But other than the candid images of the beautiful woman in her sometimes really racy clothes out on the town, and the curious connection she had to Gossamer—”Which is none of my business anyway,”—he was thrilled to see how renowned she was in the industry as an artist. He was also pleased to see that she didn’t seem to be attached to one particular man…at least not that he could tell by the pictures or headlines. He reached for his chair and pulled it up to the desk, a nervous flutter behind his sternum.
“Okay, God,” he said as he lowered himself into the black leather seat. “I should have started this with a conversation with you. Sorry. So tell me. What do I do now?” He moved the mouse so it hovered over the link to Phoebe’s professional website. It wasn’t that he was afraid of what he’d find there. It was just that opening it meant he was pursuing her of his own free will. It wasn’t a blind date like he’d had with Juliette last year. It wasn’t Gia trying to hook him up with another one of her sisters. It wasn’t a chance meeting on the side of the road.
If he opened Phoebe’s website in the state he was in, he’d be intentionally pursuing her, both professionally…and personally.
“Is this what I’m supposed to do, God?”
Pray for her.
“I will. But what about contacting her?”
Pray for her.
“Fine. Then can we talk about contacting her?”
Pray for her.
Trevor sighed. He rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand, his other lingering on the mouse. Phoebe’s China doll features studied him, her thoughts indiscernible behind her eyes in the portrait next to her website link. He let go of the mouse and scrubbed both hands through his hair. He grabbed the mouse again and moved the cursor to the upper right hand corner of the screen. It hovered there…close out altogether or just minimize until later? After he’d prayed for her.
Once again he rose and paced, his eyes going back to hers again and again.
Pray for her.
With a growl, Trevor shut down the Internet and walked away from the desk to stand at his west-facing kitchen window. The sun was making its way toward the rick-rack line of mountains, and the sky was catching fire. Southern California sunsets in autumn were almost always glorious, and he stood there watching the shifting colors for a few moments longer, willing his thoughts of Phoebe into prayers. Then he snatched up his keys, his helmet, and his padded denim jacket.
“Better than a cold shower, any day,” he declared as he swung a leg over his Harley and knocked the kickstand up. Nothing like a twilight bike ride to clear the head. “Pray, I will. Fine. But I’m going to have a good time doing it,” he grouched, sounding like a petulant child. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince God or himself of the fact.
And running through the back of his mind was the memory of what had happened the last time he’d taken the bike out…was that only a little over a week ago?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When Phoebe finally picked her phone up off the floor, she was amused to find more than a dozen calls from family members. Four of them were from Renata, the last one less than an hour ago. And there were that many more texts, too. She didn’t bother listening to the voice mails everyone left, but she did scroll through the texts.
Meeting at the hospital for lunch—see you there. Yesterday morning. From Jules.
Dude. Phebes. TAZ IS ASKING ABOUT YOU! Come to the hospital NOW! Gia, Sunday afternoon.
Charise wants to see you. Last night from Renata.
Gia last night: Where WERE you? Charise is soooooooooooo cute and squishy. And TAZ WAS ASKING ABOUT YOU!!!!! The text included ten rows of hearts.
I want to see you. Late last night from Renata.
Heading home in an hour. Renata this morning. Come over later. Tim will be picking up the boys from school and taking them to his shop for the afternoon.
Did Renata think Phoebe had left because Tim showed up? She stopped reading the texts and dropped her phone into her purse. She left them both upstairs and headed down to her kitchenette for a bottle of cold water and to see what kind of food she had on hand. She was parched and ravenous, and although she would have preferred greasy fries and a huge burger, right now, anything would do. It was almost eight o’clock, and she hadn’t eaten anything but pretzels with her whiskey some time yesterday—the empty bag beside her potter’s wheel was a testament to that—and a red velvet Pop-Tart from the box of midnight snacks she kept stashed in a sweater box under her bed, sometime after her bath. The strong coffee she’d had earlier made her stomach feel like it was trying to chew on itself, and she knew she needed something in her belly as soon as possible.
