Shelter

by Stephanie Fournet

  Corinne Granger-Clarkson flashed a wide smile. “Yes, last June. Right before I had my son, Michael.”

  I felt my breath stutter. The article had been about her stunning artistic comeback after suffering a deep depression. She’d lost her boyfriend, Michael, a few years ago in a car accident. But the story had featured a picture of her and her sexy-as-hell personal-trainer husband whom she credited with saving her life. In the picture, her husband stood behind her, his arms around her, his hands splayed over her very pregnant belly. He’d looked both adoring and protective, his eyes locked on hers. I remembered the story because it had been so romantic. Her husband had been best friends with the man she’d lost, and he’d made it his mission to look after her. Obviously, they’d fallen in love along the way.

  The article had brought tears to my eyes because… well, it was so hopeful. If she could overcome such a heartbreaking loss, maybe anyone could.

  “It’s an honor to meet you,” I said, more than a little awed, and finally released her hand.

  “Welcome to The Green Door,” she said graciously, and then her gaze lifted over my shoulder, and her expression transformed. Her eyes blazed and her lips parted. “There’s Wes. Please excuse me.”

  And with that, she left us. I turned to watch her make her way to the gallery’s entrance where the man I easily recognized from the article stood. His short, dark hair, sun-warmed skin, and sculpted muscles had the eyes of every woman — and a few of the men — pegged on him, but he clearly saw only his wife.

  Hope. There she was again, that bitch.

  “Wow…” Alberta said on a dreamy sigh.

  “Yeah…” I echoed with my own sigh as the hunky husband took his wife in his arms and kissed her warmly on the cheek. I shook myself out my fantasy fugue and focused on Alberta. “So, yeah, I’m sorry. What can I do? Is Ross here yet?”

  Her eyes came back to mine, and I saw her remember herself. “Not yet. I told him to come at six-thirty.” She gave me a smart look. “I was banking on the fact you’d be late.”

  “No fair.” I scowled at her teasing smile. “Okay, what do I have to do to be forgiven?”

  Still smirking, Alberta tipped her chin over her shoulder. “How about a glass of chardonnay?” I followed the direction of her gesture and found a table topped with bottles of red, the bottles of white chilling in a sterling silver tub of ice.

  “Be right back.”

  Pouring us both a much needed glass of wine was an easy penance. At the table, I fished a bottle from the ice and studied the label, curious about Corinne Granger-Clarkson’s taste in vintage. I wasn’t really a wine drinker, but anything she chose had to be cool, right? The simple white label read Cakebread Cellars, and it bore just a sketch of a cluster of green grapes. Smiling at its clean elegance, I poured out two glasses.

  I was lost in thoughts of a bottle-green grape design for a pendant or a pair of earrings as I moved through the crowd back to Alberta. Would beach glass work? Or would it be better to go with green garnet? Maybe I could swipe an empty bottle at the end of the night for inspir—

  “Elise.” Alberta stepped in front of me with panic in her eyes. She gripped my wrist, and I only just managed to keep wine from sloshing on the both of us.

  “Bertie, what the hell—” I said, dancing back so the rogue splash of chardonnay missed my open toes.

  “I swear, I had no idea,” she said in a rush. “I would have warned you…”

  Alberta kept speaking. At least, her mouth kept moving, but I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t hear anything. Because standing right behind her was Cole Whitehurst.

  He was looking straight at me — his eyes as icy blue as they’d ever been — and my heart nearly dropped to my liver.

  Eight years was a long time. Long enough to forget all kinds of things. But I hadn’t forgotten Cole. Despite how he’d hurt me the last time I saw him, he was still my gold standard. The bar against which I measured every other guy.

  I had yet to meet anyone who made me feel what I’d felt in the few days we’d had back then, and even though I told myself I was a fool to put my schoolgirl crush on such a pedestal — and Alberta completely agreed — I couldn’t seem to help it.

