Shelter

by Stephanie Fournet

  These worries were too depressing, so I searched for a change of subject. “Did you see Ross today at school?”

  Alberta’s cafe au lait skin could not hide her rosy blush. Her lashes lowered, and she tried to mask her demure smile. “Maybe,” she said with a shrug.

  “Oh?” I teased, grinning at my friend. “And how is Ross?”

  “He’s…” She shook her head the way a dog shakes off water. “…fine.”

  I had yet to meet the infamous Ross Wilson, but I knew he taught PE at Plantation, and, according to Alberta, he could be a model for Under Armour fitness wear. She blushed every time she talked about him. Seeing my confident, gorgeous, talented friend so flustered by a guy had me grinning.

  “Did you invite him to your showing?” I prodded. Some of Alberta’s paintings were on exhibit at The Green Door Gallery downtown. For Second Saturday Artwalk, the gallery opened its doors to the downtown crowds, offering wine and hors d'oeuvres and a chance to meet featured artists. Alberta had been on a cloud for the last month, counting down the days.

  She huffed a sigh. “Yes, but I don’t know why.”

  “What?” I asked, frowning. “Did he turn you down?”

  She stabbed at her macaroni. “No. He’s going to come.” Her voice had gone edgy and tight.

  I swallowed my giggle. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “Well, I mean, yeah… I do.” Alberta shrugged. “But I’m already going to be a nervous wreck. What if I lose the power of speech when he shows up?”

  Her eyes had rounded with such genuine concern, I had to laugh. “Alberta, I’ve known you since we were kids. You’ve never lost your power of speech.”

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  Ignoring her growl seemed wise, and I fought my grin. “So, I guess I’ll get to meet him Saturday?”

  Her scowl vanished, and she batted her eyes for me. “Oh, better than that.”

  “Better than meeting Ross?” I asked, aware that she now looked far too pleased with herself for my comfort. What was she plotting?

  “Mmm-hmm.” She gave an exaggerated nod. “So, Ross’s buddy just moved into town, and they were planning to go out Saturday night. But now he’s bringing him to the exhibit, and the four of us will go out for drinks after.”

  “Oh, no.” I shook my head, eyeing her with growing fear. “No, no, no.”

  Alberta tsked. “Four nos? Really? You need more yes in your life, Elise.”

  “But I don’t do blind dates, Bertie. Not since The Harry Horn Debacle of 2016.”

  She snorted a laugh. Referencing The Harry Horn Debacle of 2016 always cracked her up. It was officially the last time I let anyone set me up. And the guy’s name wasn’t Harry Horn. It was Michael.

  But that nose.

  Oh, Lord. Someone needed to tell Michael Horn to wax his nose. And it wasn’t going to be me.

  Maybe that made me shallow. Maybe I was an awful person for not being able to see past the seven or eight hairs that sprouted like eyelashes from the tip of his nose. But really, how could I? They’d been practically winking at me the whole night.

  Grimacing at the memory, I stifled a shudder. Alberta laughed harder.

  “Who fixed you up with him, again?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Rita. You’d think Mama’s best friend — a woman who’s practically my aunt — would do me better than that.”

  Alberta set down her near-empty bowl of mac and clutched her stomach, her laughter now like a thunderstorm that just had to be weathered. I put down my bowl with a clank and made myself comfortable on the sofa. This would take a while.

  She wiped her eyes. “Didn’t you name some of them?”

  A rogue laugh escaped me. Okay, yeah, I was awful. “We shouldn’t be laughing about this. I feel so guilty.”

  “Spike? Tweezer?’

  I lost the high ground completely and shut my eyes, my laughter the only assent I could make. “And…” I tried to catch my breath, blinking my now watering eyes. “…Wilbur.”

  Alberta’s head flopped against the back of the sofa. She was laughing with almost no sound. It hurt to look at her. I couldn’t breathe. This was one of the many reasons I loved Alberta. At least once a week, we’d set each other off like this.

  “Wh… wh… why Wilbur,” she asked when she could wheeze out the words.

  I scrunched my eyes shut and shook my head, trying not to picture Michael Horn’s hairy nose. “It was just… just so big. Really, it should have had a middle name, too. Wilbur Rutherford H-horn.”