The refrigerator was loath to cough up anything convenient. A green apple. A tub of vanilla yogurt. Half a loaf of whole grain bread Granny G had made last week. No butter, and she already knew there was no peanut butter in the cupboard, either. A head of cabbage… “I can make some coleslaw.” But the idea of cabbage at that moment made her stomach flip-flop. “Maybe not.”
The freezer wasn’t much more forthcoming. Frozen pizza rolls Gia had stuck in there months ago. A packet of chicken breasts. A bag of mixed berries. A yogurt smoothie?
“Too healthy. Too sweet. I need salty.” She downed a huge swig of the cold water bottle. “And I don’t want to cook.” Her legs still felt unstable beneath her.
Phoebe didn’t hate cooking, but she didn’t love it, either. And she really didn’t enjoy cooking just for her. It wasn’t the eating alone part that bothered her; it was the time it took to prepare a meal just for herself when she could just pay someone else to do the work and the cleanup. She picked up the phone and dialed The Fat Greek. For a few extra bucks, they delivered within a five-mile radius. Phoebe’s home, although on the outskirts of Midtown, was within that radius, and she never had a problem getting someone to run her food over while it was still hot and fresh. It probably helped that the two servers who did the delivery runs were young men, one of whom often lingered to talk about the food, the weather, Phoebe’s art, anything, even after she tipped him. But she was accustomed to that kind of attention. She usually just took it all in stride.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, Phoebe hoped it was Nate who showed up at the door, because he would smile longingly as he handed over her food, accept her payment and generous tip, and then leave.
Twenty minutes later, the iron knocker thunked against the outside of the solid oak door and Phoebe opened it, cash in hand.
“Hey, Phoebe. How’s it going?”
“Hey, Jason.” Of course. “It’s going great,” she said, not quite making eye-contact with him so as not to encourage conversation. Fortunately, she knew exactly how much she owed him. She handed him a couple of bills. “Here you go. Keep the change.”
She actually tipped Nate more than Jason because Nate never counted it in front of her, nor did he act all self-effacing over her generosity the way Jason did, and she knew Jason only responded that way so he’d have an excuse to linger a little longer. Tonight, she’d kept the tip at 18% and change so there would be no reason to discuss it, but to no avail. Before he even finished counting the money, he was already opening his mouth to argue.
“This is too much, Phoebe. As usual. You already pay for delivery.” Jason didn’t offer her the money back, though, she noticed. He had the bills folded into his zippered money pouch by the time he had finished the statement.
“It’s worth it to me, Jason. It’s my way of saying thank you. I’m glad to do it.” She reached for the door handle and made to go back inside. The kid looked like he wanted to say more, so she thanked him again and ducked inside before he could get anymore out. Then she opened the bag of food and breathed in the tangy aroma of tzatziki sauce and roast beef.
“I don’t ever have to leave the house if I don’t want to,” she said aloud. It wasn’t such a bad idea in her estimation. “I’m turning into Juliette,” she muttered as she unwrapped her meal and laid it out on her
bistro-style dining table.
The old Jules, she mentally corrected herself. The Juliette who had all but stopped living when she and her ex-boyfriend split up. The Juliette who had put her life on hold more than fifteen years ago when Maman and Papa were killed by Angela Clinton. The old Juliette. Not the new one.
The new Juliette seemed to wear a perpetual blush, as though she couldn’t stop thinking about the man she loved. This Juliette laughed easily and stood up for herself. This Juliette fought for what was right, even when no one else stood with her. She was still fragile in a way that spoke of wounds newly-healed, but she seemed to have tapped into a new inner strength…one that had come along before Vic did. One Juliette attributed to her newfound faith in Jesus Christ, and all that she was learning about God in church on Sundays and her weekly Bible study group she went to with Vic on Tuesday nights.
