Better Luck Next Time

by Denise Grover Swank

  “No,” he said, glancing down at her. “You’re in charge, Addy.”

  The rest of the group had followed them over. While Jack still seemed a little pissed, or at least out of sorts, River had apparently come around. He walked over to the shed door and took hold of the handle. “Addy, we know that you haven’t had a space at home to work on your art. You shouldn’t have to drive across town to do what you love. So Jack, Finn, and I set this up for you.”

  He opened the door, revealing that all the junk it had previously contained had been cleared out. The built-in back shelves, which had sported rusty tools, were now covered with blank canvases and multiple coffee cans with paintbrushes. There was a small plastic container full of tubes of paint, and wooden and plastic artist’s palettes. An easel was propped up against the wall.

  There hadn’t been any lighting in the shed, but now a string of outdoor lights had been strung around the ceiling and River walked in and plugged it into an extension cord. The lights burst to life, making the room bright and cheery, despite the fact that it only had two small windows, one on either side.

  “Dottie said light was important,” Jack said, having joined them at the corner of the shed.

  “If it’s not enough,” Finn said, “we can add more.”

  She shot him a look of surprise. “You helped with this?”

  “It was his idea,” River said. “What do you think?”

  Adalia couldn’t help noticing that Dottie had been surprisingly quiet through all of this. She must have helped them figure out what supplies to get, especially since everything was brand new. The shed rehab must have cost hundreds of dollars. River was running short on funds, and Jack was borrowing from his savings until Buchanan was in the black, refusing to take a salary since Georgie was funding everything. Who had paid for it?

  “Oh!” Georgie shouted behind her, and Adalia turned to see her running through the side gate. “You showed her without me. I haven’t even gotten dinner started yet.”

  “Adalia knew something was up,” Finn called out to her, as if that were explanation enough.

  “Is this when you have me committed?” Adalia asked, nervous to face her sister after she’d blown up on her earlier. Again.

  “What?” Georgie asked. “No! Why would you say that? After Finn told River about…you know, they decided to create a studio for you.”

  “But you helped,” Adalia said.

  “Nope, this was all them. I was stuck at work all day. Some nightmare with the machinery.”

  “But you paid for…” Her voice trailed off as the truth hit her, and she glanced up at Finn.

  He cringed. “Before you cover me with paint, just listen, okay?”

  Tears filled her eyes, and she tugged her hand free, then wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest. “Thank you.”

  Before he could respond, she pulled free and turned to face them all. “This means more to me than you know.”

  “Do you want to get started on something?” Georgie asked, motioning to the open door. “Or go in and look around? I know you want your privacy, so we’ll all leave you alone. You can do…whatever you need to do. I’m making you homemade mac and cheese and fish sticks.”

  “Fish sticks?”

  Georgie gave her a sheepish look. “It was your favorite when we were kids. So do you want us to give you some time out here?”

  Adalia shook her head. “No, this is enough for now.”

  They’d gone to so much effort to put this together and give her a space of her own. Their generosity, their wish to help her, it meant so much to her. But even if she gave in to her urges and let herself create, she wouldn’t do it here. It made her feel like a bitch given all the effort and money they’d poured into it, but she felt absolutely no draw to this space.

  Maybe she would never create again.

  Georgie gave her a curious look, and Adalia walked over and gave her a hug. “Thank you.”

  “Why do you smell like gas station burritos and tequila?”

  Adalia laughed as she gave Georgie another squeeze. “It’s a long story,” she said, pulling free. “Let’s go inside, and I’ll help you turn on the oven.”

  “That part isn’t hard,” Georgie teased.

  “Which is why I’m so good at it.”

  Adalia started to head for the back porch, but she spotted Finn making a beeline for the side gate. She rushed over and blocked his path.

  “You’re leaving?” she asked, surprised at the depth of her disappointment.

  “Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I have a dinner to go to tonight.”

  “Oh.” The way he’d said it was so vague, like he didn’t want to say who he was meeting. Was it a woman?

  She felt suddenly awkward and off-balance. “So about the art show…when do you want to get started with the planning?”

  Something flickered in his eyes, and suddenly he seemed more guarded. “How about we meet for coffee on Saturday afternoon?”

  “Not for margarita pitchers?” she teased. Then her face flushed. “Sorry if I embarrassed you. And I’m sorry if I got…out of hand.”

  He grinned. “You didn’t.” He swallowed and lowered his voice. “Thank you for trusting me with your secret. I swear I won’t tell a soul. I mean that.”

  “Thanks.”

  He started to say something, then stopped, and she almost teased him that the man who could talk about anything now seemed tongue-tied. But he spoke first.

  “You’re not going to use it, are you?” he asked quietly.

  Her pulse kicked up. Was he going to be pissed? But there was no anger or disappointment in his eyes, only understanding.

  “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “But you all went to so much trouble.”

  He slowly shook his head. “You have enough baggage with your art without adding any more to the mix, so no guilt, okay?” he said as he reached up and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “This was about giving you options. You do what you need to do to make yourself feel whole, and to hell with everyone else, okay?”