  For a whole three seconds, I could only stare at him in shock. But three seconds was all it took for that shock to morph into self-consciousness. I definitely didn’t need Cole to see in my expression or my eyes the mark he’d left on me.

  It’s the ideal he represents, I reminded myself, not the actual person. Indeed, I’d argued the same thing to Alberta a thousand times. It wasn’t like I’d been pining after Cole Whitehurst since I was sixteen. That would be beyond pathetic.

  It would be crazy.

  And, clearly, the man who stood before me now was not the same person I’d known as a girl. He didn’t even look the same. I mean, yeah, he was still gorgeous. Maybe even epically so. The planes of his face had sharpened with masculine beauty. Either he stood an inch or two taller now or his shoulders had broadened, but his shape was more striking. More imposing.

  Yes, the measure of the man I had carried was an ideal. Not the actual person.

  I sucked in a breath and offered him my hand. “Cole. It’s been a long time.” I was proud of how even my voice sounded. Because I didn’t want to be afraid of him, but I still was.

  In that moment, I remembered the letter I’d sent to him on my eighteenth birthday, and a little part of me died of humiliation. And, yes, I’d sent it back when I was still wrapped up in Cole, the actual person. (I was just eighteen, after all.) In the letter, I’d asked after him and Ava. I’d told him how much our time together had meant to me, and I’d told him I hoped we could be friends again.

  And I might have hinted that I’d waited for him. Just like he’d asked.

  He hadn’t responded.

  What had happened that night had not been my fault. It had not been Cole’s fault. But if he still blamed himself, then there might be a part of him that still blamed me. And even though I knew that wasn’t reasonable or fair, if Cole gave me that look of disgust I’d last seen on his face, I felt I might actually cry.

  Hell, after eight years, I might cry anyway.

  But before any tears could humiliate me further, his hand closed around mine.

  “It has.” His voice was deeper than I remembered. But his tone was polite. So polite and controlled. Like the last time I’d seen him. I swallowed, telling myself not to assume what hid behind his manners. His hand around mine was warm, firm. And then gone.

  I saw Alberta’s large eyes dart from him back to me as the guy who must have been Ross studied my face with the beginnings of a frown. “Do you two know each other?”

  I opened my mouth, but how could I answer that? I’d known Cole almost my whole life. I’d hated him until I loved him. And I got to love him for a whole day before everything I knew ended.

  Yeah, I wasn’t going with that.

  “Elise’s mother worked for my family…” Cole said, not taking his eyes off mine. “… a long time ago.”

  Ross’s eyebrows rose in a way that made me wonder if he knew about Cole’s parents. And then I was sure he must have known because his attention flipped like a switch.

  “Nice to meet you, Elise. I’m Ross Wilson.” He took my hand in his and pumped it twice. Then without another word, he spun to face Alberta and pointed to the wall behind her. The one covered in her paintings.

  “You made those?”

  I figured everyone knew he was trying to steer us out of our awkward reunion, but the admiration and awe in his voice was so genuine, my heart melted a little for Alberta. All of us turned to face at her paintings, and I took the opportunity to gulp down half my chardonnay. I’d handled the shock as best I could, but still.

  Cole Whitehurst.

  Here.

  Now.

  I was dimly aware of the way my best friend’s face transformed as Ross continued to shower her with praise. Her colors seduced. Her symbols whispered. He couldn�
�t stop talking about her paintings. I should have paid more attention, shared in her joy and pride.

  But it felt like the past had just barreled headlong into the present, like a runaway train. Cole Whitehurst. I found myself studying him out of the corner of my eye. What was he doing now? Alberta had said Ross’s friend had recently moved to Lafayette. He lived her now? Where? Had he stayed in New Orleans this whole time? Where was Ava?

  His gaze shifted from Alberta’s paintings to catch me staring. The impassive expression in his eyes didn’t change, but his lips firmed.

  Heat flooded my face. “H-how’s Ava?” I stammered, hoping my question would explain away my ogling.