  Alberta gave a shriek of laughter and smacked me on the knee, wordlessly begging for mercy as she dissolved again.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I said, drying my eyes. I looked at the ceiling. “God forgive me. And Michael Horn, wherever you are.”

  “What if…” Alberta sniffled a very unladylike sniffle and fanned her face. “What if I swear on my life that Ross’s friend will have no extraneous facial hairs? Would you come out with us?”

  “Is this a date? Because I’m not going if it’s a date.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not a date. You’ll be there for moral support, and Ross’s buddy will be there…” Alberta searched the air for a reason, and then she shrugged. “…for decoration.”

  I raised a brow at her. “Decoration?”

  Alberta turned her hands up. “Well, if he’s friends with Ross, he can’t be a troll, right?”

  “With my luck? Yes. I think there’s an excellent chance he’s a troll.”

  She rolled her eyes at me, but she did it smiling. “Oh, please. Yeah, you’ve had a bit of a dry spell, but it’s not that bad.”

  I frowned at my best friend’s selective memory. “Two years isn’t a dry spell,” I said sourly. “It’s a drought.”

  Alberta gave me a scolding look. “Self-sabotage. You work all the time. I’m not even sure you want to go out. With anyone.”

  I didn’t want to admit it, but she was right. I mean, I wanted to go out, but not just with anyone.

  I’d done that in college, and I’d discovered after a little experimentation that I wasn’t into casual sex, but even I would admit that my dating habits had established a kind of pattern. Back in college, whenever I met someone I was attracted to, I’d get excited over the little sparks they’d set off beneath my skin. I’d never been shy that way, so if a guy I was interested in didn’t ask me out, I didn’t mind doing the asking. And I found most guys liked that.

  So we’d go out. Usually to a club because, you know, college. Clubs were fun. Dancing was fun. And surrounded by deafening music, the press of bodies, and the elixir of alcohol and hormones, my attraction usually grew. And that would lead to second date. And a third. And so on.

  And I kept waiting for it to happen. That feeling of being recognized. Of being seen. The one that went along with looking at him and knowing exactly what he needed. Wanting, like nothing else, to make him laugh. Chase his smile. Argue. Tease. Push and pull.

  I was patient. Even though I sensed in my gut that what I sought didn’t come with waiting. I was so patient, I started to wonder if something was wrong with me. I’d been a junior in college before I slept with a guy.

  Eric Leonard.

  He was smart. And soft-spoken. A gentleman and a gentle man. Every time he took me out, he’d pick me up, and as soon as I was seated in his little 2002 Toyota Tercel, he’d tell me to close my eyes and stick out my hand. Each time, I opened my eyes to find a tiny origami figure resting on my palm. A crane. A flower. A little elephant.

  They were adorable and sweet. I dated Eric for three months before I slept with him. I’d decided it was time, and I’d hoped that allowing myself to give that to Eric, to be that close to him — closer than I’d ever been with anyone — then I’d feel that feeling.

  The pull. The need. The certainty.

  But it felt like paper. Smooth and certainly useful, but still thin and blank.

  I gave it a few more tries. Alberta had told me that sex
was always crap at first. And Eric had been eager. Giving. He’d made me feel nice.

  But paper was nice.

  An origami bird can’t fly. A newsprint flower doesn’t blossom and blush. And paper elephant can’t stampede.

  Years ago, I’d taken flight. I’d blossomed and blushed. And I’d certainly been trampled. All before I’d done anything below the belt.

  And never since.

  I’d broken up with Eric after sleeping with him a third time. After I’d realized that being with him made me feel more alone than being by myself. And that was when I’d experimented. If a sweet guy who really liked me wasn’t the thing, maybe it was animal attraction.

  Guess what? It wasn’t.

  So, yeah, when I graduated and started working full time, it was easy to throw my focus onto my jewelry. Work late. Sketch designs. Use the 3D printer when I could. And get that blood-fueling rush when one of my babies came to life in metal and gemstone.

  “I’m happy where I am,” I told Alberta. And that was true. Mostly. I basically just had two problems.

  Loneliness and hope.