Phoebe shook her head as she took a too-big bite of her gyro wrap. Cucumber sauce dribbled down her chin and she snatched up a paper napkin to wipe it away.
Jesus Christ was not the man for Phoebe. She didn’t need some ethereal being in the sky keeping track of her sins for her. She did that well enough on her own. And she didn’t need another absent father to try and please, either. She had a fine replacement for her father in Grandpa G and didn’t need any other. And she certainly didn’t need some self-sacrificing, self-righteous, parable-wielding, Rastafarian guru god making her feel guilty for being self-indulgent or not going to church.
No, Phoebe needed a man she could touch, a man to hold. A man who would converse with her when she wanted to talk. A man who would appreciate her outer beauty and still accept her inner flaws. A man who treated her like an angel and wouldn’t abandon her when she fought her demons.
“Ha.” She took another bite. “There’s no such man. And I certainly won’t find one like that in church.” She knew that by experience.
In an act of outright obstinacy, she got up and poured herself a glass of Moscato d’Asti, her go-to wine that paired well with almost anything. “Maybe not with a hangover,” she muttered, but she stubbornly sipped on the dry, zippy drink.
The thoughts of men and church and Jesus Christ, however, brought to mind Trevor Zander and her sister’s texts. Why was the guy asking about her? What was he asking about her?
Had he remembered her? Because sometime yesterday morning, probably right around the time the rest of her family was heading to the hospital to visit Renata and the new baby, right before Phoebe popped the cork on the Glenfiddich, she had remembered him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fourteen years earlier…
“You think you’re so wonderful, don’t you? You think your looks and your perfect little body are going to get you anywhere in the real world? You’re a slut, Phoebe Gustafson, a smear on the good name of this family. You’re just trash.” Renata’s words ricocheted off the walls of the living room, slamming into Phoebe again and again as they careened and crashed around the shocked and silent witnesses. “Your looks and your body and the way you barely keep it covered are going to get you somewhere, I can assure you. On your back, that’s where!”
She’d been right. Renata had been right. All along….
The Homecoming party was supposed to be fun. It was supposed to be wild and crazy and good old teenage fun. A little booze, maybe some pot if she got lucky, and some slow-dancing with upperclassmen who wouldn’t remember her name in the morning. She liked a good party because it helped her forget, too. At least for a couple of hours.
It had started out that way. Fun, a little wild and crazy, although she’d only scored one hit off a guy’s joint because she wouldn’t make out with him. But the night was still underway and she’d known a lot of people there, at least by name, even though she didn’t run in the same circles at school. Parties often laid waste to social barriers. Or at least the alcohol at parties did.
Then she’d seen Brad Haley saunter in, Renata nowhere in sight. Phoebe had almost run into them earlier—she’d ducked out of the way just in time. She didn’t need any flak from Renata about being there. Her sister would accuse her of crashing the party, of trying to act like she was older than she was, of being trashy. Ren might even try to make her leave.
Phoebe hadn’t cared if Ren was there or not. In fact, she’d actually felt a little rush at the sight of her. Maybe Ren would lighten up a little. But the look on her sister’s face evidenced that Ren was more uncomfortable at the party than Phoebe had ever been sitting in church next to Granny G each Sunday. So Phoebe had made herself scarce, avoiding the group she usually gravitated toward, a group that often included Brad Haley.
Brad Haley. Phoebe couldn’t understand what her sister had seen in him, except that he was the first guy who’d ever shown a real interest in her. But Brad was a slick beast. He came across as a gentleman, and the ladies fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Not Phoebe. She had stumbled upon him a few too many times pressed up against different girls at different parties, mouth usually too busy to talk, hands out of sight. Once she’d bumped into him coming out of a closed-off bedroom behind a woman who must have been a good ten years older than he was. He’d just winked at her as he’d passed.
But Renata wasn’t going to hear about any of it from Phoebe. Not only would she not believe a word of it, she would most certainly accuse Phoebe of trying to ruin her life, or worse, of trying to take Brad for herself.
