Seriously, what on Earth was he thinking? That he could fly under the radar and not get caught? My shoulders sagged. Who knows, maybe he could've. But not anymore, because Derek wouldn't let that happen.
Joel asked, "Are you feeling okay?"
I gave a little jump. "What?
He reached for my hand. "You're shaking."
Distracted, I murmured, "Am I?"
Trying to keep it together, I gazed into Joel's eyes and wondered what would happen if the worst-case scenario played out. I envisioned him in jail – or worse, in prison, surrounded by enemies seeking revenge.
At the thought, I wanted to cry. Instead, I forced a smile. The smile felt funny, like my face was a lot smarter than I was. Somehow, I managed to say, "I'm just a little cold. You know, from the rain."
It wasn't even a lie. The house was warm, but for some reason, I felt chilled to the bone.
He pulled me close and whispered into my hair. "You want me to make a fire?"
The offer was a lifeline, and I decided to grab it while I had the chance. I nodded against his soggy shirt. "If you're sure you don't mind, that would be great."
He pulled back and said, "What do you have, like three fireplaces? Pick your favorite, and I'll get one going."
In what I hoped was a casual gesture, I tugged the envelope from his hand and said, "How about the family room?"
When he looked down at the envelope, I added, "I'll just set this aside to dry off." Before he could argue, I turned away and began walking toward the kitchen. I called over my shoulder, "I'll grab us some hot chocolate or something. Meet you by the fire?"
Without waiting for his answer, I hustled to the kitchen and filled the tea kettle with water. I placed it on the stove and turned the burner to its highest setting.
The hot chocolate was my excuse, but the thing I really wanted was the boiling water. The envelope had a normal seal, and I'd seen plenty of movies. A good dose of steam would loosen the glue easily, right?
Unfortunately, I never found out. The water hadn't even begun to boil when Joel's voice broke into my murky thoughts. "Want me to get that?"
Startled, I whirled around to see him standing within arm's reach. "The hot chocolate?" I tried to smile. "Thanks, but I've got it."
He smiled. "Sorry, but no."
I blinked. "What?"
He reached for my hand. "Come on. The fire's going. You let me worry about this, alright?"
Damn it.
Trying to sound happy about it, I asked, "But how could the fire be going already? It's only been like two minutes."
"I cheated," he said. "There was a starter log already there."
I stifled a curse. That's right. I recalled staging that stupid thing a few months ago. An instant fire with the flick of a match, it sounded oh-so wonderful at the time. Now, it was just an annoyance.
I glanced toward the kettle. "It's almost done," I said. "You go. I'll meet you there."
"That's what you think." He put an arm over my shoulder and guided me out of the kitchen. Short of throwing off his arm and bolting for the stove, I didn't know what to do except follow along.
The only bright spot was that I was still holding the envelope. I carried it with me, even as Joel led me to the family room and practically pushed me into the armchair closest the fire.
He smiled down at me. "I'll be back in a minute, alright?"
One minute? Screw the steam. As soon as he left, I ripped open the envelope and pulled out its contents – a letter and a check for fifty dollars, made out to Joel.
I read the amount again. Fifty dollars? That made no sense. Unless – oh, shit. That was the exact amount of that very first check, the one that Joel had ripped up at his campsite. This had to be Derek's doing.
This wasn't good.
Conscious of the time ticking away, I turned my attention to the letter, printed on the foundation's letterhead. Quickly, I scanned the few short paragraphs.
When I finished, I felt like throwing up.
There was no way on Earth I'd ever let Joel read this thing. It wasn't just inaccurate. It was a travesty. Worst of all, it was signed by Claude, who was supposed to be helping me – not ruining everything.
I lowered my head to study the signature. It couldn’t tell if Claude had actually signed it, or if it was one of those auto-signature graphics that the foundation used for form letters.
Damn it. If only I had more time, I could sort this out. But I didn't, at least not now. I stuffed the letter and check back into the envelope and gave the room a nervous glance. I needed to hide this, but where?
