by Meghan Quinn
“Because.” My eyes start to sting and my throat tightens. I bite my bottom lip, trying to hold back the sorrow I’ve been living with for nearly a year. Noticing the tears welling in my eyes, Zoey sits on the arm of my chair and puts her arm around my shoulders.
“Because why?” she asks, softly, soft enough so I’m the only one who can hear her.
Taking a second to gather my breath, I answer, “Because I no longer feel like I’m complete.” This is too hard. “I’ll never be able to do what is uniquely female.” That was taken from me. “Because . . . I’m still mourning the fact that I’ll never carry a child.” Only the scars represent that loss. “How can I possibly ask Beck to forgo that experience? To never watch his wife pregnant with his baby?” He’ll hate me, my hollow, fruitless body. “It’s too much, Zoey. He’s too good. Deserves so much more—”
“Oh sweetie.” Zoey squeezes me tight. “I can’t imagine the loss you’ve been feeling, but until you speak with Beck, I don’t think you can assume anything on his end.”
“I don’t want him compromising his vision to fit my . . . to fit me.” I don’t want him sacrificing anything for me.
Zoey tilts my chin up and looks at me with genuine love in her eyes. “But isn’t that what a relationship is all about? Compromise?”
Trying to get any words in today has been absolutely pointless. My mind hasn’t been in it, resurrecting a character from the dead has been impossible especially since my fingers wouldn’t move across the keyboard. They stayed poised, never once moving as my gaze drifted out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of Beck.
What is he doing here? And why isn’t he coming to find me? That’s weird. Come to my hometown but don’t say hi? Well, he said hi, but that was it. A little explanation would be nice.
But nothing.
Not that he owes it to me, given the way I left.
I pack up my computer, put my phone in my pocket, and make my way through the coffee shop.
“See you tomorrow?” Ruth asks from her perch on the counter.
“Hopefully. Have a good night, Ruth.”
I exit the shop and turn toward Lobster Landing. This day calls for a pound of fudge. Yes, a pound. And it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve taken one of those pearly white and red boxes back to my house, untied that ribbon, and gorged on the velvety sweet fudge creation that Port Snow is famous for. I’m not ashamed to admit it’s my go-to my life is over treat.
From a block away, I can hear the waves crashing into the rocky coast, tourists milling about, taking pictures with all the quirky lobster-themed benches, photo cutouts, and signs. Normally I would take my time to observe the people visiting the town, but I have a one-track mind and it’s set on the white and red building in front of me.
I push through the doors and head straight to the center of the store where the registers and fudge counter are. Griffin immediately spots me and his brow creases.
When I step up to the counter, he says, “Uh-oh.”
I prop one arm on the glass case and lean over, eye-fucking all the fudge. “It’s going to be ugly, Griffin. Are you sure you want to watch this?”
“I don’t think anyone else will be able to handle it.” He puts on some plastic gloves and says, “Should we start with a round of samples?”
“You know the routine.” I circle my finger to the sky. “Sample it up.”
As Griffin starts making a fudge flight for me, I tell tourists standing behind me to move on to the next counter, because I’m going to be a while. Griffin smirks to himself, cutting fudge flavor after fudge flavor.
“You know, Griffin, what’s with you men? Huh? What makes that little brain of yours tick?”
He hands me the first five flavors and I shove them in my mouth, not even caring about the tastes mixing.
Despite my mouthful, I say, “Why are you so annoying?” Griffin raises an eyebrow at me. “Well, not you in particular, but men. I mean if I say it’s over, it should be over, right?”
“Uh . . .”
“And if I want to stop communication”—I shove three more pieces in my mouth—“I should have the right to stop. What’s with this”—two more pieces—“alpha-male pursuit, huh?” I pick up a green piece of fudge and hold it up. “What’s this flavor?”
“Key lime pie.”
“Oh fuck that.” Inappropriately—because I’m so mature—I toss it back at him. “I want nothing to do with Key lime anything.” I point my finger at Griffin. “Do you hear me? No Key lime.”
