“I mean, no one’s… hurt you?” Her voice quavered at the end. She wasn’t naïve. Cal had Jackson’s good looks. Surfing bulked his muscle mass, but perverts came in all sizes.
He blinked three times in rapid succession, reminding her of a tic he’d developed the first three months of preschool. “I can take care of myself. Just a bunch of druggies, DUIs, and a guy who got loaded and peed off a hotel balcony one too many times during spring break. Look, it’s Daytona Beach, not Miami. You’re worrying for nothing.”
His life had imploded, but he reassured her. She moistened her lips. “Dad talked to you about posting bail?”
Cal flicked his chin up, then down.
Starr would sleep in the house on Riverside Drive where she and Jackson had lived for thirty years, but her heart would be trapped here with Cal for the duration of his stay. The unfairness of her sentence churned bile into her throat. She should think about Cal’s pain, but right now her own was more than she could stomach. “Twenty-one grams of pot. What were you thinking?”
Cal shrugged.
“Forty-two joints. Did you plan to sell them?”
Cal’s eyes widened. “Since when do you know how many joints can be rolled from twenty-one grams?”
Starr glanced at the perfectly shaped half-moons of her nails. “Since my mother grew weed in the backyard.”
Cal’s brows shot up.
Her fingertips had grazed the scar at her temple before she realized and clenched them in her lap. She had to hold together the fissure Cal had cracked in her. No matter what. God only knew what would ooze out.
Jackson’s hand had stilled on her head.
Her eyes stared out the window at the palm fronds ruffling in the breeze. Cal in jail, as horrible as it had been for her, felt safer than Cal on the run. She couldn’t survive not knowing whether he was dead or alive.
She should pray for Cal. For his safety, that he’d come home. Her mind drifted to what Cal must be feeling and fishtailed away. She could only pray that God would make her pain stop. Jackson would have to pray for Cal.
Aly’s text ricocheted around Cal’s body, his sleep-furred mind. She was here in West Palm Beach. She wanted to see him. To talk him into coming home, no doubt. No way was he going back to jail. He wouldn’t answer. He checked the time. Noon. He’d been asleep nine hours.
In his mind he saw Aly driving up and down the coast until she spotted the Escape.
He should set course for Grand Bahama and take off. Not even Aly could make him change his mind.
But the ache to see her one last time intensified as sleep sloughed off. She deserved a goodbye. He squinted at the shoreline looking for Aly’s car.
His text alert chimed. Please, Cal. I know you’re here. Somewhere. Just talk to me. I love you.
Her words knocked the air from his lungs. Even knowing he was running, she loved him. Even after jail. Sinking the business. Wasting sixty-two grand of her money.
Twenty minutes later he rowed for shore where Aly would meet him, his heart lay like ballast in his chest. He glanced over his shoulder. There she was, standing on the beach. He devoured her with his eyes, the last time he’d see her. Ever.
The dinghy slid across the sand to a stop.
Smoky gray skin underlined her bloodshot eyes. “What’s going on?”
He stared at the sole of the dinghy where the paint chipped off and exposed bare wood. His shoulders slumped.
He could feel her gaze beating down on him.
He gave a dry laugh. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m running.” The words were monotone. He didn’t look up to see her reaction, didn’t want to see his mother’s disappointment in her eyes.
“Don’t.”
His head came up. “I’m not going back to jail.” He dared her to argue.
“How will you live?”
He shrugged. “I’ll eat fish. Lie low. Disappear in the Bahamas.”
The color drained from Aly’s face, and she reached out to steady herself on the edge of the boat.
“Maybe they’d revoke my plea bargain, reinstate the felony. I could be sent up for five years. I’m not taking that chance.”
Aly sunk to the sand as though she couldn’t support herself any longer.
He’d been a coward not to tell her to her face to begin with. And now he couldn’t stand to watch her reaction. “What do you want me to do?”
“Turn yourself in.”