My gaze landed on the fireplace, and I felt my jaw tighten. Screw hiding it. Before I could overthink it, I tossed the whole sorry thing onto the fire and stood to watch it burn.
But it didn't. To my infinite frustration, the stupid thing didn't burst into flames – at least, not soon enough, because a moment later, Joel's voice cut across the room. "What'd you do that for?"
Oh, shit.
I whirled to see him standing in the open doorway, giving me a perplexed look. And then, he was striding forward. Before I could process what was happening, he'd already moved past me and was reaching down into the fireplace.
I blurted out, "Don't!"
But he did.
Chapter 70
I watched in growing horror as he pulled the smoldering packet from the flames and turned to face me. When our eyes met, I didn't know what to say.
Silently, he looked down to the envelope. It was partially blackened and still smoking. He rubbed it against his damp shirt and then returned his gaze to mine.
For some stupid reason, I thought of my uncle and all of his ridiculous excuses. At that instant, I almost admired the guy, because no matter how guilty he looked, he always found something to say.
As for me, I had nothing. I mean, what could I say? Oops?
Joel's voice was quiet. "Tell me."
I tried to remember his question. "You mean, why'd I do that?"
"No." He lifted the envelope. "Tell me what's in here."
"It's nothing." I gave him a shaky smile. "Just a mistake. That's all."
His gaze hardened. "A mistake, huh?"
Desperately, I reached for the envelope. My fingertips had barely grazed it when Joel yanked it out of my reach. "Nice try."
"Seriously," I said, "it's nothing important."
Ignoring me, he opened the envelope and pulled out its contents, which of course, were utterly undamaged.
He looked at the check and then at the letter. His eyes quickly scanned the text. When he finished, he gave a bitter laugh. "I should've known."
"It's not true," I said.
"Uh-huh." He gave me a dubious look. "So that's why you tried to burn it?"
"Well, yeah," I stammered. "I mean, it's all just a mistake, so–"
"Right."
"It is," I insisted.
I recalled the letter's contents. To call it a rejection letter was a massive understatement. I couldn't recall every word, but a few of them definitely stood out.
Juvenile.
Simplistic.
Not of the caliber we're looking for.
It was all a lie.
I gave Joel a pleading look. "You've gotta believe me. Claude would never send out this kind of letter. Even with rejections – well, those are worded a lot nicer than this."
Joel gave a tight shrug. "Hey, nothing wrong with honesty."
"Except it's not honest. That's what I'm trying to tell you."
"What'd you think? That I couldn't handle it?" He released the letter, and it fluttered to the floor between us. "Forget it. It’s nothing I didn't know."
"Oh come on," I said. "That is such a crock."
"You wanna know what's a crock?" he said. "That you'd try to hide it. What'd you think? That I'd cry in the corner because I got bad news?" He made a scoffing sound. "Trust me, I've had worse."
He was right. He had. Many times.
Again, that stupid nickname flashe
d in my brain. Cigar.
But this was different, because the letter was a lie. Joel had won on his own merit. Even without the endowment, he had an amazing future ahead of him. And somehow, I had to make him see that.
"Listen," I said, "I didn't want to say anything earlier, but I saw Claude today, and–"
"Yeah? Where?"
"Well, uh, Chicago actually."
He froze. "So you weren't at work."
"Well, I was," I stammered. "But then I wasn't. Anyway, just listen. I talked to Claude, and even if you don't get the endowment this year, your odds for next year are really, really good. Practically guaranteed."
His jaw tightened. "Fuck the endowment."
"What?"
"You heard me. I'm no painter."
"Oh come on," I said. "Now you're just being immature."
"Immature, huh?"
"Yes. And stubborn, too. You're not even listening to me."
"Yeah. And you wanna know why? Because I don't need your sympathy. You wanna coddle me like a baby? Fuck that. I don't need it."
His words sliced through me, but I tried again. "I'm not coddling you. I'm telling you the truth."
