“Poppy, the language is unnecessary.”
“Mom, quit acting like Captain America.”
“What?”
“Never mind. I just hate it here, and Reed cheating on me isn’t the only reason.”
“You loved it at Columbia before this.”
“I was wearing rose-colored glasses, Mom. I was obsessed with New York City my whole life and I was excited to be here. But now that I’m here and I’ve gotten used to it, I hate it. It’s busy all the time. People are rude. It’s expensive as hell. The classes here are unnecessarily hard, and I’m not learning anything to do with what I really want to do.”
“It’s your sophomore year, babe, you’re still getting the prereqs out of the way.”
“There shouldn’t be prereqs, Mom! I know exactly what I want to do. I don’t need history or math or chemistry to be an artist.”
“Then why are you there?”
She huffed. “That’s what I’m starting to wonder. Mom, I had this whole vision of getting an art history degree and doing all this amazing art, and living in New York, and becoming this amazing artist with a degree but, in reality, it just sucks. I just want to be in the studio all the time, and the homework sucks, the tests are stupid, the professors are arrogant snobs, my classmates are pretentious as fu—as heck, and I’m learning nothing worthwhile. I mean, I knew all the possible interpretations of Starry Night and all about the other paintings of his life by the time I was in eighth grade, and they’re sitting here trying to tell me to write an essay about how Van Gogh’s burgeoning madness informed the visual style of his most recognizable masterpiece. I mean, duh. That’s elementary school bullshit, not undergrad art history material.”
“Poppy—”
“And then when I do get into the studio, I have a pathetic wannabe who couldn’t make it as an artist as my professor trying to tell me I need to find my voice. Like, shut the fuck up, old man! I have found my voice! If you would get out of my personal space and let me paint, I’d be able to find my voice a hell of a lot faster, because I wouldn’t be dealing with you!”
“Poppy!” I shouted.
She huffed again. “What.” Her voice is flat, bored.
“Did you call to rant at me, or do you want my input?” I asked.
“Honestly, I called you because I needed to vent.”
“Well you’re getting my input anyway.” I glanced at the notepad on my clipboard, on which was doodled a cartoonish image of a bear. Can’t imagine why I would be doodling bears all of a sudden. “You need to decide what you really want. You know I’m not in favor of spending four years and a hundred thousand dollars to get a degree just to have a degree. If you’re pursuing a degree that will get you a job you couldn’t otherwise get, then by all means, stay at Columbia. But, if you’re pursuing a degree which you’re increasingly doubting the value of, then I would spend some time seriously reconsidering your priorities. If your one real, true goal in life is to be a working artist, then you’re wasting my money, your own money, your father’s life insurance policy money, the government’s money, and worst of all, your time. Which is the most precious commodity you’ll ever have. Life is too short to waste it chasing a degree you don’t want and won’t ever use.”
She eyed me through the screens. “You’re telling me you think I should drop out.”
I shook my head. “No. I’m telling you that you need to be certain of what you’re chasing. A university degree is a great thing, when it has value to you. But it’s a long hard road and you have to really want it, especially at the level you’re in—Columbia is Ivy League, honey. The big time. It is not easy. So don’t drop out just because it’s hard and you don’t love every second of it. But if you feel like all you really want to do, what will really bring you joy and value and meaning is to create art, then you may just be wasting your time. Only you can determine that for yourself, Poppy.”
Poppy took another sip of her drink. “Mom, I just…I don’t know. I need to think, I guess.”
“Yes, you do.” I frowned. “Does that have sugar in it?”
“Don’t start,” she warned.
“Poppy, you know how I feel about you consuming sugar.”
“It’s iced coffee, Mom. Chill.”
“Iced coffee…with three pumps of mocha and whipped cream?”
She huffed yet again, this time with supreme annoyance. “No, Mom. Just coffee and half and half and ice. That’s it. I promise.”
“Fine. But if you’re lying to me, I’ll know.”
“You’re thirty-four hundred miles away, Mom. How are you going to know if I’m lying?”