  Cole’s brow creased just a fraction, but he nodded. “She’s good.” Then he cleared his throat. “She’s living with me…”

  He seemed on the cusp of saying more, but then he worked his jaw and gave his head a little shake.

  Okay, so Ava was not a safe topic.

  But then his eyes lifted to mine again. “How’s Flora?”

  I exhaled in relief. Mama was and would always be a safe topic. “She’s good. She’s working at a new cafe right on the river,” I said, letting myself smile.

  But as I did, Cole’s ice-blue gaze dropped to my mouth. I swallowed.

  “Sh-she was out of work last year for a little while—”

  His eyes shot back to mine at this news.

  “—but she’s back on her feet.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  He didn’t look glad or not glad. He looked… wooden. Mama may have been a safe topic, but I got the feeling Cole really didn’t want to talk to me. And if my guess was right, he definitely wouldn’t want to spend the evening in my company after we left the gallery with Alberta and Ross.

  I brought the plastic cup to my lips and finished off the last of my chardonnay, suddenly desperate for an escape. I held up my empty cup as an alibi.

  “Excuse me,” I muttered before turning away.

  Alberta’s sharp eyes caught mine for an instant before I headed to the back of the gallery. Tell me what’s happening, they seemed to scream. I tilted and lowered my chin in covert agreement as I slipped into the crowd. Alberta and I had been friends for so long, we could have whole conversations in silence, but this situation stood out in its singularity that actual words needed to be exchanged.

  I made my way back to the wine table and helped myself to another glass of the Cakebread Cellars white, and I pried my phone from the tiny clutch that hung from my wrist. Before I could open my texts, one flashed across the screen.

  Alberta: You ok, honey?

  Her concern brought out a wistful smile, but I didn’t know exactly how to answer her. I’d always imagined that when I finally saw Cole again — and, yes, I’d imagined it hundreds of times over the years — we’d greet each other as friends. Sadly, perhaps because of the circumstances that had parted us, but warmly. Forgiving each other for our youth and passions. But no matter what, we’d meet smiling.

  Cole had not smiled at me. And, come to think of it, I hadn’t smiled when I’d offered him my hand either. His obvious discomfort at my presence was surprisingly painful. Surprising because I thought I had truly gotten over him.

  Cole, the person. Even if he was still my ideal.

  But an ideal was just a definition. Definitions didn’t inflict pain. People did. And as I clutched my chardonnay and tried to figure out how to respond to my best friend’s question, I was keenly aware of the stinging ache spreading through my chest.

  Me: Not sure. Not gonna lie. This is awkward.

  Of course, it was more than awkward, but Alberta would know that without me spelling it out.

  Alberta: If you don’t want to stick around, I totally get it.

  Relief loosened my shoulders. Alberta truly was the best friend in the world.

  Me: I’m really sorry, but I think I’m going to take you up on that.

  Her response was instantaneous.

  Alberta: No, I’M SORRY! Had no idea.

  Alberta: But, jeez! Jerk can’t even smile???

  I sniffed a laugh at her loyalty, but I still wanted to come to Cole’s defense. I knew what he’d been through. What he’d grown up with. I knew what made him so cold and hard on the outside, and I knew that behind that he had heat and heart.

  I hoped he still did, anyway. For his sake.

  But I had to yield to the possibility that what happened that awful night may have taken that away for good. His cool greeting toward me seemed to suggest as much, and that just made my sadness grow.

  I downed my glass again.

  Me: I’ll see you at home. Please just make an excuse for me.

  Me: Something gentle.

  I added that last line so Cole wouldn’t be made to feel even more awkward on my behalf. Even if he’d hurt me years ago — and that had taken a long time to heal — and he’d hurt me again tonight, I didn’t want him to suffer anymore.

  The man had already suffered enough.

  I looked for and found the rear exit. Slipping outside, I knew I was making the right decision to leave without saying goodbye.