So when Brad strode through the room without Renata, Phoebe’s antennae had gone up, and she’d hurried across the room to cut him off. Where was Ren? They hadn’t been gone long enough for him to have taken her home. And besides, she knew Brad drank heavily at these parties and shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel.
“Where’s my sister?” Phoebe had demanded, her voice raised over the loud music and conversation around them. “I just saw her with you a minute ago.”
“Phoebe Gustafson. And I was just looking for you.” The smug expression on his face should have warned her to be careful, but her concern had been focused elsewhere.
“Is Ren okay? What did you do to her? Where is she?” Maybe Brad was looking for her because Renata was upset and needed her. “Did she ask you to find me?”
He had stared down at her for several moments, his eyes narrowed, one side of his mouth quirked up in just the hint of a smile.
“Brad! Where is Renata?” She’d clutched at his shirt with both hands, pulling him closer to make sure he heard her, picked up on how serious she was.
“Come with me,” Brad had said, taking her hand and pulling her away from the melee, down the hall toward one of the rooms. “She’s fine, really. But you should come talk to her, just in case.”
And Phoebe had followed Brad without reticence, anxious to come to the aid of her sister, to be needed by someone. She’d even rushed ahead of him into the darkened bedroom, an avenging angel sweeping in to rescue the damsel in distress.
Not an angel, but a stupid, naive lamb, being led to slaughter.
She hadn’t realized what was going on until she’d heard the door close firmly behind her, like the sound of an ax blade falling; not until she’d felt Brad’s arm snake around her from behind, one hand closing gently, but securely over her mouth, the other hand sliding insistently up the front of her thighs beneath her skirt.
She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t cried out or begged him not to do it. Oh, she’d resisted fiercely at first, but when he’d dug his chin into the bend of her shoulder, making her whole arm tingle, when he’d growled into her ear that he knew she wanted it, that no one would believe her if she said differently anyway—they all knew she was a slut…. “Two Gustafsons in one night,” he’d murmured salaciously. “I’m going to call this one a win-win.”
It had been the thought of Brad forcing himself on Renata in the same way that had turned Phoebe to stone; her sister would not have had sex with Brad willingly. Phoebe knew she was strong enough to withstand the horror of Brad’s assault, but Renata?
How would she endure? How would Ren even survive?
She’d barely noticed when Brad left the room. Some time later, she’d gotten up off the floor, straightened her clothing, and had slipped out a window into the balmy night. Then she’d walked the two and a half miles home, her heart broken, not for herself, but for Renata.
The moment she’d set foot in the house, Renata had gone after her, shrieking like a banshee, hurling accusations at her until Grandpa G had stormed into the room to shut Ren down. But instead of coming to the aid and comfort of Phoebe—sick at heart, bruised in spirit, her body aching in places she didn’t know she could hurt—he’d gone to Renata and embraced her, offered his solace to her as though Renata had been the victim in all of it.
And Phoebe had stood in the doorway trembling and silent, desperate to keep it together long enough to escape the room full of people looking at her. Alone in a room full of people.
Oh, so alone.
~ ~ ~
By Christmas, Phoebe had known she was pregnant.
By Valentine’s Day, she’d changed her style completely, telling everyone she was embracing a bohemian lifestyle. She’d worn blousey shirts and big poncho-style wraps over leggings and fuzzy boots. She took long afternoon naps in the RV in the back yard; she’d turned the camper into her own little pad, complete with incense burners and beaded curtains. She’d even learned to play the ukulele.
During the Good Friday service the first week in April, Phoebe had wept silent tears as the pastor talked about the death of Jesus and the grief and fear that surrounded his followers over the next few days. Phoebe hadn’t been mourning the death of Christ, but of her parents; oh, how desperately she needed her mother. She grieved because they weren’t going to rise again like Jesus had and make everything okay.
Phoebe and the Rock of Ages Page 11