“Mom powers.” I squinted and frowned, touching my fingertips to my temples. “For example, I happen to know you spent a weekend in the Hamptons last month when you told me you were staying at the dorms studying for a test.”
She groaned in irritation. “Fucking Cassandra. I swear I’m going to send her a glitter bomb. She’s the most untrustworthy person I’ve ever met in my life.”
I laughed. “Untrustworthy to you, maybe.”
“Yeah! She’s a snitch!”
“If you don’t want her to snitch on you, don’t do things she feels the need to snitch on you for.”
“Or just don’t tell her shit,” Poppy muttered. “Never telling her anything again.”
“And what is a glitter bomb?” I asked.
She cackled. “Exactly what it sounds like.”
“Sounds messy is what it sounds like.”
“It’s awful. And she’ll deserve it.” Poppy sighed. “Anyway, it was me and Reed and Lucille and Tony. We stayed at Tony’s grandparents’ beach cottage and we studied.”
“Studied what? Vodka tonic ratios?”
“Mom. Eew, no. Vodka is gross.” She laughed nervously. “Not that I’d know anything about it.”
I rolled my eyes at her. “I’m not stupid, sweetheart. You’ve been at university on your own since you were seventeen. You think I don’t know you’ve spent a significant portion of your time drinking?”
She gave me a long, searching look. “Actually, less than you’d think. I don’t really like it.” Her eyes flicked away. “Not anymore at least. I got over that really fast.”
“Anything I should know?”
She shrugged. “I’ll tell you, someday. Not now. Nothing to worry about, though. Just a few bad experiences that made me realize it’s not as fun as everyone seems to think.” She twisted and glanced at someone over her shoulder, listening. “I have to go, Mom.”
“Me too. I have a client meeting in twenty minutes.”
She frowned at me. “So…this thing where you’re living in Alaska now. You’re seriously staying there? Like, forever?”
I laughed. “Honey, yes. I own a condo here. I have clients here, friends, a life. I live in Ketchikan, now, sweetheart. For real.”
“I guess I was thinking it was a phase or something. Like you’d live there for a couple months and come back to the coast.”
“I mean, technically, I am on the coast. Just…the other one. Sort of. It’s not really on the coast itself, though. More, channels near the coast.”
“Mom. Don’t be obtuse.”
I laughed. “Don’t use my own phrases against me.”
“Why, though?”
“Why what?”
She shrugged. “Why Ketchikan?”
“I love it here. It’s quaint. Peaceful. Cute. Fun. There’s lots to do, but it’s not hectic. People are nice.” I sighed. “Look, babe, this is a different conversation. You said you have to go, and so do I. If you want to talk about why I finally chose something for myself, call me when you have an hour or two to spare.” I smiled at her. “I mean that, despite the sarcasm.”
“You know, I just may do that.” She blew me a kiss. “Love you. I’ll call you later.”
“Love you too, Pops. Bye.” I closed the case on the iPad and leaned back against the chair.
Of all my kids, I worried the most about her. Headstrong,
independent, willful, talented, absurdly intelligent, and more than a little naive, Poppy was a tornado and a firestorm and a wild mustang all rolled into a tiny but explosive package. Her teachers had wanted her to skip grades as early as kindergarten, but I’d refused, wanting her to stay with her classmates and friends. Year after year, she’d tested out of grades, and I’d refused to skip her ahead. Finally, by the time she got to her junior year of high school she was sick of being bored stiff at school and had gone behind my back, forging my signature to get herself sent to the local community college for advanced courses and college credit. I hadn’t caught on until she was three semesters in, and realized I couldn’t hold her back anymore. She’d graduated high school three weeks before her seventeenth birthday and had been accepted to not one, not two, but three Ivy League schools with partial rides. Now at eighteen, she was a sophomore at Columbia…and already over it, it seemed.
I had a feeling I’d have company here in Ketchikan before long.