  The first I was used to. I’d had loneliness as my companion most of my life. It was hope that chafed at me and made my loneliness that much more acute. Hope was messy. Hope was inconvenient. Hope fucked with my head.

  And it was at night, curled up with my loneliness — which wasn’t so terribly uncomfortable — that hope would stir. And she would whisper the most inhumane things.

  “If you felt it once, you could feel it again.”

  Someone. Someone strong and vulnerable. And angry and joyful. And sexy and sad could come into my life, look at me, and see all the things about me no one else saw. Make me feel like I was worth knowing.

  “You’re lucky,” Hope would say. “You know what it feels like. You’ll recognize it. You just have to find it again.”

  Hope made it seem so easy. What a liar she was.

  “I think I’ll go to bed,” I said, scooping up my dinner bowl and getting to my feet.

  Alberta shot me a look of disappointed surprise. “What? No Will & Grace reruns?”

  The thought of laughing at Karen and Jack tempted me, but I’d let moodiness settle into my skin, and the best thing to do with that was sketch.

  “Nah. Not tonight. I have some ideas I want to put on paper. “ On my drive home, I’d pictured a pewter cuff bracelet I wanted to play around with. The image was fresh enough, and whenever I felt this bruised sense of longing, I wanted nothing better than to get out my sketchpad.

  “Hey,” Alberta said, her concerned eyes searching my face. “I hope I didn’t say something to upset you. If you really don’t want to come out with us, I won’t force you.”

  A stinger of guilt pierced my chest. Alberta had done nothing wrong. I brushed aside her worries. “I’ll go out. Just don’t call it a date,” I said. “Or a setup.”

  Her expression softened. “Fine. It’s not a date. We’ll just go out and have a few drinks. It’ll be fun.”

  I nodded once. “Sure.” I didn’t sound too convincing, but I offered her a smile and reminded myself that Saturday was a big night for her. She deserved to celebrate, and I wanted to be with her when she did. “It will be fun.” This time letting my pride and excitement for her fill my voice.

  Relief rimmed her eyes. “Okay. I’ll tell Ross.” Then she squealed and clapped her hands. “I’m so excited!”

  Grinning at her giddiness, I told Alberta goodnight before shutting myself in my tiny bedroom. The space was just big enough to fit my bed along one wall and my dresser and desk along the other with a narrow galley between them. Through the thin barrier of my bedroom door, I heard Alberta click on the TV, and studio audience laughter soon followed.

  I grabbed my phone and earbuds before settling at my desk. I could sketch with music, no problem. But the sounds of Alberta’s show would break my concentration. I tapped my Spotify app, selected my Chainsmokers playlist, and flipped open my hardbound sketchbook to a clean page. Even though I’d complete a digital rendition later, I always liked to start a new design with paper and colored pencil.

  I chose the closest gray to pewter in my set of Prismacolors and framed out the cuff. What I envisioned was a slightly concave outer surface with a brushed finish. Along the top edge, a border of round-cut aquamarine — 6 X 4 millimeters each — would be the only adornment. Sleek. Elegant. Both contemporary and timeless.

  The hardest part, I knew, would be convincing Ed my boss to go with the Natural AA grade aquamarine instead of the grayer Natural A. But the medium light blue, like the sea on sunlit day, would stand out against the pewter with just the right luminescence. The gems alone would cost more than two hundred dollars. Ed would probably freak.

  But I shoved that fear aside. If I thought that way, some of my best ideas would never have seen the light of day. Ed might balk, but he’d keep going back to the sketches and the resin cast. My pieces were selling. I couldn’t worry about my boss’s opinion until after the design was done.

  From my tray of Prismacolors, I chose 1086, Sky Blue Light, the closest match to the frosted blue I envisioned and the shortest pencil in the blue set, and colored in the first stone.

  Chapter 17

  COLE

  I watched Ava’s plane touch down through the wide windows of Lafayette Regional Airport, relieved that the house was finally ready.

  Time to start over. Again. Maybe I’d get it right this time.

  And so far, so good. In the twenty-eight days since I’d escorted her to Center City, Minnesota, I’d accomplished mission impossible. I’d moved the command center of my engineering firm from the Central Business District in New Orleans to the Oil Center in Lafayette. That had to count for something, right?