“No.”
“They will go easy on you if you do the right thing.”
Cal stepped out of the boat to push it back into the water. “Believe that, and I’ll tell you another fairytale.”
Aly winced. “I’ll worry myself crazy.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me.”
Aly went up on her knees and clutched the edge of the dinghy. “Liar. You’ll be living under the law, Cal. Not safe. Do you think I’m that naïve?”
“There’s no choice to make. I’m not going back in there where they choose the color of your underwear, every day is like the last—TV, shitty food, everyone is existing, not really living, caged like animals.”
“But when you get out, you’re free to do anything you want.”
“Try getting a job with a record.”
“And hiding from the law for the rest of your life is better?” Aly grabbed the rim of the dinghy and stood. She closed the few feet between them. “Do this one thing for me. I’ll never ask you to do anything again.”
The pleading in her voice and the ache in her eyes contracted his chest. “You’re asking for five years of my life.”
Her hazel eyes—more brown than green in full sun—burned into his. “Yes, I am.” Her hand gripped his arm as though she’d never let go. Her eyes widened, and her fingertips dug into his arm. “You said you loved me when we were locked in the head.”
He stared into her eyes.
“Prove it.”
“You’re not the one who would have to rot in jail.”
“If you run, I’ll rot the rest of my life—never knowing if you’ve been swallowed by the drug culture. If you’re dead or alive—”
“I’ll send you birthday cards.”
She flung his arm down, and he could see the white imprint of where her fingers had clamped down on his skin. “Gee, thanks.” She spit disgust out with the words. “Even if you live, you’re killing your art future. Art is all about making a name for yourself. You know you can’t exist without producing art. How are you going to paint on the boat? And what’s the point of spending the rest of your life painting if no one will ever see your work?”
He glared back, not wanting her to know she was getting to him.
“And I thought the Escape was half mine. Is it half mine only if you don’t need it as a getaway vehicle?”
She was mad and fighting dirty now. He’d never seen her go to the wall against him for anything. And what she was doing to his gut wasn’t pretty. He gritted his teeth, waiting for her to wind down.
He should just leave now.
Aly sucked in a breath, then another, calming herself.
He couldn’t leave. He wanted to hear everything she had to say.
“When Vic pointed that sawed-off shotgun at me, you stepped between me and him. You would have taken a bullet for me.”
“I’d do it again.”
“Five years in jail is less a sacrifice than death.” She clutched his bicep. “You know what the worst thing about your running would be?”
“What?”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’d never see you again.”
Whether he ran or went to jail, he doubted he’d end up with Aly. But something clicked inside him. She loved him. She really loved him—like she’d said on the boat. Like she’d said two and a half years ago in Cody’s garage. It was true. “Fine. I’ll do it.” He yanked his arm out of her grasp, angry that she’d won.
Pictures of sun and fish and sailing swept out of his mind. In rushed a grainy visitation video of windows with bars, th
e stink of bleach, Maalox green walls, the social order that laid every man out on a grid according to race and attitude.
“I’m coming with you.”
“To prison?” He spit the words out.
“To turn yourself in.”
“You don’t trust me to do what I say?”
“So you don’t have to do it alone.”
He pushed the boat into the water.
She shot questions at him with her eyes.
“I’ll do it tomorrow.”
He saw the doubt run across her features, but he was too spent to fight her. “Get in.”
Morning sun warmed Aly’s eyelids, and for a hazy moment she was at peace. Then, water lapped against the hull. The boat rocked. Yesterday’s events sloshed in her stomach with last night’s canned chili. She was in West Palm Beach, not at the marina in New Smyrna.
Cal had barely spoken a word to her since she stood on the beach. He was angry, cold. But it didn’t matter. He would be safer in jail than on the run. She’d never wanted anything so badly in her life. Even if Cal never spoke to her again, it would be worth it to know he was safe. That he had a future.
