Not that Tammy judged, but everyone did. Rarely was their honest opinion verbalized in front of her, but their body language said it all.
“Wow. This isn’t like anything I’ve seen of yours.” Tammy’s movements were slow, inching closer to the canvas.
That’s a nice word for, I hate it. Clenching her jaw, Freya tried to force back the heat welling behind her eyes. Insecurity was natural but stupid. “I know.”
Tammy stepped to the side, scrutinizing from a new angle. “It’s incredible.” Eyes locked on the painting, Tammy’s voice grew bolder. “The way you captured each muscle, the anguish in his posture; I can feel the grief of a war hero without even needing to see his face or uniform or any specifics, I can tell.”
And the burning started to blur her vision. She blinked away the moisture, trying to see last night’s insomniac binge work through someone else’s eyes. A figure, a man in exercise shorts sprinting down a mountain path. His body was tense, his pace rapid. A storm festered in the background, even the trees in the distance succumbed to its power, but the runner’s grief outmatched the ferocity of the weather.
She’d tossed and turned before Zane’s late-night call. After they’d hung up, she couldn’t have slept if her life depended on it. She hadn’t been able to shake the vision, the emotions he’d stirred.
Tammy turned back and wrapped her arms around Freya, tugging her close until Freya hugged her mom. “You’re a gifted artist,” she said softly as Freya slumped into her. “Your landscapes, your flowers and your grapevines are breathtaking. This… this is raw emotion I’ve never seen you project into your work.”
Ignoring her coffee, the savory pastries rapidly cooling in the bag, Tammy walked around to see the other drying. The one she’d told Zane about and… well, part of her felt guilty he didn’t get to see it first. Tammy immediately smiled. “Tell me about this one,” she said.
Freya stepped closer. “That was…” Nope, not telling her mother that had been inspired by their stolen moment in the laundry room.
“I love it. It’s like your other landscapes, except bolder, like the…” Tammy blushed, then continued, “Okay, I’m not good at this stuff, and saying it out loud makes me blush, but you know me. It’s like the sun is making love to the mountains. If that makes any sense? Not in a dirty way, I mean, there’s nothing overtly sexual about it, it’s more of a feeling. Like there’s a passion to it, and it’s not just serenity.”
“It does make sense. If it helps, I was absolutely thinking about sex and all the good feelings that go with it.”
Her mother blushed and dove into the bag and pulled out a croissant.
She continued, “I hadn’t realized the intimacy between the setting sun and the mountains before, but it struck me as the brush stroked the canvas.”
“Intimacy, that’s it. Anyway, I like it.”
“The auction went well.” Freya lifted Tammy’s coffee from the machine, delivering it to the island before retrieving her own.
Tammy eased onto a stool and took a bite of her breakfast. “The big one in Rome?”
Freya nodded. Her breath leached from her chest as she told her mother about the fat paycheck on the way, the bidding battle that had ensued, still lightheaded at the shock of it.
“That’s fantastic. I’m so proud of you.”
As much as she wanted to jump and cheer, her legs were floppy as unset jam. “They want me to send five more pieces now, with the hope of forming a long-term relationship if those sell well.”
“I can’t believe how things are coming together. You’ve worked so hard for this.”
“It’s so much pressure. The gallery in Florence is great, but there are so many and I’m one more tourist-pleaser. The galleries in London and New York are great, but they’re so big, I’ll be lucky if my paintings don’t collect dust. But this… this gallery is one of the most renowned and selective. But I don’t have five more like it. I have a few that I’m pleased with that I could send, but they’re not of the same caliber.”
Tammy looked back to the runner again. “I know these aren’t what they’re expecting, but send them anyway. Show them your range.”
“They’re expecting crowd-pleaser landscapes.”
“What’s the deadline?”
“Two months for all five, but they’re hoping I’ll send one now to hold my place.” Freya grabbed her coffee from the brewer and dropped onto her stool. She grabbed a croissant from the bag and ripped into it. “I’ve been home a month. I’ve painted two things, neither of which are even remotely like what I have done before. I have a website, a newsletter, a group of friends I adore… and a husband I don’t get to keep.”