I had to laugh at how indignant she’d been about Cassie telling me about the Hamptons trip. Fact was, I hadn’t needed Cassie’s information—Poppy had used her credit card, and I’d gotten alerts about it. She didn’t think about things like that. When I’d given her the card for sundry expenses and emergencies, I got notifications every time she used it. She had the mind of an artist—big picture, head in the clouds, full of passion and zeal and always onto the next thing, but never thinking about things like detail or logic or sense. Or, sometimes, basic responsibility.
Despite all that, Poppy could take care of herself, despite last-minute scrambling, sudden realizations, and a lot of reminders from me and her sisters.
Letting her live alone in New York was the scariest thing I’d ever done, and I still wasn’t sure it had been the right thing to do. It was what she wanted, though, and I knew if I’d refused to let her go, she’d have run away or done something silly like that. I thought it was better to send her in a way I could keep tabs on her rather than have her go off on her own with no checks and balances.
I sighed. I had a feeling I’d be getting an angry call from Cassie soon—when Poppy threatened to send a glitter bomb, she wasn’t kidding; that was the kind of thing she’d actually do. Crazy child.
Setting the iPad aside, I tugged my clipboard in front of me and perused my notes about what to do with Lucas’s apartment. I’d decided on something just a few shades lighter than pine green for the walls, and we’d go to a resale shop—different than a thrift store, in terms of the quality of items—for an easy chair, a love seat, a coffee table, and some end tables. I’d find some macho, masculine artwork for the walls—sailboats or pirate ships, animals, landscapes, things like that. I assumed he had little to nothing in the way of dishes or kitchen utensils, so we would need to get that organized, as well.
Sigh. Men. Totally helpless without a woman around. Darren had been the same way—if I left him alone for a weekend, laundry would pile up to the ceilings, dishes would go crusty and moldy, and he’d eat nothing but pizza, frozen chicken nuggets, and carryout.
I set those thoughts aside—specifically Darren and his dietary choices, and the results thereof.
Lucas, though—I knew I needed to stay away from him beyond friendship, simply because he bore the hallmarks of everything that had led to me being a widow in the first place… and then some. He was clearly carrying a few extra pounds, and he knew it. And there were signs of other issues in his life.
But there was an intensity to his gaze, a power in his bearing that even the extra weight couldn’t hide. He was funny, if a little vulgar. Self-deprecating, but there was an air of confidence, too. Or maybe not confidence, necessarily, but a sense that he knew he’d survived the worst life could throw at him and was still on his feet. He knew there was nothing in this world that could take him down—except himself.
Why was I doing this? He couldn’t pay me, and I didn’t need the money. I don’t think he even really wanted the makeover I was planning for his apartment. But he needed it, and I knew that. I didn’t work pro bono—that was for lawyers, not interior designers. Especially not one with my credentials: before Darren had passed away and I’d been faced with the biggest upheaval of my entire life, I’d boasted senators and congressmen and even a former president as my clientele, not to mention high-powered attorneys, investors, and Wall Street bigwigs. If there was a high-end home on the East Coast, and you wanted it to look magazine-worthy, you called Olivia Goode.
Now here I am in tiny, cute, quaint little Ketchikan, where those credentials mean nothing to most everyone. I work for cheap, just to stay busy, and I take clients who think the height of design is a wall full of dead animals.
Nothing wrong with that—I’m not antihunter or vegan or anything, I just eschew taxidermy as a design aesthetic.
Again, I find myself questioning why I’m doing this. Why I’m gathering my keys and heading to Lucas’s apartment, clipboard in hand, fully intending to do a job for free that could’ve cost a couple thousand at a minimum.
For me, it was those big, deep, sad puppy dog eyes, and the story he hadn’t told, but had hinted at.
And dammit, I was lonely. I told Poppy I had friends, which was true enough—there was a group of local women who I went hiking and stand-up paddle boarding and horseback riding with, had coffee with, or the occasional brunch. But nothing…deep. Nothing meaningful.
Did I think I’d get it with Lucas? He was shuttered and wary. Hard-hearted. But there was a hint of a softie in there, under that big gruff bearish demeanor.
