But suffer, they had. Each of the four sisters grieved in their own ways, their individual strengths and weaknesses rising to the forefront of the battle to survive. Juliette, steady and quiet and thoughtful, had caved in on herself, at first falling into a depression so severe, their grandparents thought she might die, too. Once she finally came out of that dark period, she remained reserved and unassuming, almost afraid to really live, lest her happiness be once more taken from her. Phoebe thanked the God her sisters worshiped that Victor Jarrett had come along when he did, his love for Juliette breaking through the last of those barriers binding her to the past. Juliette claimed most of her change had actually stemmed from her acceptance of Christ, but she was pretty sure that was just church talk. Phoebe saw the way the two of them looked at each other, Victor and Juliette. Jesus couldn’t hold a candle to the glow emanating off the two lovebirds.
The same could be said of Renata these days, but it hadn’t always been that way. Born with maternal instincts and the rallying charisma of a cheer captain, Ren had stepped into the combined shoes of both their parents and Juliette’s when the eldest Gustafson sister had disappeared inside herself. But those traits had morphed into something ugly and often insufferable, turning her motherly sister into a cantankerous shrew over the years. A good man in her life—John Dixon, devoted husband and father to their four sons—had taken the edge off in the early years of their marriage. But like a hedgehog, Ren’s quills, although smoothed down by love, had remained intact and poison-tipped. Over the years, slowly, but surely, she’d become prickly and toxic again.
When the unthinkable happened, leaving Renata’s world devastated, however, something had changed in her. The need to jab and judge, to poke and punish, seemed to have leaked out with her tears, leaving behind a softer, almost sweet version of Ren, a version Phoebe struggled to relate to after all these years of the love-hate relationship they’d shared.
Gia, darling Georgia, only four when their parents were killed, had born up the best of them all, as far as Phoebe could tell. Perhaps the young are the most resilient in situations like theirs, although Phoebe felt certain Gia would be darling and effervescent and vivacious even if she’d been a teenager like the older three. But Gia carried a different burden than the others, something Phoebe sensed was shifting, rising, becoming more of an issue in the youngest Gustafson girl’s life. Gia had a tendency to float, to be whatever the circumstances and crowd of the moment demanded. She wasn’t really a chameleon, at least not at this point. No, she tended to simply say less, demand less, be less, when she thought being fully Gia might make waves. Phoebe wasn’t really worried yet; Gia was in that transition period from teenager to adult, having just graduated from high school and figuring out what it meant to be a grown up. But Phoebe had made the decision to pay attention, something no one had really done for Phoebe when she was that age and desperate for someone to notice that she was disappearing behind the facade she’d created just to survive.
Because Phoebe, maybe more than any of the sisters, had missed her mother most of all. When her parents died, she was fourteen, and was in the process of embracing her individuality, her artistic expression, her identity, and Simone had been her loudest cheerleader. Her mother had encouraged Phoebe’s flamboyant fashion, her vivacious thirst for living out loud, giving Phoebe license to resist the constraints of the accepted “norm” in a traditional home town. Simone had urged Phoebe to push herself, to dig deep into the part of her that made her unique and courageous and powerful.
When Angela took the lives of Paul and Simone Gustafson, Phoebe had dug even deeper, not to expose and share her great gifts with the world as her mother had wanted, but to bury herself, to hide behind them so that no one would see the gaping hole the loss of Simone, her most stalwart champion, her truest believer, had left behind. On the outside, she retained her flamboyance, but it became distorted somehow, her flair for color and style transforming into something more provocative and gritty, the courage and power she’d unearthed with her mother’s gentle guidance taking on a decidedly darker bent. Her eyes stayed open, but not as a window to the soul, as many believed. No, in Phoebe’s bold gaze was a challenge to any who looked a little too long or too closely, daring the beholder to draw back the inky blackout curtain draped across that window, to see the real girl sitting alone in the dark inside.
