Toby shakes his head. “No. I want to paint my nails. I think it’s cool.”
Her brow wrinkles. “But you’re a boy.”
“So?” Toby holds his sister’s gaze until a hint of a smile tugs at her lips.
“What color do you want?” she asks in a small voice.
“What color should I get?” Toby looks at his hands.
“Something glittery because it’s going to be New Year’s soon,” Katie says with a nod. Then she looks at me. “Can we paint our nails when we get home?”
Tears well in my eyes. I nod. “Yeah. We’ll do it together.”
Katie slips her hand back into mine, and my anger vanishes. Toby, instead of moving to my other side, takes his sister’s free hand. I meet his gaze over her head and quickly brush a tear from my eye. Toby just gives me a cheeky little smile, and we head out to the car.
An hour later, we all have glittery nails.
37
Jen
When I get to work the first Monday of the new year, the first thing I see is Fiona’s face. She’s standing behind the counter at Four Cups, and she looks stricken.
There’s a piece of paper in her hands.
When she lifts her gaze to meet mine, her brows draw together.
“What?” I frown. “What is it?”
She clears her throat, staring at the paper again. “Fallon just put in his notice. His last day is in two weeks.”
“His—” I stop, frowning. My heart thumps. “Fallon quit?”
Fiona lets out a long sigh. “He said he had another talented chef lined up to take his place. A young guy who worked with him before who’s not happy at his current job. He said he could stay on for an extra week to show him the ropes if we needed him.”
I don’t give a shit about the new chef, but I don’t say that. I just feel my throat constrict as I glance toward the kitchen. “Fallon quit his job?” I repeat.
“Oh, Jen, I’m so sorry.” Fiona puts the paper down and comes around the counter, and I endure a hug from her for a few moments before pulling away.
“I should get to work,” I say. “Amanda will be here soon. She has the proof copy of my book to show me.”
I’d hoped to show Fallon the fruits of all my hard work. I wanted his feedback. I wanted him to be happy for me.
But when I walk into the kitchen and see his broad back standing at the prep station, all I feel is dread.
“You’re quitting?” I say, my voice coming out strangely.
Fallon pauses as he chops chives, putting his knife down on the board. He turns slowly, his dark, dark eyes lifting inch by inch to meet mine. He gives me a slow nod. “It’s time for me to move on.”
“But…” I trail off. “But, why? I thought you loved it here.”
“I did,” he answers quietly, and I don’t miss the fact that he used the past tense. He lets out a long sigh. “There’s nothing for me here, Jen. I’m stagnant. My life is in a holding pattern, and I need to move on.”
There’s a sharp, pulsing pain in my chest.
Somewhere, deep in the recesses of my mind, I thought he’d always be here. I thought I could push him away, but I’d still get to see him. I thought, maybe, in time, we could pick up where we left off.
I’m so, so stupid.
“Hello-oo!” a singsong voice calls out. Amanda steps into the kitchen, brandishing a bag. “I’ve got a late Christmas present for you.” Her smile fades when she sees my face. “What’s wrong? What happened?” Her eyes flick to the other side of the kitchen, and her face does that softening gaga thing it does whenever Fallon’s around. “Hey, Fallon.”
“Amanda.” He nods, then turns back to his prep work.
Amanda slides up to me and reaches into the bag. She pulls out a gorgeous, glossy book featuring a perfect, beautiful picture of my salted caramel brownies. My name is right there on the front. Jennifer Newbank.
“You don’t look happy.”
I glance up to see Amanda frowning at me, so I try to force my lips to curl up. “I am,” I lie. I flip the book open as I set it down on the counter, running my fingers over all my best recipes, finally in print. “I can’t believe it’s done.”
Amanda puts a hand on my forearm, and I look up to see a soft, kind smile on her face. “You worked hard, Jen. You deserve it. It’s normal to be overwhelmed.”
I nod, throat tight. “Yeah. I’ll have a look through this tonight and let you know if I see anything that needs to be changed.”
“There’s already buzz around this book, Jen. It’s going to be huge.” She puts her hands out. “Huge.”
