attractive artist and flirt with him a little, maybe a lot. Old Melissa would have giggled, delighted in the attention she was getting. But Old Melissa was dead and gone and New Melissa was having a really hard time working up the effort to give a shit. She should though, she should really make the effort to be more like Old Melissa, maybe then she’d get her life back. A moment passed as she pondered the offer and she found that she just couldn’t dredge up enough enthusiasm to accept.
“Thank you, but no,” she finally answered him.
He nodded as he got to his feet, “Well if you change your mind, I have a small studio at 29 Coming Street, the sign outside will say ‘Owen McLachlan, Art Studio’. You can stop by any time.”
She knew where Coming Street was, she had a friend who lived not too far from there. Or she’d had a friend, she hadn’t spoken to her in months. Melissa watched him as he walked away from her. He really was attractive, she thought dispassionately, in his khaki shorts and paint spattered tee-shirt. If things were different she would have never have passed up a chance to spend more time with him. But things weren’t different, and she just couldn’t find it in herself to care that she’d let such a once in a lifetime opportunity walk out the door. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back into the cushion of the chair. Maybe she could care tomorrow. Today it was hard enough just being alive.
The dilapidated white house she found at 29 Coming Street did not inspire much confidence in her. Melissa stood across the street on the sidewalk in front of a cheerful pink sorority house. At least the studio wasn’t pink, she might have left if she’d had to walk into something so sickeningly cheerful and bright.
She’d had no intentions of going to see the painter, and had in fact let the whole encounter slip from her mind. Until of course, her best friend had called demanding news of what she’d been doing in Charleston over the summer.
“You have not called me once,” Somer said, accusation sharp in her voice.
“I keep meaning to but…”
“But what? You’re so busy that you don’t have time for your best friend?”
“No it’s not that it’s just that…”
“You’re wallowing in depression and need me to go down there and cheer you up?”
Oh God no, anything but that. Melissa just couldn’t handle the extreme cheerfulness that constantly surrounded Somer. It would be awkward and horrible trying to pretend to be happy and bubbly if she decided to come for a visit. “No, that’s not necessary. I’m fine really.”
“Well what have you been doing that’s kept you so busy that you completely forgot about me?”
“I, uh,” Melissa groped for some lies to tell, “I took a pottery class.”
“A pottery class, really?” Somer sounded doubtful. She had every right to be, Melissa had never done a craft in her life.
“Yes, and I’ve been swimming every day.”
“Well that’s something at least.”
“And… and, an artist is painting my picture.”
“Oh that is interesting, how did that happen?”
Melissa relayed the story of how she’d met a guy in a coffee shop and he’d asked her to sit for him, “I haven’t had my first session yet but I’m going to go by and see him tomorrow.”
“Well I expect status updates as it’s done. Text me a picture.”
Shit, she’d have to produce something for Somer to approve of or she’d be on a plane to Charleston before Melissa could think of more lies, “Ok, I will.”
“So tell me about the guy, this artist. Is he hot?”
He was, Melissa had to admit that, even though she couldn’t seem to dredge up any interest in the opposite sex, “He really is,” she forced gaiety into her voice, maybe if she was convincing enough Somer would leave her alone, “He’s really tall with light brown hair that has these blonde highlights most people would kill for. I bet they’re totally natural too.”
“Mmm sounds nice, tell me more,” Somer said.
Melissa searched her brain for more tidbits to feed her, “His eyes were really… nice. Green, they’re a deep green. Unique, you don’t see many people with green eyes like his.”
“What about his ass? Does he have a nice ass?”
“He has an exceptional ass,” Melissa giggled. This was exhausting.
So she found herself staring at the sign in front of Owen McLachlan’s studio, dreading having to go up to his door and interact with him. Maybe he’s the silent kind of painter and all she’d be required to do was sit and look off into space without any burdensome conversation.
She crossed the street and went through the porch door and stood looking up at a large black door with intricate scrollwork that seemed beautiful and at complete odds with the surrounding peeling paint. There wasn’t a doorbell anywhere to be found so she knocked, and waited, and knocked again.
Hope lifted in her chest, maybe she’d be lucky enough to miss him. She turned and was about to navigate back through the maze
of potted plants to return to the street when the door open.
He stood there wearing nothing but a pair of plaid pajama pants, sleep clearly clouding his eyes.
“Hello,” he said, his voice gravely.
He really was incredibly hot. The planes of his chest toned and relaxed as he leaned up against the door frame, shaggy hair disheveled. The casual way he held himself spoke of a comfort with who he was that was sexy on its own. Her eyes trailed down to where the low slung pants stretched across his lower abdomen, eyeing the delicious V and thin line of hair that trailed below the waistband, “Hey, I, uh…” she muttered, a little put off by the feeling, long buried, suddenly stirring at the sight of him. This might not have been the best idea.
“Changed your mind?” he supplied for her when she foundered for words.
“Um, yes,” she said, but she was considering changing it again.
“Well come on in, I’ve got some free time this morning if you have time we’ll go ahead and start.”
She nodded and followed him in. The door opened to a large spiral staircase, the wood shining and dark, the walls a light brown that felt warm and inviting, he guided her around the staircase and through a narrow hallway that led to his workspace.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to grab some coffee. I just got up. Would you like some?”
“No, thank you.”
“Ok, well make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
Melissa walked around the open space, there was a large wing backed chair, an old sofa, and several stools available but she was too nervous to sit still. Instead she looked at his work, she didn’t know much about art but she could tell he had a lot of talent. There were landscapes, sweet grass swaying in the breeze on the marsh, a pier in the morning sun buffeted by ocean waves. The Cooper River Bridge, King Street, and Rainbow Row, those were expected. You couldn’t be an artist in Charleston without painting Rainbow Row. But it was the people who spoke to her the most. A black woman with old crinkled skin, squinting as her hands worked yellow straw into a basket, sunlight dappled her faded old shirt and skin and you could almost hear the murmur of the market in the background. Another old lady, this one at a bus stop, her hand on her cane and a large purse in her lap as she looked off into the distance, waiting. College students sitting on the cistern in front of Randolph Hall, some laughing, some reading from their text books, some lying on the grass catching a nap before their next class. A man and a woman looking deeply into each other’s eyes standing under a streetlight, the old houses of Charleston their night time backdrop. A woman holding a toddler, her eyes were dancing with laughter while the baby gave a big toothy grin, his chubby hand grasping the blonde woman’s cheek. They were all so good, so real. The people in them exuding emotions out of the canvas, the backgrounds alive and full of atmosphere.
