Your Hand in Mine: A Heartwood Novel

by Brea Viragh

  She interrupted me before I could finish my rant. “Shari, I can’t do anything for you. I wish I had better news for you, I really do.” Rayne’s face showed no sign of movement, and her voice never altered its placating pitch. I wasn’t sure if she wished it or not. It seemed to me she was content with the new status quo.

  Ungrateful bitch.

  “You’re trying to tell me I’ve outgrown the shop and I need to broaden my horizons. I get it.” I scratched my head in a forced show of nonchalance. There’s no way I’d let this hog know how much she’d gotten to me.

  Control yourself, woman!

  “It’s time for you to move on,” she continued, leaning back in her seat and lacing her fingers over her belly. Rings glinted on each finger. “I know you love it here, and honestly, honey, I don’t want you to feel bad about this. Think of it as an opportunity. An opportunity to push your limits.” Rayne reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a large booklet of checks. “I’ll send you off with your last paycheck now. I’ll give you the overtime you’ve been bugging me for.” She grinned like it would make me feel better. “Won’t that be nice?”

  This wasn’t the only place I’d ever worked in my life. It was, however, my home. I spent more time at the gallery than I did in my own house. Most weeks I worked fifty plus hours, all so Raye could make a living and I could soothe my artist’s soul by surrounding myself with pretty things. I loved pretty things. I loved being around creative people and working with local talent. What other opportunities were there in a tiny town for a person who couldn’t create and couldn’t teach? Well, I guess I could teach, but I had about as much patience as a great white shark with blood in the water. Classrooms and my personality didn’t mix.

  As much as I wanted to say all these things and more to her, my throat closed. When I finally spoke again, it sounded forced and thick, gummy. “I’ll take the overtime,” I answered. Letting out a breath of air and crossing my legs. If I couldn’t sound confident, at least I’d try to look it. “Not because you’re offering, but because you fucking owe me. It’s the least you can do.”

  Rayne finished writing the check and set it down between us. “I’m going to miss you.”

  “If you’re going to lie, at least try to make it convincing. I don’t believe a word out of your mouth anymore.” I grabbed the paper and stuffed it down into the pocket of my pants.

  I wanted to be strong. Nothing good was accomplished by breaking down in tears in front of your boss. Former boss, I reminded myself. I was definitely shucking the friendship out the window as well. A friend would at least give a girl a heads up, or a couple of weeks to get their act together and find another position.

  I was out the door with less than two hours of notice. Fair? I think not.

  Rayne sent me on my way with the offer of a hug and the check burning a hole in my pocket. The money I’d take, the hug I politely refused. It took a lot of guts to get rid of a good employee for no reason other than greed. One who worked with efficiency, promptness, and insider knowledge of the business. I might have a mouth on me but I knew when to open it and when to keep it closed. Not to mention one that treated everyone with the respect they deserved. It seems, in this case, the only one who didn’t get the respect she deserved was me.

  Bummer.

  Valentina spared an over-the-shoulder look of pity at me when I walked past the stocking shelf. Odds were more than good that she’d heard the entire conversation. Eavesdropping, more like. I couldn’t be too mad at her. The expression on her face clearly showed me how she felt. It paid to know there were a few people who would miss me.

  Had I thought these people more than friends, more like family? Maybe it was true when I’d stepped through the door this morning. Maybe it was still true now. After all, I’d always heard no one can mess you up more than your family.

  Valentina opened her mouth to speak when Rayne popped her head around the doorjamb. “Val, I need you up front on the register. Now.”

  Okay, so no teary goodbyes for me. I sent the pigtailed woman heading for the front the universal signal for ‘I’ll text you later’ and she disappeared with a small sigh.

  And then I was alone. I glanced around the area memorizing the lines of the room. The paintings and vases and blankets for sale that I would no longer be a part of.

  “Time to pack up shop,” I said to no one in particular. My voice was muffled by the clutter of the room. Had it been yesterday I’d come in with the intent to organize? It felt like years.

  My tiny desk in the storeroom, where I’d carved out a space for myself, looked lonely. A jumble of papers where only I knew the order of things. There were boxes waiting near the corner. Boxes ready for me to stuff full of my entire career. No more personal touches. No more coming into work early to clean and organize.

  Everything was going to be different. If only I’d been given time to figure out a backup plan. Preferably a few before my job got the ax. There were too many things to think about, better things to do than sitting around and moping. As an alternative, I stood for a moment in the relative quiet, staring at my world and wondering what I would do tomorrow. What about the next day? Or the next? A week of nothing where I started from scratch.

  Oh God, what was I going to do with myself? I tried to think of what I liked, what I was qualified to do, and in the panic of the moment my mind blanked and I came up with nothing.

  “Are you leaving so soon?”

  The voice belonged to my newly dubbed arch enemy, Oscar. He was short, trim, and clad in a pair of bright turquoise pants and a white shirt. There was something pretentious about the package, from the tips of his frosted hair to the bottom of his spotless loafers.

  First glance showed me he was less management material than I was. He looked out of place in the mess, among the homey touches and rustic charm of the wares Rayne sold. What kind of direction would this man take the gallery?