In order to compensate for her lack of transparency, she worked hard to make the outside look good, to draw—and hold—attention for as long as she needed it, or could stand it. Although the act had backfired on her once or twice, she’d grown comfortable with the mask she wore, perhaps even addicted to it, and no longer thought of it as a separate version of herself.
And now Angela Clinton was returning to Midtown, dredging up old memories and secrets best kept buried, and the mask Phoebe wore might very well be exposed for what it was. Phoebe didn’t know if she could bear it.
CHAPTER NINE
Trevor stared at the monitor, the digital sound waves marching across the screen as he listened intently to the music playing through his headphones. The chord progression was perfect for the driving rhythm of the piece, and he nodded, satisfied at the sound he was getting.
The song ended and he jotted down a few thoughts on the legal pad beside his computer keyboard. He grinned sheepishly at the name spelled out at the top of the page. Phoebe Gustafson. And not just once. No, he’d written her name in print, then in old-school cursive, then in all capitals, and even in chunky, cartoon-style lettering.
“You are such a junior high girl, Taz,” he muttered out loud to himself. But his pen moved, seemingly of its own accord, and traced the letters again. “Phoebe Gustafson.” He said her name softly, his voice stroking the syllables.
He couldn’t get her out of his head. All week long, he’d been distracted by thoughts of her. He’d known she was an artist for some time now. He’d asked Juliette about the paintings on her walls—he’d been emotionally moved by the depth and tone of the different pieces—and she’d bragged on Phoebe with gusto.
She certainly looked the part. Her long, wild hair and those smoky eyes that made him think of Monica Bellucci, her flowing skirt and chunky jewelry giving her that whole Bohemian vibe. He’d been considering asking Juliette for Phoebe’s contact information for weeks now, ever since he’d first seen her work hanging on Juliette’s walls. He was seriously contemplating purchasing a piece, or even a whole series of her artwork for his new album. Sure, he could go to her website or look her up online, but anyone could do that. It was easy…and impersonal. He always preferred a personal connection when it came to his own work, so he presumed others in the arts did as well.
When he’d asked Vic if he thought she might be interested in working on the album art, he’d said, “I don’t see why not. Until recently—maybe a year ago now—she worked for a magazine called Glamour, or Glimmer—no, Gossamer. That was it. Some kind of fantasy art rag. But Juliette said it wasn’t a good fit. She’s indie now, so I’d think she’d be open to new clients.”
“Not a good fit?”
Victor had shrugged noncommittally. “From what I gather, the job was bad enough, but the guy she worked for was worse.”
“You’ve seen her work. What do you think of it?”
Vic frowned and hesitated for a moment before answering, but it had been enough for Trevor to realize he was probably asking the wrong person for artistic feedback. His response made Trevor grin. “I have. Several of the pieces on Juliette’s walls are Phoebe’s. The…splashy ones. With all the color and movement. She’s good if you like that kind of thing. The stuff makes me feel a little uncomfortable, truth be told.”
“Yeah. But then, a little discomfort isn’t always a bad thing.”
“No, no. You’re right about that. Especially when you’re talking church folk. We do tend to get a little too kicked back in our padded theater seats.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Trevor had let the subject drop th
en, but he couldn’t get rid of the idea so easily, and the more he thought about it, the more he felt compelled to follow through on it.
But there was also the little problem of his immediate and obvious attraction to Phoebe. How was he going to pursue her professionally without pursuing her personally? Every time he thought about her, it wasn’t her artwork that made his blood heat up. Yeah, it was fantastic—exactly the emotions and expression he imagined for his album—but it was the way she’d looked at him, an alluring mixture of disdain and vulnerability, of curiosity and coy, of come-and-get-it and approach-at-your-own-risk.
Besides his own feelings, what about her? Hadn’t Vic indicated that her problems with her last job were because of the guy she worked for? He supposed that must be status quo for her—he imagined she was constantly hit on by customers…. “No way. That’s not going to be me.” He ran a hand over the scruff on his jaw—he needed to shave. He closed his eyes and dipped his head a little. “God, help me to be an upright man. Help me treat her with the respect I owe any child of yours. Please show me your plan in bringing us together. I need your wisdom. I need you.”