There was something about him I was attracted to, and I saw no reason, as yet, to pretend otherwise. We could be friends. Just friends.
Being friends didn’t have to mean anything. And if I had the occasional dream about huge, strong arms and rough, powerful hands and deep, chocolate, ursine eyes, so what? He didn’t need to know, and it didn’t have to mean anything.
I parked outside his building and turned off my truck, but didn’t get out right away. Instead, I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror—since moving here I’d stopped wearing much at all, opting instead for a little color on my lips, some contouring on my cheekbones, and maybe a little mascara. Before, I’d been an avid practitioner of what Darren called “false face”, or the elaborate mask of makeup designed to make one look perfect and ageless. I’d had the smoky eyes and the heavily contoured cheeks and sculpted lips, and my body had been hot yoga trim and my clothes flawlessly understated and elegant.
That was the old me. The East Coast me.
Here, in Ketchikan? I found someone else in her place.
Someone who didn’t like wearing makeup at all most days, who was as comfortable in jeans and flannel and heavy boots as I was pencil skirts and silk blouses and three-inch heels. There had always been a part of me that had loved being outdoors and being active, and Darren had shared that with me, but this was something beyond that.
I wasn’t sure who she was, this new Liv, but I think I liked her.
So why was I fixing my makeup? Something told me Lucas wouldn’t care.
In fact, I had a feeling if I was wearing a lot of makeup, he may even find me less attractive.
I wanted him to like me, though. I wanted to make him laugh. I wanted to get him out of that crusty, coarse, gruff shell of his, and see if I could bring out the man I saw lurking beneath it.
I was wearing my most comfortable skinny jeans, colorful sneakers, and a pale blue, half-zip, pullover fleece. My hair was pulled back from my face by a thin headband, and I’d switched my stuff from my favorite Louis Vuitton purse to a Patagonia crossbody. Casual and sporty rather than the more professional business look I’d sported yesterday—which I’d worn because I’d had a meeting to provide a quote for a client who wanted to update their summer cottage. In other words, wealthy clients who hired me based on my credentials had certain expectations.
Today, my time was my own. No clients, and no work to do.
Sigh. So why was I
worried about my makeup?
On impulse, I reached into the console of my truck and fished a makeup remover wipe from the package I kept in there, and used it to scrub my face clean. For minimal makeup, it was weird that I needed two of them to do the job. What had I been thinking when I got ready this morning?
Oh, that’s right—I’d been thinking about Lucas.
But now that I was about to actually see him, I realized I didn’t want to be wearing all that makeup.
Weird.
I’m still me, with or without it.
But I wanted him to see the Ketchikan version of me.
I exited my truck and buzzed his apartment.
3
Lucas
I wasn’t exactly expecting Oliva to show up. I hoped she would, but I wasn’t banking on it. Nonetheless, I took a shower after work, changed into the cleanest, newest pair of jeans I had, and the only collared polo shirt I owned. I even combed my hair and brushed my beard, although it didn’t get the trim it needed. One step at a time. If she showed up and this turned into some kind of a real friendship, I’d think about cleaning up a bit. So far, though, I’m assuming it ain’t nothing. A passing interest, at best.
So, when my buzzer went off, I was pleasantly surprised. I buzzed her in, and opened my door for her. I heard her coming up the steps, and felt my heart thumping in a way it hadn’t in years and which, considering the heart attack I had a couple of years ago, may not be so great.
She sashayed down to the hall to my door, and my mouth went dry. Dark blue jeans tight enough to hug her slender but strong legs. Mmm, those legs. Her smile was bright and eager, and possibly even a bit nervous.
“Something different about you today, Liv,” I said, as I let her in.
She shrugged. “I’m not all dressed up today. I had a client meeting yesterday.”
I held a straight face. “So I ain’t a client? Meanin’ I don’t rate the fancy clothes?”
Badd Daddy (The Badd Brothers Book 12) Page 3