“Uh, yeah, no Key lime. My mistake.” Poor Griffin, he was right. No one else could handle me at this crazed moment.
“You’re smart.” I tap my head and then stick another piece of fudge in my mouth, the sugar starting to singe every single taste bud. “You date women. You’re all about the boobs. Women aren’t complicated at all. Very straightforward. We are an easy breed to understand.”
Griffin freezes mid-cut, his eyes cast toward me, a get real look passing over his features. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Don’t test me right now, Griffin Knightly. Just give me the fudge.” Shaking his head, he gives me the last five samples and I don’t even bother to look at them. I palm the sugary confection and shove them in my mouth. Tourists around me back away, some point, some stare from behind merchandise shelves, and I couldn’t care less.
Stare all you want.
This is what a crazed person looks like.
Soak it all up.
Take pictures.
Hell, come pose with me, post on Instagram with the hashtag: PortSnowFudgeDemon.
“Rylee?” I look toward Griffin, fudge popping past my lips, my cheeks puffed out and full. “Does this have to do with the guy over there who’s staring at you intently, like you’re the most gorgeous woman he’s ever seen?”
“What?” Fudge pops out of my mouth as I whip around to find Beck leaning against a pole, arms crossed over his drool-worthy chest, and the most handsome smirk ever lifting up the sides of his lips. “Oh my God.” I turn back around, hiding my face with my fudge-soaked hand and scramble for a napkin to collect the oozing sugary confection coming out of my mouth.
“I’m going to take that as a yes.”
I spit the chunk of fudge that was marinating in my mouth straight into a cluster of napkins and glare at Griffin, an innocent bystander to this whole madness. “What on earth is he doing here?”
Wide-eyed, probably from seeing this very unflattering side of me, Griffin says, “Uh, I’m going to guess doing some shopping?”
Not wanting to turn around, unable to truly face him with fudge drippings, I ask, “What’s he doing?” Griffin turns to look at him when I snap, “Don’t look at him.” Griffin freezes, unsure of what to do. Poor men. They have no clue.
“I’m going to need to look at him if you want me to see what he’s doing.”
“Make it subtle.”
I’m hunched over the counter, back toward Beck, wiping my mouth feverishly, trying to get all the fudge off my face in case he comes up—
“Hey, Saucy.”
My back straightens, my face blanches, my body stills. My eyes move to Griffin, who’s cringing.
From the side of his mouth, Griffin says, “Heads-up. He’s right behind you.”
My nostrils flare, causing Griffin to back away slowly. “Thanks . . . pal.” Taking a deep breath, I straighten my shirt and spin on my heel. “Beck, what a surprise. Enjoying your time in Port Snow?”
That damn smirk doesn’t disappear. It only grows wider. Leaning forward, he reaches his arm behind me, grabs a napkin, and lifts it to my face where he wipes the side of my cheek. Immediately, I feel my face flame with embarrassment.
“Missed a spot.” He crumples the napkin and sticks it in his front pocket. He tilts his head to the side, his eyes scanning over mine. “I would suggest getting the strawberry shortcake fudge.” He tilts my chin with his finger. “It’s to die for.”
Winking, he steps away and heads toward
the door.
What in the EVER-LOVING HELL IS HAPPENING?
Confused, embarrassed, and slightly turned on, I stare at Beck’s retreating back, walking away as if he’s lived here forever.
“So, will that be a pound of strawberry shortcake to go?” Griffin asks from behind me.
“Not now, Griffin.” I storm out of the building, making a right where Beck made a left, and racing to my house to bury my head in my pillow.
Chapter Twenty-Four
BECK
I press my hands into my thighs, nervous as hell, trying to keep my palms as dry as possible.
“Beck?”
I stand and offer my hand to Mr. Ryan, Rylee’s father. “Mr. Ryan, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure is mine. When Zoey told us about you wanting to sell art in our gallery, I was more than interested to have a different style represented.” He smiles, his eyes lighting up like Rylee’s when she’s excited. “You can only have so many lighthouses for sale until you start to lose your mind.”