He stood and crossed to where his acoustic was propped up in a stand. He slung the strap over his shoulder and strummed a few chords, the rich sound making him smile just as it did every time he played the thing. The instrument was one of his prized possessions; a 1968 D-21 Martin. When Trevor was in high school, he had discovered it at the back of a second-hand thrift shop, complete with its original case. The guitar was in great shape, and although the store owner had no idea what the guitar’s history was, he had done his research and knew what he was selling. Even still, the price had been considerably below market value, and Trevor had snapped it up, emptying his bank account to buy it. His parents had reimbursed him half the cost of the instrument as an early birthday gift, and he had used much of that money to pay a qualified luthier to do a neck reset and fret job. The guitar played like a dream, the full sound resonating richly, the Brazilian rosewood sides and back—one of the rarer features of the instrument—creating a warmth in the tone that stirred his very soul.
His eyes darted around the room, his appreciation for what he had always at the forefront of his mind. He’d converted the second bedroom of his house into a state of the art recording studio, complete with top of the line gear and equipment. He’d always had the best of the best—not necessarily the most expensive, but the best money could buy—because money had never really been an issue for him. His parents weren’t wealthy, but they lived comfortably, and he was their only child. They’d doted on him, he knew, and they’d bent over backwards to encourage and nurture his music. And not for them, either, as so many parents did. But for him, because he’d known music was his life’s blood—there was no Plan B—and his parents had recognized it as much, too.
Not that he’d always been so appreciative. There’d been a time when he’d taken it all for granted, believing he deserved what he had, that he was owed the good things in his life. A time when he’d seen his good fortune as a direct result of his good behavior.
But pride is a duplicitous and seductive creature, luring men and women into traps of their own making, and Trevor had been no exception.
His fingers moved boldly over the strings, plucking out arpeggiated scales as he warmed up his hands. Even exercises sounded exquisite, almost divine, on the Martin. They came easily to him and he closed his eyes and nodded his head like a metronome, keeping time with his steady pace. He forced his thoughts away from the woman and focused instead on the set of songs he was writing for the new album.
The message he wanted to portray had to come out exactly right, or he would end up looking just as pompous and self-righteous as he’d once been. Because unlike his last album, the one he’d written for people desperate for peace, with this new one, he was preaching to the choir. This time, his message was for those already saved, already rescued, already adopted into the family of God.
God had laid on Trevor’s heart a message about a man changed, not from a sinner to a saint, but the other way around.
A man who once believed he was a holier-than-thou saint bound for glory because of wise choices and good living…a man who now recognized his status as the lowliest of sinners. The chief of all sinners, as the apostle Paul declared. But because of God’s unconditional love for him, the man was a sinner bound, not for Hell, but for Heaven.
Transformation. From a pompous, self-righteous Christian into a servant, a Christ-follower, walking in the footsteps of Jesus, the greatest servant of all.
Trevor wanted not only his songs to portray that message of transformation, but for his album cover to represent the same thing. And he felt certain that Phoebe Gustafson could do the job.
Pursuing her personally? He’d give that one a little more time. But hiring her to do the album art, if she was willing, felt like a sure thing.
So what was this foreboding undercurrent that the path ahead might not be so clear?
~ ~ ~
He held the phone between his ear and shoulder, listening to it ring on the other end of the line, his hands busy working the large knife he was using to dice vegetables for stir fry.
“Gia. It’s Taz,” he said, when the girl answered after the fourth ring. He’d almost hung up.
“Hey, Taz! Ricky’s right here. You looking for him?”
The pot of Jasmine rice on the stove still had a few minutes before it was ready—plenty of time to sauté the carrots and zucchini, broccoli, garlic, and water chestnut. He tossed the vegetables in the skillet, shredded a leftover chicken breast from last night’s meal into bite-sized pieces, and added it to the pan at the last minute so as not to dry it out.