  The thought was terrifying.

  “Definitely leaving, sorry. I wouldn’t want to stay and impose myself on you.” I gave in to the siren’s call of insult and shot him a sour glance.

  “At least you’re taking the trash out before you leave.” Oscar gestured toward the cardboard boxes. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

  We’d met that morning and taken an instant dislike to each other. I didn’t have to wonder why. I already knew. “You mean, you don’t want to help me? I’m positively shocked.”

  There would be no blubbering, not when there were boxes to fill and a little worm to be the bigger man in front of. It would be a cold day in hell before I shed a tear with Oscar watching me.

  Streams of light filtered in from the single window set high in the old brick exterior wall. The oak floors had been my project, buried under a couple layers of throwback shag carpeting. I’d spent hours on my hands and knees to uncover the glorious, glossy planks. Now I left them to be scuffed by Oscar and his hundred-dollar loafers.

  A steel weight landed hard in my stomach.

  “Don’t forget the crap in the drawers.” Oscar leaned against a shelving unit and watched me pack up my life. Bit by bit. “I have plans for the desk.”

  “Refurbish?”

  “More like garbage. It doesn’t have a place in here. When I’m done with the room, we’ll be ready to store the statues for the outdoor garden I have planned.”

  I blanched. “Garbage? Statues?” Did he want to expand? Where was he going to find the space? There were city ordinances to think about.

  “Are you sorry you didn’t think of it?” he asked.

  “No, I’m sorry I had to stay to hear you spout off more bullshit.” I’d play along with him until I was out the door. Then I’d trash him behind his back to anyone who would listen. “It’s hurting my eardrums.”

  The first box was filled and I started on the second. There was nothing else I could do. And I certainly wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of making small-talk. The weasel didn’t deserve that much.

  “What a
re you going to do with yourself now?” Said weasel asked instead of leaving me alone.

  “Why do you care?”

  “I always like to see former employees go on to bigger and better things. Maybe there’s something I can do to help. Do you need a recommendation?”

  I scoffed loud enough to send a wad of spit accidentally flying two feet away from the desk. “Help me? I wouldn’t accept your help if I was about to drown and you were holding the life preserver.”

  His face curdled. “There’s no reason for you to take that tone with me. I’m offering you a hand, here. The least you can do is accept the offer.”

  “Do me a favor and listen to your momma’s advice. You keep your hands to yourself.”

  It was the perfect exit line. The perfect cue to send Oscar out the door with his tail tucked so far between his legs he would be able to taste it.

  Imagine my surprise when he not only stepped closer but sent those hands in my direction. He hooked his fingers around my wrist. They were great, white spider legs, long and pale and hooked. “People don’t talk to me like this, Shari. No one does.” His eyes narrowed and went hot. “Do you understand?”

  “And no one touches me without my permission,” I said softly. Trying to keep still.

  “You know what happens to women like you? You go through life thinking you can control the people around you. Thinking you’re better than me, better than anyone else. I have news for you. You’re not better than me. You’re on your way out the door and I’m beginning. Sooner or later someone is going to knock you down and show you real power. You’re going to be in a situation you can’t control, with someone who is truly your superior. Then you’ll see.”

  “You’re going to want to let go of me real quick there, buddy.”

  He sneered. “Or what?”

  I sent my free hand flying out until it collided with his chin in a satisfying whap.

  “You bitch!” Oscar stumbled back with his hands over his face, eyes wide and outraged. “You fucking bitch.”

  Okay, maybe hitting him hadn’t been the smartest idea, I thought with a windy sigh. I didn’t see the point with letting a man talk to me like garbage. That was before he grabbed me.

  The red imprints of my fingers on his skin pleased me immensely. “You should probably go to the doctor and have someone look at that,” I told him. I stacked one box on top of the other, using my hips to knock open the back door. “It looks like you bit your lip. I’m not sure Rayne is going to like you getting blood on her floor. Especially when I’m not going to be here to mop it for her.”

  I could see an overdrawn notice from the bank in my future. That was my thought walking to the car amidst Oscar’s outraged squalls. My credit cards were on the verge of being maxed out. I’d deal with it, I thought, scowling beneath my sunglasses. I was determined to wait this out and find something new. Better. I’d remain calm—except for the whole broken nose bit—and self-possessed. This little bump on the road would smooth out again soon. I’d have to make sure I didn’t lose my temper again.

  There were some things I could tolerate and others I could not. Being grabbed without my permission was one of them. There were a few choice words for men like Oscar, and surely he deserved every one of them. Words like ignorant, entitled, and plebeian.

  However fond Rayne was of me up until this point, my standing with her was hanging on by a thread, and Oscar was guaranteed to run right back to her with this new, juicy morsel of gossip about me. I’d crossed the line into violence.

  There weren’t very many art galleries in the area. If Rayne decided to…no. I wouldn’t think about it anymore. I wouldn’t think about finding another gallery or relocating.

  The brief flash of pleasure I had for standing up for myself vanished.