Tammy set down her cinnamon roll. “So it’s true.”
Pinching her lips together, Freya managed a nod.
“You two seem really good together. Are you sure you don’t get to keep him?”
She shook her head. “In the last month, I’ve completed a handful of charcoals, one I gave as a gift to an undeserving cousin, two are of Zane–I couldn’t help it–and one of my foot. Seriously.” Her toes wiggled beneath her. “I gave him my best landscape as a gift, which I meant and I’m not taking back; he needed the serenity of that painting in his life. I have a few decent pieces in the closet of one of the spare bedrooms. And these two.” She nodded behind her.
“And?”
“And? The only things I have produced worth mentioning are inspired by my inebriated mistake of a husband. I can’t get him out of my head.”
Tammy sipped her coffee, pondering over the steam of it, then set it down again. She took a measured bite of cinnamon roll, chewed twice as long as she needed, then swallowed. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but that’s called falling in–”
“Nope. Don’t say it,” Freya cut her off, jumping to her feet and crumpling the breakfast packaging into a tiny ball. “That’s called blinding lust that kills your useful creativity, then when you think you’ve finally found a good rhythm, you discover he’s not who you thought he was. While he was all sweet and sexy and insatiable at first, when the urgency of falling in lust fades, where you thought there was love, there’s nothing but a few meaningless words passed with someone who doesn’t like your famous lasagna after all, he no longer finds your smile so irresistible, and wonders why you folded his underwear but didn’t match up his socks.”
Tammy sighed heavily, holding back the lecture Freya would refuse to hear anyway. “When is the divorce final?”
“Annulment,” she sneered, slamming the cabinet door after chucking the bag.
“When is the annulment final?”
“Two weeks.”
“Send the runner painting. Let them see your range. If they hate it, then they don’t deserve you and I’ll fly with you to find other galleries. Then no pressure the next two weeks. Build your website, your brand. Nurture your soul. Hang out with your friends. Get through this, however it works out.”
17
Cohabitating
“Once the annulment goes through, are we going to have to keep up this awkward, choose Freya or Zane? I like hanging out with you both and don’t like choosing one over the other.” Asher griped as he drove at a snail’s pace over the loose chip-sealed road, the scent of tar pervading the cab, glancing at Zane with an exaggerated glower.
Rubbing his hand over the scruff of his jaw, Zane sighed, “Hey, this is tough enough. I like hanging out with her too. More than I should. Look what happened last time we were together? Come on, your parents’ laundry room in the middle of a party?”
“I’m impressed. I think that’s the one room in the house I haven’t had a quickie in.” Slowing from ten to two miles an hour, Asher pulled off down an overgrown driveway and parked in front of a metal gate. He hopped out and pushed the thing open, dove back in to roll through, then hopped out again to shut it behind them.
Grass and opportunistic shrubs brushed along the bottom of the truck’s chassis as they bumped along the ancient logging ro
ad. “Exactly. When she’s around, I make stupid-ass decisions. Like getting married.”
“And when the marriage is over?”
“If something happens after, at least it won’t ruin our chances at dissolving the marriage without a big-ass paper trail that puts a stamp on my forehead as a guy that can’t get his shit together.”
“What about her?”
Zane shrugged. Shit. Freya didn’t deserve all this. A few memories leaked in every so often. Last night, in a painful effort to get some damn sleep, trying not to think about today, he’d played some mind games and tapped his memory until he could come up with some flashes from that night.
It had been his idea. She’d downed the biggest cheeseburger on the menu. He’d consumed about a gallon of ice water. A smiling couple had danced in with a group of friends, declaring they were ordering the lava cake for their reception, the chapel next door having been freaking awesome.
He’d paid for dinner and they’d strolled outside together. A flashy sign declared no waiting required for your dream wedding. She’d wrapped her arms around him and kissed his brains out until the earth spun, its axis irreversibly offset.
