She found a parking spot around the corner from the building and ran the half block to the entrance. Her footsteps sounded loud in the stairwell as she climbed to the fifth floor. She could see evidence of the break-in as she climbed—graffiti and broken glass—and there was more when she arrived on her floor. Glass glinted on the tiles in the corridor, and every door along this side hung open drunkenly, regardless of the security measures the individual tenants had in place. A couple of police officers stood at the far end of the corridor, talking. One of them started walking toward her the moment they saw her.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave, miss. This is a crime scene.”
“I’m a tenant—studio twenty-three. My neighbor told me my space has been broken into.”
The policeman consulted his notebook. “Number twenty-three. That makes you Angela Bartlett.”
“That’s right.”
“You can go in to assess the damage and tell us what’s missing, but I need you to not touch anything until our crime-scene people have finished collecting evidence.”
“Okay. Sure. Whatever you want, I just need to see my studio.”
She was aware of the anxious pounding of her heart as she followed him around the corner. She could see her door hanging open.
“They hit every studio?” she asked, her gaze darting left and right as she inspected the damage to her neighbors’ spaces as they passed. What she saw only increased the anxiety tightening her chest—smashed furniture, toppled bookcases.
“On this level, yeah. Downstairs they were a bit more discriminating.” The cop halted. “Okay, here we are. Remember, no touching anything until the team’s been through.”
She nodded, her gaze fixed on the doorway. She sent up a prayer to the universe.
Please let them have not broken into the safe.
She stepped over the threshold.
The first thing she registered was the black paint sprayed across the wall, a huge, furious four-letter word six feet high. Paint had dribbled down to the floor, which was covered with broken glass from the framed artwork they had torn off the walls. The mid-century sideboard that had housed her books and keepsakes had been tipped over, spilling its contents, and her table and chairs had been smashed.
Her gaze zeroed in on the safe. Relief pounded through her as she saw that while the dull gray metal was scarred and pitted around the locking mechanism and it had been dragged a few feet from its position in the corner, the door remained closed.
“Oh, thank God,” she said, closing her eyes for a brief second.
That was one disaster averted, at least. She turned to inspect the rest of her space and sucked in a dismayed breath when she saw her workbench. The intruders had sprayed black paint over all her tools—the leather hammer she’d used for more than ten years, her vernier caliper, her flexi-drive drill, all the drill bits and mops and burrs… Again, she reached out but caught herself in time.
Angry tears burned at the back of her eyes. She didn’t understand why anyone would be so destructive. She was a stranger to the intruders, yet they had made a concerted effort to maliciously destroy her creative space.
Her phone rang. She pulled it from her bag. Michael’s number showed on the screen.
“Everything okay?” he asked the moment she took the call.
“Yes and no. They didn’t get into my safe, which would have pretty much been the end of my business. But they’ve absolutely trashed everything else they could get their hands on. Including my tools.”
“Shit. I’m really sorry, Angie.”
“Yeah. Me, too. Stupid assholes.”
“I take it you’re insured?”
“Yeah, but I think it’s mostly going to be cleaning up, not replacing stuff. Apart from what’s in the safe, most of the things I had here have value only for me, you know. They’re hardly worth claiming on insurance.”
“Anything I can do?”
Despite the situation, his offer warmed her. Suddenly she didn’t feel quite so alone or overwhelmed.
“Thanks, but there’s nothing anyone can do at this stage. The police won’t let me touch anything until their fingerprint people have—” Her roaming gaze fell on a spray of dirt on the floor near the window.
The burn of tears intensified as she saw that her Japanese maple bonsai tree had been thrown to the floor and stomped on. The pottery base was shattered, and half the tree’s roots were exposed and broken.
“Angie? Are you okay?”
She sank to her knees and reached for the fragile tangle of leaves and tiny branches.
“They smashed my bonsai.”
There was a small silence. She knew Michael understood the significance of the loss. Billie had given her the tiny tree as a gift to brighten her workspace, even though Angie had what could only be described as a black thumb. At the time, Angie had given Billie her word that she’d keep it alive, and so far the bonsai had survived almost three years of benign neglect.
She lifted the tree gently. It was crushed, the main trunk almost completely severed. Utterly beyond saving.
“If you want, I can be there in half an hour. I’m sure Mrs. Linton could look after the kids for a few hours.”
She sniffed back her tears. “I’m okay. Just angry. It’s so destructive. And completely pointless.”
“You sure you don’t want some company?”
“I’ll be all right. But thanks for the offer.”
It wasn’t until they ended the call that it struck her that ten months ago, Billie would have been the one on the phone, insisting on helping. It was hard facing a crisis without her best support and cheerleader, but it was also nice to know that Michael cared enough to have made the call.
Of course he cares. He’s your friend. Just as you’re his friend.
She heard footsteps in the corridor and the policeman stopped in the doorway.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but our team is here now. You’re going to have to leave.”