She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, filled her lungs with cold morning air, and dropped her legs over the side of the fore bunk.
She had lain in her bunk with terror’s adrenaline pin-balling through her body for what felt like hours—wondering if Cal would actually go through with it. When she’d asked him if he was suicidal, he’d barked out a harsh laugh and said he wished he had the balls to do it. Finally, Van Gogh whined to share the narrow bunk and exhaustion claimed her.
She looked around for the dog. How had he gotten out of bed without waking her? In the head she splashed cold water on the dregs of sleep and used the toothbrush she kept in the cupboard.
In minutes she’d find out whether Cal would send her home alone. Whether he was dead.
She reached for her brush from her purse on the table in the dining nook. She stared at the empty metal circle on one end where she’d clipped her car keys last night. A blade of panic whispered through her.
Chapter 23
January 29
Like a life, every good piece of art has a focal point. When I started The Art of My Life six years ago, I thought my focal point was my blog—for about a month. Then, whatever relationship I was in, my career. Finally, I found my focal point in the Divine. What’s yours?
Aly at www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com
Aly scrambled up the companionway. Dread monkeyed to her back. Her eyes scanned the boat. Scanned again.
Her gaze caught and riveted to Cal’s golden corkscrew curls springing out from his head, partially hidden by the aft cabin. He sat on the transom, squinting into the sun toward Grand Bahama as if it were visible on the horizon. Van Gogh curled beside him.
Relief sifted with fear he’d changed his mind. She glanced down at her rumpled sweatshirt and jeans. “I’m ready to go.”
Cal’s head swiveled toward her, his expression as sullen as it had been last night, but resigned.
“Have you seen my keys?”
Cal stood, pulled them out of his jeans pocket and tossed them to her.
The impact of the warm metal stung her palm, and she closed her fingers around the keys. Her heart quivered. Thank God he didn’t take off in the middle of the night.
They didn’t speak again until she pulled off Mason Avenue three and a half hours later in front of the Department of Corrections in Daytona Beach.
She took a deep breath and blurted out the question she’d wanted to ask him for two days. “When was the last time you smoked?”
He was silent so long she moved her gaze from the windshield to Cal.
“Couple days after Christmas.”
“The twenty-seventh?”
“Wednesday.”
“The twenty-eighth.” She did the math, and her heart lifted. “It’s been thirty days. You’ll test clean.”
“I still broke probation.”
She opened her door and Van Gogh vaulted between the seats and bounded out the door after her.
Cal didn’t move.
Please, God. She waited for Van Gogh to do his business, cracked the windows, ordered him back in the car, and rewarded him with one of the doggie treats she’d stashed in the console.
Cal stepped onto the pavement, hunched his shoulders, and walked toward the building. He let the door shut in Aly’s face, and she pulled it open.
She bee-lined toward the women’s rest room. She didn’t want him out of her sight, but her bladder wouldn’t wait. She held her breath as she exited. Would Cal be there? Her eyes scanned the empty lobby. She looked again, slower.
He stood off in a hallway, leaning against the wall.
She let her breath out. So, he wanted to make her sweat. But he was still here.
She stopped in front of him, but he stared over her shoulder.
Hooded eyes met hers, angry, afraid. “I hope you’re happy.” He kissed her with cool, dry lips that held no affection. He strode to the end of the hall. He didn’t look back before he stepped through a doorway and disappeared.
But she didn’t regret forcing him to go back to jail. The first time Cal had gone to jail, she’d lain awake worrying about his safety. Now, jail had become the safe place.
Cal had never seemed so… distant before. Even when they had been estranged over Evie, she always felt like he wished things were different. She’d never forget today’s tightly controlled anger. A stranger had swallowed up the Cal she loved.
Cal had erased any question of a future with him. He would never forgive her for making him go back to jail. And she wouldn’t risk her heart on the stranger with the cold lips Cal had morphed into. A man who nearly chose to cut off all ties to her for the rest of his life. Like Daddy.