"No," he said. "You're telling me a bedtime story. What's next? You wanna tuck me and get me a bottle? Sorry, you've got the wrong guy."
No. I had the right guy. I knew that, even if he didn't. Desperately, I tried again. "Just hear me out, okay? Claude thinks you're really talented, and he's going to find you a new place."
Or at least, he was working on it right now. True, I hadn't heard back, but I knew Claude. For someone with Joel's talent, Claude would definitely find a way.
Joel's voice was tight. "What?"
"Well, the thing is…" I cleared my throat. "The whole guest-house setup, it's nice and all, but…" I bit my lip. But what? Shit. I had no idea.
But I can't have long-term guests?
But it's infested with termites?
But it's haunted with the ghosts of my dead parents?
I stared deep into his eyes, wishing I could just tell him the truth. But if you stay here, Derek will make sure you end up gone, one way or another.
And judging from Joel's reaction so far, I knew exactly how he'd take that bit of news. The last five minutes had only confirmed what I'd known all along – that he wasn't one to play it safe, that he'd resist any efforts of mine to protect him, that he'd resent me even more if he knew that I was the one who pulled the endowment.
Shit.
In front of me, Joel made a forwarding motion with his hand. "But…?"
I had nothing. Still, I yammered on. "Well, it's kind of remote out here. And, you'd probably be more inspired if you were closer to the action." I gave a shaky laugh. "The big city and all."
His voice was flat. "Chicago."
I swallowed. "Um, yeah."
He looked at me like I was a stranger. "You know, if you wanna get rid of me, just say so."
"I don't," I said. "You're reading this all wrong."
"Uh-huh. Wanna know what I think?"
From the look on his face, I wasn't so sure. Still, I felt myself nod.
"I think you're tired of slumming it, but you're too fucking nice to say so."
My stomach twisted. "That's not true."
"And you wanna know what else I think?"
"No," I murmured, "not really."
Ignoring me, he continued on. "I think that whole endowment thing was a crock. I think you pulled some strings to make me think I'm something I'm not."
"No. You've got it all wrong."
"Uh-huh. What'd you think? You could dress me up, put a paintbrush in my hand, and I'd be Mister Civilized?"
I stared up at him. "I don't even know what that means."
"Or maybe," he continued, "you were dumb enough to think my shit was any good. And so, you're thinking that I'm gonna be somebody, and you're all into me. But when you find out you're wrong, you're thinking, "Shit, how do I get rid of this guy?'"
"Except I'm not trying to get rid of you."
He gave me a hard look. "Aren't you?"
"No. Not at all." I glanced away. "But just think. If you took the place in Chicago for even six months, it would be a great opportunity."
Six months. By then, the suspended sentence would be officially over, and I could tell Derek to shove it. And then, Joel and I could start over, this time, without any interference.
Yeah, it totally sucked, but it was better than seeing Joel imprisoned or worse.
I gave him a pleading look. "I'd miss you like crazy, but you'd be so busy, the time would fly."
Maybe for him. But not for me.
Six long months – it felt like forever. Still, I summoned up a smile and continued. "You could paint, make connections, it's a really great opportunity."
As I rambled on, it suddenly struck me that Joel wasn't saying anything. Hoping that was a good sign, I kept going with my sorry sales pitch until I ran out of things to say.
When I finished, I gave him a hopeful look. "So, aren't you gonna say something?"
"Nope. I'm just waiting for you to say it."
"Say what?"
"That you want me gone."
"Weren't you listening?" I said. "I don't want you gone. This is totally for you, not for me."
He gave a bitter laugh. "Right."
"What's so funny?"
"You," he said. "Trying not to hurt my feelings. It's funny. Gotta laugh, right?"
In spite of his words, there was no laughter in his eyes.
As for me, I felt like crying. "This isn't a joke."
"Could've fooled me." And with that, he turned away and began walking out of the room.
I scurried after him. "Where are you going?"