  Tears filled her eyes again. “It’s not that easy, Finn.”

  “But it is,” he said insistently. “Alan stole something from you, and you need to do whatever it takes to get it back, Addy.” He gestured to the group of people watching them. “They all feel the same way. They’ll understand.” He gave her a sad smile. “Just like I understand we can only be friends.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek before pushing open the gate.

  Wait. What? Why could they only be friends?

  “Finn,” she called after him. “Didn’t River bring you here?”

  He held up his phone, giving her a cocky grin. “Uber.”

  It struck her that she’d spent the better part of the last week wishing Finn would go away, that he’d stop hounding her about her art. But now that she wanted him to stay, he was walking away from her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Finn’s father had gotten to the restaurant before him, because of course he had. His dad had once told him it was a power move—a way to keep the other person on their toes.

  Too bad his father pulled the maneuver with family as much as he did with his business partners.

  “There he is,” his dad said, standing and offering his hand for a shake. If Finn’s mom had been there, she would have hugged him, but this was a business trip, and even though she could technically travel with his father, she never had.

  Oh, I have my bridge club and the gardening society, she’d say.

  In reality, though, Finn thought his parents didn’t much like each other. It almost felt like they’d had a role in mind and found the person to fit it. They coexisted without much fuss—he’d never heard any explosive fights between them, but he couldn’t remember any signs of affection either. The most he’d ever seen was a quick peck on the lips.

  That wasn’t something Finn wanted, not ever. Some strategies that worked for business didn’t work for life
. Never would.

  He found himself thinking of Adalia—of the look on her face when he’d told her that he knew they could only be friends. It had seemed almost regretful. Or did he just want to think that?

  No, he was good at reading people. Most of the time. And if he was totally honest with himself, he’d partially said it to see how she’d react.

  After a hearty handshake, he sat opposite his father. A waiter came around and asked for his drink order, and he requested water. It only partially had to do with the margaritas at lunch and at dinner last night. He wanted to keep his wits about him. He had the feeling his father was here to sell him on something, and Reed Hamilton was the kind of man who believed in a hard sell.

  “How’s Mom?” he asked, picking up a menu.

  “Good, good,” his dad said dismissively. “She sends her love.”

  “What are you up here for, anyway?”

  “A client likes the golf courses. Has a thing for the mountains.”

  They made idle chitchat about the weather—the weather!—until the waiter came by to take their orders.

  “You know, Son,” his father said, finally ready to get down to brass tacks. “Your mother and I would like to see you move a little closer to home. I know you’re not interested in investment banking, so I won’t ask, but a friend of mine is funding a little start-up in Charlotte that might be of interest to you. Something to do with artificial intelligence and robotics. They have the talent, but they’re looking for someone to see them through to market. I told him about what you did with Big Catch, despite knowing nothing about beer in the beginning, and he was impressed. I thought I’d at least pass on the information.”

  “What applications?” Finn asked. Because damn it, he hadn’t expected him to drop something so interesting.

  “They’re going to improve upon those little robots people buy to clean the floors. Put together models to help out at home and whatnot. But it sounds like there’ll be applications to other fields down the line. Healthcare. Transportation.”

  Before Finn knew it, their dinners had arrived, and he’d agreed to at least talk to the team. Not that it would go anywhere. Even if it was the opportunity of a lifetime, he wasn’t interested in moving back to Charlotte. Nor did he want to accept yet another boost from his dad.

  His thoughts drifted back to Adalia again, and it occurred to him that she wouldn’t sit here, across from her father, and fail to mention the whole Duke thing. She probably would have started with that, thrown a bread roll at him like that guy on the street the other day, and taken off. The thought made him smile a little, and he felt the boost he needed to speak frankly.

  “You know, Dad,” he said, “you don’t need to find me a job. And you didn’t need to make that contribution to Duke either.”

  His father cocked his head. “I’m surprised that bothered you, Finn. It was a libelous article in a two-bit newspaper. And why wouldn’t we have made a contribution? It was your top-choice business school.”

  Finn let his fork clatter down. “Yeah, I know. And now I’ll never know if I got in because I deserved it or if you paved the way.”

  “What’s gotten into you? This isn’t like you.”

  “Well, maybe it should be. I’m going to be doing things a little differently from now on.” With the show. With the Big Catch project. With whatever happened afterward.

  An ache filled him at the thought, because the future was still so uncertain. Because he didn’t know what was supposed to come next. These other things he’d found to cling to were just stopgap measures, weren’t they? He needed a plan, damn it.

  But Adalia flashed through his head again. Her bravery. Her spunk. And he felt a surge of confidence. He would figure it out, but this wasn’t the answer. No more handouts. No more boosts.

  Something flashed in his father’s eyes. “This is about a woman, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I guess it kind of is,” Finn said, grinning.

  Finn got to the coffee shop before Adalia, and by the time she came in, he was sitting at a table in the corner with drinks for both of them.