“Okay.”
She took one last look around her devastated studio. As she’d said to Michael, there was nothing she could do here till tomorrow.
Shoulders straight, she headed for home.
* * *
MICHAEL WORRIED ABOUT Angie all night until he went to bed and then started again first thing when he woke the next morning. She’d done so much for him and the kids and he hated the thought of her having to deal with the invasion of her creative space all on her own.
After he’d dropped Eva at school, he drove into the city. Charlie was asleep in his car seat by the time Michael found a parking spot. He unstrapped him and carried him the block to Angie’s building. Charlie began to wriggle in his arms as he approached the entrance and he set his son on his feet and took his hand.
“You happy now?”
Charlie nodded.
“Shall we go visit Angie, then?”
“Angie?” Charlie’s face was a study in delight.
The directory in the foyer told him A. Bartlett was in studio twenty-three on the fifth floor. He eyed the ancient cage elevator suspiciously before deciding to take the stairs. After the first flight, Charlie allowed himself to be carried again, a capitulation which shortened their upward trek by several minutes.
Glass crunched underfoot, and when they arrived at the fifth floor more piles of broken glass were stationed periodically along the corridor, clearly waiting to be collected and disposed of. Michael winced when he saw the damage to some of the studios he passed.
“Down. Down!” Charlie commanded as they neared Angie’s.
Michael set him on his feet but kept a tight grip on his son’s hand as he searched for number twenty-three. Belatedly it occurred to him that he probably should have called first—for all he knew, Angie might be out arranging
repairs or talking to clients. Then he saw that the door to what he assumed was her studio was open and lifted a hand to knock on the doorframe to announce himself. His hand froze inches from the wood as he registered that Angie was inside and that she wasn’t alone.
Not by a long shot.
Instead, she was in what looked like a fervent embrace with a tall, muscular man with long dark hair. The other man’s hands were splayed possessively over the small of her back, his face nuzzled into the curve of her neck and shoulder. Her arms banded around him, the muscles in her arms flexing as she held him close. Michael couldn’t see her face, but it was blindingly obvious that he was about to step into what was clearly a very private moment.
He would come back later. Maybe take Charlie for a walk around the block, then pop in again. Give Angie time to do…whatever with her friend. Or whoever the guy was.
He took a step backward, already pivoting on his heel.
Charlie resisted, straining against his grip. “Angie.” He pointed at the object of his affection.
Angie’s head came up, eyes wide.
“Charlie.” She stepped out of the other man’s arms as her gaze shifted to Michael. “Michael. What are you guys doing here?”
She looked and sounded so surprised he suddenly felt a little self-conscious. “We, um, wanted to make sure you’re okay. But we can come back later.” He tugged on Charlie’s arm again. “Come on, matey. You want to go get some chocolate?”
“Don’t be silly. You weren’t interrupting anything,” Angie said.
Long-haired guy frowned, not liking the sound of that.
“I can’t believe you came all the way into the city just to see me. How lucky am I?” Angie bent to scoop Charlie into her arms.
His son happily sat on her hip, despite the fact that he’d squirmed his way out of Michael’s arms barely minutes before.
“Angie,” Charlie said, reaching out to touch the sparkling earring dangling from her lobe.
“I thought we could help you clean up, sort things out,” Michael said.
Angie’s expression was soft with gratitude. “Thank you. That’s really sweet of you.”
Long-haired guy shifted his weight ostentatiously, drawing attention to himself.
Angie looked a little sheepish. “Sorry, I’m being rude. Carlos, this is Michael and Charlie. Carlos has a studio on the fourth floor.”
“Good to meet you. I hope things didn’t go too badly for you last night.” Michael offered his hand.
“I was lucky for once, since they skipped me. But poor Angie was not so lucky.”
“No,” Michael said, very aware of the other man sizing him up.
Carlos stepped closer to Angie and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I need to get back to my work, but we’re still on for lunch, yes?”
There was a faint lilt to his voice, indicating that English was not his first language.
“Can I call you? I really want to get as much of this sorted today as I can. I can’t afford to lose more time.” Her forehead was puckered with worry.
“You have to eat, beautiful,” Carlos said. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lips, maintaining the contact longer than was strictly necessary. Almost as though he was trying to make a point—although to whom, Michael had no idea. “Call me, okay?”
Carlos gave Michael a reserved nod before leaving. Angie jiggled Charlie on her hip, making him giggle.
“This is a nice surprise, isn’t it? A lovely surprise,” she said. Her cheeks were a little flushed, as though she was embarrassed about something.
Michael surveyed the room, taking in the graffiti and the pile of glass and other debris that had been swept into the corner. Pieces of a broken table and chairs lay beside it, and twin piles of books were stacked near the door. A mid-century sideboard in teak veneer lay facedown on the ground.
“They did a real number on the place, huh?”
“Pretty much. If it moved, they smashed it, and if it didn’t, they painted it.” Angie shook her head with disgust.