That does put a real smile on my face. I nod, run my hands over the book I poured my heart and soul into, and try to ignore the fact that soon, everything will change.
Fallon appears on my other side, his arm brushing mine as he reaches to flip the book over to look at the front. His fingers slide over my name, and I finally gather the courage to look at him. His eyes are impossible to read. Guarded.
“Congrats, Jen,” he says in that deep, rumbly voice. “I’m happy for you.”
I just nod, sadness sinking deep into my gut. He’s leaving. He’ll be gone soon. “Thanks.”
Suddenly I can’t take it anymore. I have to say it out loud. “Fallon quit,” I tell Amanda, jabbing my thumb toward his chest. Then I clamp my mouth shut and turn to look at him.
“You quit?” Amanda says, her voice quiet, subdued. “Do you have another job lined up?”
Fallon looks at her over my head, and I just want to shrink down to nothing. He sweeps a broad palm over his jaw and releases a sigh. “I’ve got things I need to do.”
Amanda frowns. “Things?”
Fallon looks at me, then looks at Amanda, and nods to the back door. “Can I talk to you?”
They’re gone for a few long minutes. Amanda comes back first, her face drawn. She grabs her bag from the counter beside me and gives me a curt nod. “Let me know what you think. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Is everything okay?”
She pinches her lips, then drops her shoulders. “I broke up with Fallon five years ago, and I thought it was the right decision. Then I came here, and it felt like a mistake. I missed him. Who wouldn’t?” She huffs and glances at the back door before sliding her eyes back to mine. “It was stupid of me to hold on to the past. I know it never would have worked between us. We’re too different.” She slaps a hand on her forehead and squeezes her eyes shut. “I think I just need to get laid. Badly.”
I stand completely, utterly still. I’m not sure if I’m uncomfortable or happy or upset.
Her eyes open and land on me. “Anyway, it’s over now. Really over.”
Happy. I’m happy. Does that make me an awful person?
“And…how do you feel about it being over between the two of you?”
Amanda releases a sigh and gives me a tight smile. “I’ll live.” She hooks her bag over her shoulder and looks at me strangely. “How do you feel about Fallon leaving?”
“Terrible,” I tell her honestly.
She snorts. “I like you, Jen. I’ll call you later about your comments on the book.” Then she’s turning around and walking out to the front of house, her heels clicking on the floors with every step.
A gust of air tells me Fallon is back. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I’m the first to look away.
38
Trina
“I’m not going to go,” I tell Candice.
She whirls to face me, mascara wand in hand. “Excuse me?” She’s got one eye done as she shoves the wand back in its tube and points it at me. “What did you just say?”
I snap my blush shut. “I’m not going to the gallery. Why would I? Kevin’s only showing pieces in Heart’s Cove because he wants to get to me. He wants to weasel his way back into my life. If I don’t go, he can’t do that. He won’t win.” I glance at the door, intending to walk downstairs to tell Allie I don’t need her to babysit the kids after all.
“No, if you don’t go, he wi
ll win.” Fiona steps out of the en-suite bathroom, a curling iron in hand. “If you go, look at his stupid paintings, and show him that you don’t care what he does, he’ll know that this is your town. If you stay away, you’re telling him he can stomp all over your turf.”
“Plus, Mac is showing some pieces too.” Simone walks in with a fresh bottle of wine.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” I answer.
Everyone rolls their eyes. Even Jen, who’s the designated driver and therefore not full of wine like the rest of us.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Fiona says, thrusting her glass out for a refill.
“Guys, I already told Mac I didn’t want anything with him. He said he missed me and I told him I wasn’t interested. It’s done. As in, finished.”
“So?” Simone gives me the sassiest eyebrow arch I’ve ever seen.
“This is stupid,” I say, but I flip my blush compact back open. “Going there tonight is a bad idea.”
“Going there tonight is a great idea,” Candice says. “You’ll look like a bombshell, you’ll fangirl over Mac’s pottery while totally ignoring Kevin’s dumb, pretentious paintings, and then you’ll catwalk out of there without even giving that asshole the time of day.”