  At least I could keep something alive.

  The NOLA office was still open, of course. The company wouldn’t be worth saving without my West Bank clients, and I wouldn’t have been able to convince even half of my employees to make the move. But I had talked Stefan and Veronica, my two best engineers, into coming with me.

  Talked probably wasn’t the right word. Bribed would be more accurate.

  Bette, my secretary, had needed little encouragement. Six months had passed since her divorce, and when I’d confided in her four weeks ago about Ava and my plans to relocate, she’d announced herself ready for a change of scenery. I’d given the forty-two-year-old mother of two a handsome raise — one that wasn’t in the company budget — for her loyalty.

  As I stood outside the airport’s security checkpoint, waiting for Ava to deplane, I thanked God for Bette. She’d been the one to find the new house while I had negotiated the lease of the new office space.

  And she put up with my moods.

  I realized with a flush of shame that I had not even asked if Bette had found a place for her and the girls. I whipped out my phone.

  Cole: Found a house yet?

  I knew she’d been looking in the Woodvale school district so Emmaline and Eleanor would have that as an option, but I told her she’d be disappointed. Lusher Elementary in New Orleans was still better. I was prepared to offer her a stipend for private school tuition, and I’d told her as much.

  Bette: Two days before I found yours. Why are you worrying about this on a Saturday???

  Smirking at her sass, I shook my head.

  Me: What else am I going to worry about on a Saturday?

  This was a joke. Bette knew I had plenty to worry about, and the day of the week changed none of it.

  Bette: How about The Green Door exhibit with your friend Ross?

  Oh, shit.

  That was tonight. I’d completely forgotten. Ava’s original plans had been to fly in Sunday morning, but Delta had cancelled its one flight out of Minneapolis to Atlanta on Sunday, which would have left Ava in a strange city for her first night after treatment.

  I wasn’t about to let that happen.

  And, now, I wasn’t about to leave her alone on her first night back.
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  Bette: Let me guess. You forgot.

  I sighed, hoping Ross would understand. It had been a couple years since I’d seen him, but we still kept in touch. He’d lived across the hall from my apartment back in college. We’d both been early morning swimmers. I could see the same person day after day, coming and going to the complex pool, and never say hello. Ross could not. He’d been friendly from the start. I’d pegged him as a Loyola student right off the bat, and I’d been right.

  He’d understand. I’d invite him to lunch later this week.

  Me: I forgot. But it’s not entirely my fault. Ava’s getting back today.

  Seconds after I pressed send, my phone rang. Of course, it was Bette.

  “Hello?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?! I would’ve rearranged your schedule and ordered a grocery delivery.” Of all things, Bette sounded offended. As if my lapse had been intended as a personal affront.

  “Bette, relax. It’s fine—”

  “Are your dishes even unpacked? Is her bed made?

  I sighed. Bette was amazing, but she was also a control freak. And when she felt out of control, look out.

  “Turn-key service, Bette,” I reminded her. “The movers unpacked everything. Her bed’s been made since Thursday.”

  In fact, the house on St. John Street looked like we’d lived there for years. Maybe it was because it was an actual house, not a condo. An older home, eighty-six years if the Clerk of Court documents were correct. But the kitchen and bathrooms had been updated recently. The wood floors gleamed with a new finish, and the house smelled of fresh paint.

  And it felt like a home.

  Our French Quarter luxury condo in Crystalline, where we’d lived since I’d graduated and opened the firm, had been sleek and elegant. But the slate gray paint and the exposed brick of the Bienville Street building had left me cold.

  And the neighborhood had definitely been wrong for Ava.

  Bette breathed an audible sigh. “Well, thank God for that. Do you want me to call Ross and cancel?”

  I knew she was itching to take the reins and clean up the mess I’d made, but I wanted to explain the situation to Ross myself. It was just after four o’clock, which meant I’d be cancelling on him about two hours before we were supposed to meet. He’d called me Wednesday, after we’d made plans to go out, saying that the girl he was after had a showing at a gallery downtown, and was I okay starting the evening there and maybe going out after with this girl and her roommate?