“No, actually, I called to talk to you.” From the fridge he pulled out the coconut curry dressing, and dumped a couple of tablespoons in, stirring quickly to coat, but not burn.
“Oh. Well, how may I help you, sir?” He could hear the smile in her voice, and for possibly the hundredth time, he wondered if the girl was ever sad. Trevor lifted the lid on the pot of rice and breathed in the heady aroma. He was suddenly starving.
“I’m thinking about your sister.”
“Ohhh.” The word was long and drawn out, and Trevor shook his head, realizing too late what kind of fodder he was handing over.
“Not like that,” he back-pedaled. “I mean—”
“Sure, sure. Of course not.” Gia giggled. “Like that, I mean. Whatever that is.”
“Gia,” he warned, but he was grinning, too. “Seriously, I was thinking of hiring her to work on my next album cover. I really like what I’ve seen of her work. At Juliette’s,” he added.
“You are speaking of Phoebe, am I correct? Or were you referring to the epic photo album scrapbooks on the end table? Ren makes those. She’s the Scrapper Queen!”
Clearly, Gia was having a ball with this discussion, and he wondered briefly if the sisters had given Phoebe a hard time at their meeting the other day, after he and she had shown up at Juliette’s place together.
“I don’t think scrapbooking is really big in Prog Rock these days, Gia. Yes, Phoebe. The artist,” he confirmed.
“So you like her…” Once again, she dragged the words out.
“I did not say that,” he cut her off. “I said I like her—”
“Her work. Yes, I know. That’s what I was saying before you interrupted me. Can I help it if I speak really slowly? So rude.” Her voice grew muffled for a moment, as though she was covering the mouthpiece with her hand. “Ricky, your cousin is so rude!”
“Fine. I’m rude,” Trevor retorted. “Can you give me Phoebe’s number?”
“You didn’t get her number from her last week when you rescued her on the side of the road? Slacker.”
“Gia.”
“Fine,” she said, echoing his earlier tone almost exactly. “I’ll give you her number…if you come with Ricky to dinner over here tomorrow. Sunday Family Dinner at the
grandparents. The whole Gustafson gang. And friends,” she added.
“You’re inviting me to dinner?”
“Yes, I’m inviting you to dinner. Ricky’s a regular, so you won’t be the only guy at the table other than Grandpa G.”
“What about Vic? And isn’t your other sister married with a bunch of boys?” He was actually entertaining the idea, and the more he thought about it, the more he liked it.
“I’m not sure if Vic will be there or not. He’s pulling some overtime to cover for another officer who’s on vacation. But Ren’s guys won’t be. Tim is taking them on one last boys-only camping trip before Baby Charise makes her debut.”
Gia paused a moment to respond to something Ricky said to her, then she was speaking into the phone again. “Besides, Grandpa and Granny G have been dying to meet you, and Granny G always cooks way too much when it’s just us girls.” Again, she paused briefly, then tacked on a few more words in a cajoling sing-song tone. “Come on, Taz. Do it for Ricky.”
“Do it for me!” Ricky sing-songed in the background.
“Do it for love, Taz. Familial love for Ricky, of course,” Gia clarified with a giggle. “Unless…”
“Okay,” he interjected, cutting off her trailing word, but her teasing made him smile. “Sounds good. Dinner tomorrow, then.” He scooped a steaming spoonful of rice into a serving bowl and topped it with the vegetables and chicken. “And speaking of dinner, mine is ready, and I don’t want it to get cold, so I’m going to let you go. What time should I be there?”
“We eat between noon and one o’clock, but most of us just come back here whenever church is out for everyone. Grandpa and Granny G usually get home around ten—they go to the early service—so you can come any time after that.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He heard Ricky holler something else in the background. “Ricky says to remember to save us a seat,” Gia repeated into the phone.
Phoebe and the Rock of Ages Page 6