"Well, it ain't to Chicago."
"Joel, just stop okay?"
But he didn't stop. He kept on walking and didn't pause until he reached the front door. And even then, he stopped only long enough to yank the door open and stride through it. Desperately, I followed him outside. It was still drizzling. But this time, I didn't care. "Come on," I pleaded. "Don't be like this."
Without pausing, he turned and started heading not to his car – thank God – but to the guest house. Relief coursed through me. Maybe he just wanted some privacy, or to discuss this where Aunt Gina wouldn't overhear us.
The grass was slick, and I was wearing no shoes, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. His strides were long, and I was practically running to keep up. When he entered the side door to the garage, I followed after him, even as he silently strode to the stairway and started walking up it.
Maybe I should've stopped and given him some time to cool off, but something in my heart told me that time was running short. So I followed him up into the living area, and then watched with growing despair as he pulled out his duffel bag and began throwing things into it.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"What does it look like? I'm getting my shit and going."
"You can't," I said. "Not like this."
"Why? It isn't 'nice' enough for you?" He paused and gave me his full attention. "Lemme tell you something." His gaze traveled rudely down the length of me. "Nice is overrated."
I flinched at the obvious insult. He didn't mean that. He couldn’t. I said, "Joel, come on. Don’t be like this."
He zipped up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. "Thanks for the good time," he said, heading toward the door.
The comment sliced through me. Good time?
Surely, I meant more to him than that?
I did. I knew it. And he meant more to me than he obviously realized.
I followed him down the stairs and once again out into the yard. He turned and started heading for his car.
With growing desperation, I lunged for his arm. It was slick with rain and colder than I expected. I gripped it like a lifeline and squeezed it tight until he had to either stop moving or drag me behind him.
To my infinite relief, he actually stopped. Turning to face m
e, he said, "What?"
Looking for any way to stall him, I blurted out, "What about the rest of your stuff?"
"Keep it."
"But your paintings–"
"That tattered shit?" He made a sound of derision. "Keep 'em, burn 'em, whatever. I don't care."
I gave him a pleading look. "But I do." I was still gripping his arm. Was I squeezing it too tight? Probably. But I couldn’t bring myself to let go. I looked deep into his eyes and said the only thing I could. "I love you. You know I do."
"Yeah? Well sucks to be you."
The response was so cold, it gave me a shiver. "You don't mean that." I was crying now. "Come on. Don't go like this. Let's just talk it over, please?"
Finally, I saw a hint of uncertainty flicker in his eyes. Unfortunately, it was at this exact moment when I heard the rumble of a vehicle coming toward us.
I turned and saw the worst possible thing coming down the long driveway – a commercial truck emblazed with big blue letters along the side. And what did those letters spell out?
Full-Service Movers.
Chapter 71
I stood, frozen with dread, as the moving truck rumbled up to the edge of the driveway, where Joel and I were standing. I was still gripping his arm, and I had no intention of letting go.
The driver opened the door and stepped down from the truck. He looked to me. "You Melody?"
Unsure what else to do, I nodded.
He consulted his clipboard. "Good news. We had a cancellation."
I swallowed. "A cancellation?"
"Yeah. You weren't scheduled 'til Monday." He gave his clipboard another quick glance. "But we had a note here that you wanted the first opening." He gave me a big, friendly smile. "Guess it's your lucky day."
If this weren't so tragic, it would be hilarious. Today wasn't lucky. It was one of the worst days of my life.
In fact, it wasn't even daytime. I gave the guy a perplexed look. "I think there's been a mistake."
"No mistake here," he said. "We got the call this morning."
"But not from me," I said.
The guy looked to the house and gave a low, impressed whistle. "Yeah, I'm sure you got a business manager, huh?" He smiled. "Must be nice. Anyway, the crew's a few miles back, should be here in five, ten minutes. We'll get the stuff out in a jiffy." He pointed to the garage. "Is that the place?"
Something Tattered (Joel Bishop Book 1) Page 27