  She smiled when she saw him, and something soared in his chest. Her curls had been inadequately contained in a bun, and she was wearing a green shirt that brought out the green flecks in her eyes, along with a boho skirt that kept giving him little glimpses of her legs.

  “That for me?” she asked as she got close.

  “Yup. A caramel latte, what you got last time.”

  “The presumption!” she scoffed. “What if today’s more of a salted marshmallow, double-foam macchiato kind of day?”

  “You made that up on the spot,” he accused.

  She shrugged and took a sip of the latte, settling in the chair next to him rather than the one across from him. “Despite your endless optimism for my prospects, art usually doesn’t pay the bills. I’ve worked as a barista, among other things. You’d be shocked by what people order.”

  “Among other things? Is this where you tell me that you wore one of those giant hot dog suits?”

  “Mind in the gutter?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  He flushed, just a little, and she flashed a victorious grin.

  “Point to you,” he said. He nodded down at his notebook. “Want to get started?”

  “Sure…” She paused. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know much about the management side of things, so I figured I could mostly help you choose the artists and what to display.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he said. “I was actually hoping you’d be willing to visit a few artists’ studios with me after this. I kind of, sort of made a few appointments.”

  “There’s the Finn I know,” she said with a wink. “Strong-arming me into it.”

  She didn’t say it like it was a bad thing, but it made him think again of the studio they’d set up—the one that hadn’t been right for her.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said, honestly. “I can go without you if you have plans.”

  “I know. I want to go with you.”

  She said it in a way that told him she was more interested in his company than in the outing, per se, and he felt that now-familiar glow inside of him.

  “Good.” He paused, fidgeting with his pen. “You know, you inspired me to talk to my dad last night…about the whole Duke thing.”

  “Oh yeah?” she asked, her eyes sparkling. “I’ll bet that pissed him off.”

  He grinned at her. “It did. Especially when I told him the main thing I’m working on right now is a charity art show. He thinks I’ve gone nuts.”

  Even more so because he’d admitted it was tied to a woman. He hadn’t given his father any details about Adalia, but his dad had seemed flustered by the whole thing. He’d reminded Finn that there were plenty of women in Charlotte too, which Finn had acknowledged, saying the census had estimated the city was over fifty percent female.

  “And have you?” she asked, playing a little with the edge of the notebook, her fingers brushing against his hand, the points of contact sending sparks through him.

  “Maybe.” He gave in to the temptation to take her hand, noticing, as he had before, that despite her skin’s softness she had a few calluses, a couple of scars. Artist’s hands. He made himself release it after giving it a squeeze. “But I think I kind of like it.”

  “What are you going to call this art show, anyway? Shouldn’t we come up with some sort of name? ‘Charity art show’ might be accurate, but it doesn’t really paint a picture.”

  “How about Finn Hamilton’s Art Extravaganza?” he suggested, struggling to keep a straight face.

  She tilted her head. “Or Finn’s Not a Jerk, Here’s Proof?”

  “Ha. Ha. Very funny. How about the Asheville Art Display?”

  “Simple but to the point. I like it.”

  The first appointment he’d made was at three o’clock, so they spent fifteen minutes or so talking about the various arrangements Finn had already made for the show, and then another twenty playing a g
ame of ‘Who are you?’, although he made Adalia laugh so hard at his story about Bernard, whose wife had left him for a one-legged trapeze artist, that the barista asked them to quiet down.

  “You know,” Adalia said in a dramatic whisper, “I gave names to a couple in Buchanan the other day, and I was right about the woman. Her name really was Fiona.”

  “Get out.”

  “No, this totally happened.” She took out her phone and tapped into her Instagram app before handing it over.

  But the woman’s name wasn’t what he focused on. The photos all had a warm glow, a hominess that perfectly channeled Buchanan Brewery. River had always said it felt like a grandparent’s basement, but then again, River had Dottie in his life. Finn had never seen his grandmother’s basement, and she would have been affronted if he’d asked. To him, Beau’s brewery had just felt like a place where he was welcome, a place where there were no expectations. (Admittedly, Beau had gone a little too far with the no expectations thing, but the man had been endlessly stubborn when it came to taking business advice.)

  “Wow, did you do more of these posts?” he asked. “They’re really good. The copy too. This is the kind of branding people pay consultants to do.”

  She seemed almost embarrassed when she showed him the other two, both posted yesterday, and he thought maybe he understood why. This might not be the kind of art she wanted to do, but it was art. She was putting herself out there after striking out.

  Kind of like Finn with this art show.

  Hopefully, they’d have better luck this time.

  “Each of these already has an insane number of likes,” he commented.

  “I thought the response was pretty good,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “Jack seems pleased too.”

  Jack.

  Finn had run through that phone call a few times since Thursday, but he’d decided he definitely, certainly, one hundred percent was not going to say anything to Adalia. He was already in it with Maisie. She’d texted him at five in the morning—he suspected she’d done it purposefully to wake him up—saying, What did you do???? River has manufactured some supposed illness for Hops, and he wants to come see me tomorrow morning. You better not have squealed.