Fish watched Aly drive away as he rowed toward the Escape. She’d be home in three hours. The Escape would be lucky if she sailed the same distance in twenty, even with the help of the Gulf Stream.
He didn’t mind sailing the boat back to New Smyrna Beach to help out Aly, but he’d rather have done the job alone than have had Missy’s help. Missy as much as said she didn’t want him on her list. That she was right only hacked him off more. He didn’t want a spot on her stinking list anyway. He didn’t want to sign on the dotted line for pain.
He grabbed hold of the transom, pulled the dinghy alongside the ladder, and reached automatically toward Missy to help her up the ladder. His pearl dangled at her neck. He pulled his hand back. He’d be damned if he was touching her again.
They got the Escape underway with a minimum of words, and Fish settled in behind the wheel. He and Cal had learned to sail on this boat. He didn’t want to think about that now.
Half an hour later Missy handed him a heaping plate of corned beef hash, green beans and applesauce she must have scavenged from Cal’s canned goods.
It felt like days since he’d downed a bowl of Frosted Flakes in New Smyrna Beach. The food was hot, and he couldn’t help being grateful Missy had gone to the trouble of fixing it. “Aren’t you eating?”
Missy took a seat in the cockpit. “Not hungry.”
Three-fourths of the way through the plate, he handed it over to her. “Eat something. If you plan on taking some shifts, you’ll need the energy.”
She picked up his fork and ate without comment.
Something about her eating after him without hesitation chipped at the anger he’d been nursing.
Not that he wanted to talk to Missy, but her silence felt weird, so different from her normal personality. She hadn’t said a word in over an hour. He glanced at her.
Tears leaked from underneath her sunglasses. She turned her head away from him and wiped the wetness from her cheeks.
Oh, man. A knot formed in the middle of his chest. Even as a little girl, Missy was never much of a crier. He sucked in a breath and let it go, but the knot didn’t move. “What’s wrong?”
She tossed her glasses on
to the bench, giving up on holding in the tears. She pulled her knees up and buried her head in her arms. Her shoulders shook.
He gripped the wheel tighter, keeping himself from wrapping her in his arms. She didn’t want him touching her.
She took a shaky breath and looked up at him. “How could Cal even think about running? Doesn’t he care about me at all? He’d just walk out of my life without a word.”
“It’s not about you. He didn’t do this to ex you out of his life. He hated jail. You can understand that.”
“Yeah, but why doesn’t he think about how the choices he makes affect all the people who love him?”
Fish hurt for Cal. He wanted to study Cal’s case, study the law, and find a way to keep him out of jail. “I… I think it would be hard to do at a time like this.”
“I want the brother back who threatened the kid who dissed me with a baseball bat.”
“He’s treated us all shitty.”
“Yeah, that’s why you risked your life to rescue him.”
“And yours. Don’t remind me.” But all he could think about was his lips on Missy’s in the dark cabin, her response. He adjusted the wheel, smoothing the luff out of the mainsail.
Missy tugged the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re turning out to be a better brother than Cal or Jesse. Thanks.” She stood. “I better go below for some sleep if I’m going to spell you later. Wake me when you need a break.”
He didn’t want to be Missy’s brother. He wanted… so much more. He stared across the star-littered sky. Missy had been proud of him once. Even he had been satisfied with the guy who shaved every third day. He’d dreamed of becoming an agent of change in politics—fighting human trafficking, immigration injustices, over-priced healthcare. His morality seemed poured in concrete.
Then, his parents and siblings had ditched him. Anger had jack-hammered his dream, his character, his relationship with his family, and his spirituality.
Missy forced him to look in the mirror. He’d been shaving every day for years, and he didn’t like who he’d become—a guy who piled shame on Missy’s guilt-sloped shoulders, one who’d come whisper-close to making it with Evie just because he could.
The Art of My Life Page 21