Michael crossed to the sideboard and crouched, getting a good grip on it before easing into an upright position. Once it was righted he saw it was still half-filled with books, which explained both why it was so heavy and why Angie hadn’t tackled it on her own. There was more broken glass underneath, as well as the smashed remains of what looked like a porcelain menagerie—a lion, a tiger, an elephant and a monkey.
“More casualties.” Angie’s face was taut with unhappiness.
“No be sad,” Charlie said, reaching up to stroke her cheek. “You no be sad.”
She immediately smiled, rubbing her nose against his. “It’s okay, Charlie-boy. I’m okay.”
Michael pushed the sideboard against the wall and crouched to tidy the books on the shelves.
“Don’t worry about those. I can do that later,” she said.
“We came to help.” He was aware of feeling off balance as he tidied the books. It took him a moment to understand that he was thrown by the discovery that Angie had a boyfriend.
She hadn’t mentioned anyone to him, not even in passing. The omission left him feeling oddly unsettled. As though something small but significant in his understanding of the world had shifted.
In the months since Billie had died Angie had laughed with him, cried with him, cooked for him, changed his son’s diapers and read bedtime stories to his daughter. Yet she hadn’t even so much as hinted that she was seeing someone.
Newsflash, buddy—you don’t own her. She doesn’t owe you anything.
He knew the voice in his head was right. He had no right to feel…possessive was the wrong word, but it was close…of Angie. She didn’t belong to him and the kids. She was her own person, with her own life and her own dreams and wants and desires. All of which she was entitled to keep to herself if she so chose.
“What does Carlos do?” So much for minding his own business.
“He’s a musician, plus he does a bit of sound-engineering work on the side.”
“Right.”
Shut up. Not another word.
“So how long have you two been…?” He kept his gaze on his task, very carefully not looking at her. He had no idea why he was asking, why he felt the burning need to know what was going on in her life.
Angie laughed, the sound reassuringly startled. “Me and Carlos? I don’t think so.”
He allowed himself to look at her. “Yeah? The way he was marking his territory just now, I figured you guys must have something going on.”
“I have no idea what that was about. We’ve had drinks after work a few times. But he’s not my type. Too brooding and artistic. I like a little less drama in my life.”
She might not have any idea what the other man’s ostentatious display had been about, but Michael did. For some reason, he’d seen Michael as a rival for Angie’s affections. Which went to show how good the other man’s instincts were.
Angie took up the broom and resumed sweeping the floor, Charlie clinging to her leg. It occurred to him that bringing a two-year-old to the site of a break-in hadn’t been his smartest move. But he hadn’t exactly been thinking rationally when he’d turned the car toward the city. He’d only wanted to make sure Angie was okay.
“Here, I’ll do that,” he said, holding a hand out for the broom.
“I’m almost done,” Angie said, smiling at Charlie, who was looking at her with bright eyes.
“Is there a bin where we can dump all this stuff?”
“I hadn’t even thought that far ahead.” She tucked a strand of long dark hair behind her ear. “There’s supposed to be a wheelie bin on each level, but half the time it disappears.”
“I’ll go see if I can find something.” He started for the door.
“Michael?”
&nb
sp; He glanced over his shoulder.
“I meant what I said before. I really appreciate you coming in like this.”
“Not a big deal.”
“It is to me.” Her smile was a little wobbly.
He could suddenly see all her hurt and anger and frustration, all the emotions she’d stuffed deep inside in order to do what needed to be done to get her studio back in order.
“We’ll fix it, don’t worry.”
“Okay.” Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears.
Before he could stop himself, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her. She tensed for a second and he thought she would push him away. Then her arms circled his waist and her body softened and she rested her forehead on his shoulder. For a long moment they were silent. He was aware of her knees touching his and the warmth of her body and the faint fruity scent of her shampoo. He rested his cheek against her hair, wishing there was some way he could make things right for her.
After a minute she lifted her head and he let her go.
“Thanks,” she said with a small, self-conscious smile as she stepped backward.
“I want cuddle, too,” Charlie demanded, both arms raised.
Angie laughed. “Of course you do.”
She stooped to pick him up and Charlie wrapped his arms around her neck and pressed a big, wet kiss to her cheek.
Michael smiled. “I’ll go find that bin.”
It wasn’t until he was turning the corner in the corridor that it occurred to him that hug had been his first adult human contact in months.
CHAPTER FOUR
“HEY, CHARLIE, COME away from there. You don’t want to touch all that nasty stuff,” Angie said, herding him away from the pile of debris in the corner.
Charlie complied readily, trotting off to inspect the safe instead. Angie watched him distractedly. She was still getting over the surprise of Michael’s spontaneous embrace.
They had hugged before, but not often, and usually only briefly, in greeting or thanks. And, of course, after Billie’s death there had been condolence and sympathy hugs.
Within Reach Page 5