I have to admit, when my sister says it like that, it does sound pretty good. So that’s how, an hour later, I end up in front of a previously vacant store which has been transformed into a bright gallery with all-white walls. When we pile out of Jen’s car and stand outside, the door bursts open.
My mother stumbles out. “It’s terrible in there. Not worth it.” She points to the car. “We should go.”
I frown. “What?”
Candice’s eyes are narrowed as she meets my mother’s wide-eyed gaze. “What are you talking about, Mom?”
“Terrible exhibit. Terrible art. Waste of time.” She turns me around and pushes me toward the car.
“Mom, stop.” I shake her off. “What’s gotten into you? If it’s terrible, won’t it be more entertaining?”
“No. Awful. Waste of time.” She spins me around again and I sidestep her, only to see Dorothy and Margaret in the doorway.
They both shake their heads. “It’s a bust, ladies. Let’s go to the Cedar Grove for a drink.”
I exchange a glance with the girls and plant my hands on my hips. “What the hell is going on here?”
My mother wrings her hands. Let me repeat that: my mother, Lottie Viceroy, the woman who has never been unsure of anything in her life, wrings her hands. “I really think it’s best if you don’t go in there, honey,” she tells me. “It’s…it’s Kevin’s stuff. It’s bad.”
“Bad, how?” I ask, a pit opening up in my stomach.
“Just…bad.” She jerks her head to the car. “Please, sweetheart?”
I stare at my mother, and finally shake my head. “Nothing he can do is that bad, Mom. I just spent two hours getting ready while I let these girls convince me this was a good idea. I’m going in there.”
Dorothy sucks in a breath and looks at Margaret, and they finally step aside for me to walk into the gallery.
The first thing I see is Mac’s work. Three vases are displayed on their own white, knee-high pedestals, each of them more gorgeous than the last. They’re huge—almost as tall as me—all sweeping curves and fluted openings. The first reminds me of the vase I broke, but it’s about three times the size. It’s painted in deep purple and navy blues, with splatters of a starry night sky. There’s some sort of metallic glaze in the starry splatter, making the whole thing twinkle like a true night sky. The middle vase is all bright yellow and orange and vibrant green, like a midsummer’s day. It has two big, gracefully curved handles. The third vase is breathtaking. It’s tall and thin with a rolled top, glazed to look like a sunrise—or maybe a sunset.
I stop short, breathless.
I had no idea he was capable of this. The pieces he made for Four Cups are simplistic compared to these three vases. There’s no other way to describe them but pure, soul-shattering beauty—made by his own strong hands.
“Wow,” Simone says beside me.
“I know,” I whisper.
“Oh, that ass,” Candice mumbles from the other side, and, frowning, I follow her gaze to the far wall.
And my stomach bottoms out.
Four massive canvases are displayed on the back wall of the gallery, and I know Kevin’s work the moment I see it. Oil paint, all vibrant colors and hyper-realism.
He painted me.
The first canvas is me in bed, wearing my favorite pajamas, a silky, olive-green cami-and-short set that used to cling to my body in a way I liked. He’s painted me lying on my side, all soft curves, my clothes hiked up high over my hips and my breasts nearly spilling out of my top. It’s…vulgar. My nipples are poking through the fabric, the straps falling off my shoulders. My hair is spread over the pillow in a wild halo. I stare at it, heart thumping, feeling oddly, horribly violated. He took a moment of vulnerability—when I was literally asleep in his bed—and presented it to the world. He put me on display.
The second canvas is me, crying with slashes of red and black behind me. Mascara is streaked down my face, red lipstick smudged. I look like a fucking mess.
The third painting is a depiction of me walking away, Katie held over my hip as Toby walks beside me with his hand in mine. There are suitcases beside us, and I’m looking over my shoulder, through the canvas, the picture of an angry, venomous woman.
And the fourth canvas is a self-portrait of Kevin, head in hand, tears spilling down his cheeks, hair disheveled. Pathetic and sad and in need of sympathy.