I chuckle. “Hey, I like a good lighthouse picture, but I get it.” I grab my portfolio from the ground and sling it over my shoulder. “I really appreciate you giving me the time to show you my portfolio.”
“Of course, of course. Come on back. Mrs. Ryan is finishing up a drink-and-paint class and will be with us shortly.”
“Drink and paint?”
Mr. Ryan laughs and shakes his head. “It’s all the rage. Drink some wine and paint a picture. It’s very big with the tourists, but instead of doing all the same picture, we have a collection of pictures with attached instructions customers can follow. So if you come with a family member, you don’t have two of the same picture.”
“Oh, that’s smart. I like it.”
“Mrs. Ryan liked it at first, but I believe she’s getting a little worn out with the demand, and coming up with new pictures to be painted.”
Hmm . . . I know someone who can help out with that. I will put that little tidbit in my back pocket for now.
“Understandable.” I lay my portfolio on the table as Mrs. Ryan walks through the door. Holy shit. Rylee may have her dad’s eyes, but she looks just like her mom, from her petite frame to her long black hair, to her feminine bone structure. “You must be Mrs. Ryan.”
She takes my hand warmly and gives it a light squeeze. “Beck Wilder, nice to meet you. Please take a seat.” She releases my hand and sits next to her husband, and that’s when I see it. True, time-tested love. They even still hold hands under the table. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No apology necessary. How was the class?”
“Charming.” She nods and presses her palm to her forehead, pushing her hair away. “Tiring. Those tourists sure can give me a run for my money.”
“I bet, but what an awesome idea.”
“Thank you. It’s brought in a lot of great business.” She waves to my portfolio. “Zoey said you were a very talented artist. Please share with us; we’re always looking for new talent.”
I take a deep breath and nod. “I’d like to tell you a little bit about myself, because I’ve learned recently that being honest and open about my situation brings trust.” Rylee’s parents exchange glances. Not the best way to start an “interview” but after talking with Cal about my grand plan, he said with such big life changes, the best thing I can do for myself is be open and honest. So I’m taking that chunk of advice and running with it.
Clearing my throat, I clasp my palms on the table in front of me and speak directly to Rylee’s parents. “Eight years ago, I got behind the wheel of my car, drunk, angry, and on a mission to get as far away from my life as possible.” I take a deep breath, my throat already tightening on me. These are Rylee’s parents. “I was a lost man, searching for solace, for any kind of peace. I searched for it at the bottom of a liquor bottle.” I shake my head. “That night, I ran a red light, driving my car right into another, killing a woman on the spot.” I swallow hard now. “She was . . . she was going to pick up her son from a slumber party he was too scared to stay at. Rightfully so, I spent six years in prison, sobering up, and changing my life. I learned my passion for art while I was there and read every inspirational book I could get my hands on. When I was in prison, I vowed to make a change, to make a difference in this world. A positive one. And that’s what I strive to do every day. I’m often a guest speaker at AA meetings, sharing my story. I talk to high school kids about the risks of drinking and driving, and I also run a non-profit organization to assist families in need.” My palms sweat, my leg itching to bounce. “I’m telling you this because I want you to know me, my motivation for my art, and where my inspiration stems from.”
Mr. Ryan nods. Both are quiet, and my nerves start to paralyze me as I try not to focus on what must be passing through their minds, what they must be thinking about me.
I flip open my portfolio and turn the photographs of my art toward them to study. They both lean forward and take in the vivid colors and stroke lines. “I’m currently a muralist for some of the zoos and museums in Los Angeles. I work on a contract basis, so I’m very familiar with painting landscapes of all different environments, but my true passion is portraits.” They flip through my pictures, the back of my neck heating with each pass of their hands over the pages. Is this what Rylee feels every time she submits work to her editor and publisher? Like she’s giving away a part of her soul? “Every portrait in this book is of a victim of alcohol abuse. Their story accompanies every face on the back of the pictures. Since these are photographs, you can’t quite see the brushstrokes all too well, but I do use a heavy hand with my oils to form movement in the features.”