Let’s get married, He’d slurred.
Now? She’d asked.
Hell yeah. Sober me would run like hell, so drunk me is taking a stand.
She’d laughed from deep under her diaphragm, Sober me has been engaged three times. I think slashed me should take over.
“Zane?” Asher interrupted his blinding flashback.
“Yeah. Sorry.” The engine revved with enthusiasm; the tires didn’t argue as they passed through a muddy dip in the road. “I’ll be doing her a damn favor. She made it clear, she doesn’t have the capacity for guys like me.”
They pulled to a stop. A winding grove hinted at a creek ahead. Asher shook his head but didn’t say anything. Zane unlocked his feet from bracing the tin can and grabbed Jack as he hopped out of the truck. He shifted a backpack over his shoulder, bottles clanking inside.
Without a word between them, they crossed over a log spanning the crystal-clear stream, then up the overgrown switchbacks for a few hours. They’d traded off the heavy load now and again; Jack should have come with some sort of shoulder strap or something. He weighed a fricking ton and was awkward to carry.
But had been a hell of a lot heavier and scary as fuck when Zane had packed him through the firefight to the LZ, Jack’s head bobbing as he went in and out of consciousness, his legs lifeless.
They reached a flat with a scattering of boulders, then the best damn view he’d ever seen as he stepped to the edge, looking miles across the rugged Cascades. Asher set Jack on a boulder at their side while Zane pulled out a trio of beers. He popped off the caps. They stood and raised their glasses.
After a long, hollow breath, Asher said, “To a hell of a friend.”
Zane nodded, “The best.” Nothing more to say, Zane took a swig while Asher did the same, then set his beer at his feet. He levered the cap off the urn and held it out. “I’m pretty sure this is illegal.”
Asher shrugged, “Yeah, you’re probably right. I don’t think Jack would mind.”
Leaning as far out as he could, Zane tipped the urn over and let the wind pick up the ashes, sending fine particles across the cliffside, carried away with the breeze. Asher popped open the beer and poured Jack’s over the ledge for him. Pulling back his arm, Zane slung the metal urn into the valley.
Silently, they stood and sipped, taking in the moment. Eventually, they sat down on the boulders overlooking the view. The draining sadness he expected didn't come. No drenching tears ending in hiccups. Instead? A lightness brushed over his shoulders, a weight lifted as Jack drifted into the sky.
Jack would have preferred just hanging out, feeling normal anyway. He’d have ragged on them for not bringing snacks or more beers.
Shit, when Zane explained why, even for such a somber occasion, he wasn’t getting trashed? Jack would have kicked his ass for being such a dumbass, letting himself get tied up in knots over what to do about Freya. That he should get over himself and admit he was a sap.
Letting all the air out of his lungs, Zane stared out at nothing, then blurted out, “I love her.”
Asher’s lips tugged up. He squinted and looked out over the mountaintops beyond. “I know.”
“She doesn’t want to be married.”
“Doesn’t she? For a woman that’s been engaged three times, sounds like she’s interested in forever.”
“But not with me.”
“Why not you?”
“Fuck if I know. Something about ‘pheromones and muscles and broodiness.’”
“What does that mean?” Asher shook his head, clearly as puzzled at his cousin’s statement as Zane had been.
“Pretty sure it means she wants someone steady and cheerful, without the fricking accidental make-outs.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Is it? Who sounds like a safer happily ever after bet? Steady job, doesn’t interrupt your work, and is a halfway decent communicator? Or, how about the guy that rents the apartment over the garage because he has no place else to go, gets a panic attack every time he gets swallowed by a crowd, seems to think fooling around in someone else’s laundry room during a family party is acceptable, and has little more than his ability to brew a decent beer on his resume?”
“Don’t forget, is a total badass and can solve about any global conflict.”
“Let’s not forget that,” he scoffed. “I actually think those are points not in my favor. Goes against the steady and cheerful aspects.”