  I knew it was useless to cry. It did no one any good and made for a hell of a cleanup later, I thought later, when my eyes were swollen closed tighter than Scrooge’s pockets on Christmas. Still, I cried a little. Staring in the rearview mirror at the two boxes that held my personal belongings and what was left of my career. Damn, how horrible. My life in two boxes.

  Everything was going to be different. I’d be remiss if I said I was ready for the change. There was no plan, no backup. Definitely no list telling me what would happen tomorrow. The next day.

  I was going to have to take some serious time and figure out my direction. Fast.

  Nothing sounded worse than weeks on end with no purpose. Just blank pages waiting for me to fill them with something amazing. If I were Essie, and in this case, I wish I was, there would be an order to the madness. She’d not only have plan B, but C and D and E for all I knew. Straight through to the end of the alphabet.

  Not working was a tarrying prospect, but there was no way I’d beg for a job. I pulled into my habitual parking space on the front lawn in front of the front door. I’d march along. I’d fix my face, throw my shoulders back, and try to keep my chin up high. That’s what I thought as I carried the boxes out of the back seat and onto the porch.

  I’d do my best to muster a smile and find something better. What choice did I have? Now to change into my comfiest pair of pajamas and bury my sorrows in a pint of something cold with my two best friends. Ben, and his pal Jerry.

  They were the best kind of company. Instant comfort, and no back talk.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “I’ll take a venti extra-caf, extra-foam, extra everything, please. With whipped cream and caramel on top. Throw in the kitchen sink while you’re at it.” The order was said enthusiastically to the young fellow with streaky-blond hair down below his ears. I envied the hair. Not so much the job of having to deal with customers at a coffee shop. My people-pleasing days were coming to an end, and I realized something after a week of staying at home and gardening. I didn’t want to have to work with the general public anymore.

  And I certainly didn’t want to work for another boss who didn’t appreciate me.

  “I’ve had kind of a bad week,” I finished telling him.

  Ten minutes later, I came around the corner with my designed-to-harden-my-arteries coffee drink. Then spared a glance over my shoulder at the swinging sign of Doma. My heart panged once against my ribcage. Ugh, those bastards. Four days and I couldn’t get the place out of my head. It had been my second home and now I was out on the street. Kicked out of a position I loved, having to start over at a point in my life when I thought I was settled.

  The burn went deep and it plain sucked.

  With a long sigh and a sweep of my hand over my face, I stepped through the parking lot, fishing around in my pocket for my car keys. And landed on my ass in about two point five seconds. Knocked against a wall of muscle smelling like soap and man.

  Cinnamon?

  The breath left my lungs in the same way the coffee spilled from the cup, which bounced and rolled toward the grass. “Dammit!” I hissed and reached around to rub the sore spot on my back.

  “Shari? Is that you? Oh jeez, I’m sorry. I was looking at my phone and didn’t see you standing there. I walked right into you!”

  I heard the voice, the light amusement and sincere concern in it, and turned my head skyward. Toward the towering giant in sunglasses that slid down to a refined nose and a widely grinning mouth. He was taller than I remembered, the sun streaming down on his hair. His wavy, chestnut hair that practically begged for my hands to run through them, and if I’d been standing next to him, I might have.

  “Fenton,” I said with forced ease, my chest tightening and making it difficult to breathe. “You sure know how to greet a girl. And you owe me a drink.” I pointed to the coffee cup rolling down the slight incline back toward its place of origin.

  The tan beneath his shirt collar was intriguing. Coupled with the muscled build and broad shoulders…it was a gorgeous picture. One I hoped to capture in my mind and ogle later.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, staring at me. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “That much wa
s obvious.”

  He took hold of my elbow then, hauling me to my feet with a quick and disarming grin. I could have strangled him for it, the smile and my coffee now decorating the ground. Good thing he was too adorable for me to hold a grudge.

  Drawing back, I was suddenly dizzy from his nearness.

  “I’m trying to get my finances in order for this project and I was staring at the screen,” he told me, fingers tightening. “I’m really sorry. My fault entirely! You didn’t hit your tailbone or anything, did you?”

  When I glanced up again, I caught Fenton staring at me over the rim of his sunglasses. It was the sort of stare accompanied by a quiet intensity that had heat rushing to my cheeks. I couldn’t help raising a hand to my face and rubbing my skin. I didn’t blush around men. Ever. It was a hard and fast rule.

  There was something about Fenton that got me going. I was bound and determined to figure out what it was.

  He was sexy as a wet-dream, all tumbled hair and bottom-heavy mouth. I caught myself licking my lips and went slack-faced instead. Automatically taking a step back so I didn’t have to tip my face up to meet his eyes.

  “No, I didn’t hit my tailbone,” I replied. “Although I might have a big round bruise on my butt from the fall. Want to kiss it and make it better?”

  Down, girl.

  Certain men were often turned off by a woman like me, one who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind and reach for what she wanted. I mentally sent a prayer upward that Fenton wasn’t one of those men.

  His hand was still on my elbow keeping a hold of me, his grip firm enough that I felt each ridge of each callus on my skin. Yowza. There was something special about a guy who worked with his hands. What had Fenton said he did, again? Something with a bed and breakfast? Something with a bar? My brain turned to mush for the third time in a week.