The Ryans nod and continue to look through the pictures, one after another. I’m so damn nervous; my stomach is rolling on me. “Uh, my goal is to move to Port Snow, to possibly find some contract work in Augusta, Portland, and Orono. But I would love to sell my work to you exclusively.”
They nod their heads and continue to study my pictures until they get to the last page and gently close my portfolio, pushing it back toward me. I hold my breath, trying to read their faces.
Mr. Ryan clears his throat and pulls on his ear before he speaks. “You have a beautiful eye for color, Beck. Even from the photographs you can see the movement you create in your art.”
“Very unique aesthetic that you don’t see very often with those vivid colors,” Mrs. Ryan adds.
Why do I feel a but coming on?
“But . . .” and there it is. I hold my head firm, my eyes locked on them, not showing any signs of disappointment. I don’t want them to feel bad for me. I want them to make this decision honestly. “I can’t foresee being able to sell portraits here in the gallery.”
Mrs. Ryan nods. “I agree, unfortunately.”
Lips pressed together, I take a deep breath, and reach my hand out. “Well, thank you so much for your time. I really appreciate you giving me the opportunity to show you my work.”
My heart is breaking in half. Hell, I knew this was a long shot, so I should be proud that I tried at least. I’m going to have to come up with another plan, maybe reach out to the museums and zoos in the area. At this point, I would work for a painting company just to be near Rylee.
Ignoring my hand, Mr. Ryan says, “We’re not done here.”
“Oh.” I take my hand back and settle into my seat.
“I see great talent and passion in you, Beck. I see enormous good in you, and I’ve always believed in second chances. I think you can be an asset to us.” Mrs. Ryan beams at her husband. “Give us a second to talk. We’ll be right back.”
Hope springs in my chest as I nod. I want what they have. Love. Devotion. Forever. But will they have anything that will keep me here near my girl?
How did it go?” Zoey asks as she sits across from me at The Lighthouse Restaurant. She sets her purse on the ground and props her hands on the table.
I can’t hold back the smile. “Really well.”
She slaps
the table and then fist-pumps the air. “I knew it would be. Bruce and Carly are the best, aren’t they?”
“They’re pretty amazing, but I’m not quite doing what I expected.”
“What do you mean? Are you not selling your art there?”
I shake my head. “No, they uh, offered me a full-time job to run the gallery, the paint classes, and help with acquiring new artists in the area. They also hooked me up with a friend they have in Augusta who works with the museums, zoos, and aquariums in the state.”
“You’re kidding me.”
I shake my head. “Nope, they went above and beyond. Mr. Ryan said he wants to enjoy his retirement with his wife, he wants her to paint more, and he was waiting to find someone with enough knowledge to take over the day-to-day work.”
“Holy shit!” Zoey claps her hands and leans over the table knocking over the pepper to give me a hug. “That’s amazing, Beck. Do they know about Rylee?”
I smile. “When I was leaving, I stopped in the doorway, shaking their hands and told them I was in love with their daughter, and that my master plan is to get her to marry me one day . . . you know, further down the road.”
“Gah. What did they say?”
“They exchanged glances and said they knew the stranger in black had to have something to do with the mood swings their daughter has been having.”
Zoey laughs and grabs my water, taking a sip. “Oh, I love the Ryans.”
“They said a few weeks ago, they couldn’t believe how happy Rylee was, and they noticed something must have happened since she’s been really quiet lately. When they got the call from you, they knew something was up, but they reassured me the job was purely offered based off my portfolio and experience.”
“That’s so great, Beck.”
I scrub my jaw. “It really is. I can’t thank you enough for setting me up with everything.”
“Anytime.” She waves a hand at me. “And has Victoria been a pleasant hostess? She can get cranky very easily.”
Isn’t that the fucking truth? Victoria is awesome, but the rules she has for her household, I can’t keep them straight. I try not to touch anything unless absolutely necessary.