  Chapter 19

  COLE

  I paced the living room floor. Ava’s meeting should have ended twenty minutes ago, but she hadn’t left the hospital yet. At least her Find My Friends icon on my phone showed her deep in the belly of the Lafayette General complex.

  What the hell was she doing?

  I forced myself to sit on the edge of our new sectional. I’d been home for a quarter of an hour. Waiting. I needed to hear from Ava. I needed to know she was okay.

  Because I needed to think of something else besides Elise Cormier.

  I shot to my feet as soon as my mind landed on her name. How? How could she have been there tonight? What were the odds that the first time I went out after moving back to town, I’d see her?

  Growling, I stabbed at my phone’s screen and texted my sister.

  Me: Where are you? Isn’t the meeting over yet?

  Ava should have answered right away, but she didn’t. I mean, what could have possibly kept her from texting right back? I tipped my face up to the ceiling, closed my eyes, and saw that back porch swing.

  The moment I’d realized Ross’s date was Alberta Okeke, my heart had taken off like a greyhound. Elise had brought her over to the house a thousand times. I’d recognized her immediately.

  And I saw the instant she’d recognized me. For a second, she’d looked — of all things — afraid. And then she’d looked pissed. Before I knew it, her back was to me, and she was moving through the crowd.

  That was when my eyes landed on Elise. And regret — not blood — coursed through my veins.

  My phone pinged, jerking me out of the memory.

  Ava: Yeah. Just chill. Talking to someone.

  I frowned. Talking to someone? Who the hell was she talking to? We hadn’t lived here since she was a senior in high school. Was tonight the night of reunions?

  Another pang of regret lanced through my gut. I would have traded places with any other guy on the planet to be the one to go on a blind date with Elise Cormier. To have the chance to meet her now. For the first time. Without history or tragedy.

  She’d grown into a beauty.

  She’d been beautiful before, but either my memory hadn’t done her justice, or the flowering of womanhood had turned out a loveliness that was nothing short of brilliant. She’d been too young when I’d last seen her. Too young for me, anyway. But there was nothing of that child in her now. She was all woman.

  And I had been an imbecile.

  Seeing her had had felt like an electric shock. When her amber eyes had met mine, everything had come back. It was like one of my nightmares. But if I had one of those, at least I’d wake up alone. Sweating and shaking, but, thankfully, without an audience.

  But the violence was not the only memory to come back. So, too, had returned what I’d kept of her. Her laughter. Her temper. Her loyalty. Over the years, I had dr
eamed of these just as often.

  So, when I saw her in the flesh, I hadn’t been able to trust myself. I could barely speak. And she’d looked at me like I was crazy.

  I couldn’t blame her. I’d been an ass the last time I saw her, and this time hadn’t been much better.

  Alberta had said that she’d gone home with a headache, but I understood she’d left because of me.

  Again, I couldn’t really blame her.

  I shook my head, reminding myself I had enough to worry about without obsessing over Elise Cormier.

  Me: WHO are you talking to?

  Ava’s response took longer that I liked. It made me wonder if she was composing a lie. I’d caught her in so, so many lies over the years, the odds of her telling me the truth definitely weren’t in my favor.

  Ava: Cole. Seriously?

  That was it. That was all she wrote. I hissed my displeasure, wishing for the first time in ages I could pour myself a drink. It had been years since I kept anything at home, and although I wasn’t swearing off alcohol for life or anything, I didn’t want to touch even a drop while Ava’s recovery was so new.

  Not if I went out. Not even if she’d never know. If she had to handle all of her battles sober, what excuse did I have?

  Throwing myself into a project at work could overtake my mind and ease the tangle of feelings that threatened to get the best of me, but all the work that needed to be done now was at the new office. Setting up the new office, to be exact. That wasn’t work I could do from home, and since I was anxious to see Ava as soon as she got back — meet her eyes to make sure they were clear and smell her breath to know she hadn’t turned to drink — I needed to stay put.

  But I had the pool.