Asher downed the rest of his beer and hopped off the boulder. “I know my cousin; she’s been one of my best friends since we were in diapers. She’s got a hell of a heart that she’s learned not to trust, thanks to those assholes that took more than they gave. You truly love her? Prove it to her.”
“She’ll run away scared, and she sure as hell won’t want to socialize anywhere near me and we’re back to the Freya or Zane issue again.”
“She might. Or, as I’ve been telling her all along, she’ll see that you’re not Randy or Vince or Giovanni. That you’ll always have her back. You’ve always had mine, and we’re not even lovers.”
“Dude. This is getting weird.”
“Come on, you don’t think I’m pretty enough?”
Zane rolled his eyes, chugging the last of his beer that he’d forgotten about before stuffing the empty bottles in the backpack. Heading down the slope, he tried to let it sink in. Asher was so fucking happy these days, brighter than Zane had ever seen, and not just because he was a civilian. Asher was the last guy to have talked like such a romantic sap, before meeting Sophie. He might actually know what he was talking about.
But Freya had been burned before. Zane couldn’t guarantee following through on any promises he wished he could make. The annulment hearing was in eleven days. After that, they could see where things led. Without pressure, simply two people that liked each other.
They’d made it almost two weeks. No kissing. No groping. Not even handholding.
This wasn’t so hard.
Okay, so they’d hardly even been in the same room with each other. But her imagination, conscious and not, planned the many, many activities they could try out after this stupid annulment went through.
Groaning, Freya slammed the couch pillow against her face. It was even worse for the hour or two each day she’d gone to Zane’s to work on his computer. Not that he hung around; a few polite words exchanged, awkward shifting on his feet as he came up with some excuse to avoid her.
Well, that’s what it felt like anyway. But sharing the same air, even for a few minutes, being able to catch a hint of the fresh grapefruit and sandalwood soap she’d bought him, made her want to tear his clothes off… utter torture. Worse, seeing that he was as miserable as she was? It was a crappy situation.
Sophie dropped onto the recliner opposite and shifted the lever until her feet were elevated. “Maybe P
ippa’s right.”
Moving the pillow, not caring that her hair had succumb to the static electricity of dry summer air and a fuzzy pillow, she muttered, “Hey, she’s my neurotic dreamer. You’re my realist. Don’t mess with my flow.”
“Sorry. When do his parents get in?”
Freya nodded to the front door where her suitcase waited. “Three hours. They’d better be worth it.”
“They won’t be. But if Zane needs this to feel some sort of acceptance, or to let them know he’s happy without them…”
“Shit, I didn’t even think of that.” Freya sprawled her limbs in a floppy star position as she sunk deeper into the sofa. “I have no filter. What if I embarrass him?”
“Go with your gut. Something tells me he needs someone to support him and only him, the consequences be damned. And you’re good at that.”
“You’re not wrong.” She sighed and sucked her cheeks between her teeth. For this to be believable, she needed to get over there soon and get settled like she actually lived there.
Sophie sat quietly while Freya scowled at the tip of her nose. The sound of Zane’s truck rumbling down the drive added another level to her torture. He’d probably be cool as a cat right now, at least, on the surface.
With a noisy inhalation filled with meaning, Sophie nodded to the kitchen that Freya had converted into a mini studio. “On the bright side, you finished all five pieces quicker than they would have expected. Did they get the first one yet?”
She turned her head and looked at the blank canvas, the workspace painfully empty now that she’d sent off everything she had, plus a few odds and ends to some of the other galleries she’d built a relationship with. Her stomach churned with acid-soaked gravel grinding in her belly. It was always nerve-wracking, putting herself out there. This time… she was upending the style she’d built her brand on. “It should arrive tomorrow, the rest in about a week. I will have exceeded the deadline by a long shot, so I can always work my ass off at creating and sending off more of my traditional style they requested.” If they wanted anything more from her after seeing the edgier style she hadn’t even known herself capable of. Driven by the thrill of something new radiating from her brush, she’d powered through and couldn’t wait to make more.
The Next Day (Foothills Book 2) Page 17