Together, they tell a story, and the story is: She was perfect when she was meek, quiet, asleep, until she blew up and took my kids away, leaving me on my own.
“He’s literally painted himself as the victim,” I say, stunned. My voice is muted, far away. Somehow, my feet have carried me closer to the canvases, and I laugh when I see the price tags. “He wants twenty-five hundred dollars for each of these.” I turn to Candice, who’s standing beside me with her hand over her mouth.
My sister meets my gaze, horrified. And that’s when I realize the room has gone silent. Dozens of pairs of eyes are on me as I turn my back to the paintings and watch each and every person in the room make the connection.
My heart thumps. I want the ground to swallow me up, because this is the most humiliating moment of my life. My ex-husband, the decorated, genius artist, has painted a story that in no way reflects reality. The people staring at me whisper behind raised hands, and I can hear what they’re saying.
That’s her. That’s the woman who took his kids and left him.
I want to scream. Where’s the painting that shows him cheating on me? Where’s the painting that shows me raising our kids? Where’s the painting of me giving him thirteen years of my life? Where’s the painting of every snide comment he made to cut me down?
I’m shaking. I can barely stand. I grip my sister’s arm so hard she winces, but I can’t let go or I’ll fall. I can’t… I don’t…
What the fuck?
Kevin appears in my line of vision, a smug smile on his lips. He spreads his arms. “What do you think, Katrina? Some of my best work, no?”
“No,” I answer.
Kevin chuckles and joins me, looking up at his paintings. “I think I captured the essence of the past year quite well, actually.”
“You had no right to paint me,” I hiss.
“The muse strikes at the oddest times,” he replies, eyes on the painting of me in bed.
I feel sick. I need a shower. I need to scrub my body raw just to get rid of this slimy feeling on my skin.
I want to rip it up. I want to take a knife and tear through that canvas until it’s reduced to ribbons. I want to burn it from my memory, from everyone else’s mind. I want to erase this from existence, forever.
A woman in all black hurries toward us. She leans toward Kevin, her face pulled tight with excitement. “Mr. Pauls
on, we’ve just had an offer on all four pieces.”
Kevin’s eyes dart to me, triumph written in his gaze. “All four of them to the same buyer?”
I’m going to puke.
“There’s just one condition,” the woman says quietly. “They ask to take possession of the paintings immediately.”
Kevin’s eyes leave mine as he frowns, looking at the gallery manager. “Immediately? So they wouldn’t be displayed beyond tonight?” He glances around the room. “There aren’t even fifty people in the room, and they’re all from around here.” His voice goes up. “No one has seen these yet! No one important, anyway.”
The woman spreads her palms. “It’s your choice, of course, but it’s a very generous offer.” She drops her voice. “The buyer said that he would double the purchase price to take possession immediately. He was quite taken with them.”
“Double—” Kevin chokes on the word, then he can’t agree fast enough. “Yeah, of course. Sure. He’s got great taste.” He smiles, eyes flicking back to me. “The buyer was quite taken with these, Trina, so I guess I have you to thank.”
The woman produces a paper from a black folder held under her arm, and with a few quick strokes of his pen, Kevin makes the deal in front of me.
Twenty thousand dollars. Someone paid twenty grand to buy these four paintings right now because they loved my pain so much. What kind of sick fuck would—
Mac walks out from a side room and nods to the gallery manager, then strides to the first painting—the one of me in bed. He tears it off the wall and tosses it facedown on the floor. It lands with a loud slap on the hardwood. Everyone jumps.
I look at the wooden frame, the canvas stapled around the edges, then back at Mac.
He’s already got the second canvas in hand and is tossing it down on top of the first. It clatters down, then slides off the first one, landing at an angle.
The crowd gasps. I look up to see my mother on the other side of the room, both hands held to her mouth.
The third canvas lands on top of the other two, and I finally snap out of my stupor.
Dirty Little Midlife Disaster: A Motorcycle Hottie Romantic Comedy (Heart’s Cove Hotties Book 4) Page 24
