by Erika Kelly
Dammit. Is Julian behind this? Or had she legitimately been knocked out of the running? She had nothing left to lose so, as soon as she set Theo down, she grabbed her phone and shot him a text. I can’t help but think our breakup is the reason I got this letter today from the MoCA.
His answer came right away. You didn’t seriously think we could work together?
A volatile brew of fear and anger swept through her, making her sick to her stomach.
Bastard.
Wind chimes tinkled as she opened the door, and a soft breeze fluttered the hem of her dress. Callie entered the studio quietly, hoping she wasn’t interrupting a private yoga session. In the foyer, she breathed in lavender and vanilla-scented candles.
She could hear Megan’s voice—a one-sided conversation filled with pauses—and the pang of loss hit Callie hard. Megan’s parents had been as busy with the motel as Callie’s were with the diner, so they’d both been kids with too much time on their hands. But they’d bonded because they’d both preferred hanging out with each other to partying. She’d loved their friendship because they could tell each other anything and neither one had judged.
Megan came out of her office, obviously surprised to see Callie standing in her foyer. “Hey, what’s up?”
“I have an idea.” Just so she didn’t sound selfish, she quickly added, “For both of us.”
“Okay.”
Callie didn’t like her snippy tone, but she didn’t care about that right now. She’d apologized. What else could she do? “I’d like to expand the exhibition.”
“Aren’t you leaving?”
“I just found out I’m not getting the fellowship.” It made her sick to say the words out loud.
Megan lowered her cell phone. “Fellowship?”
“I got my master’s degree in Museum Studies in May, and instead of getting an entry-level job in my field I wanted to fast-track my career with a fellowship. But I didn’t get it.” She exhaled. “My ex-boyfriend—”
“The douche who proposed at Ryder’s rehearsal dinner?”
“Yeah. That guy. I’m pretty sure he saw the picture of me and Fin kissing—”
“The one that made the cover of the New York Daily Times?”
“Yes, Megan. That one.” She cracked a smile. “Anyhow, his parents are on the board of the MoCA, and I’m—”
“Sure they saw their son’s skanky girlfriend going at it in the museum that was supposed to get her the fellowship? Yeah, I get it. So?”
She didn’t miss the curl of Megan’s lips—she was messing with her—and that encouraged her. “So, I’m screwed.” But she also knew she wasn’t the only one with problems, and she wanted to know her friend again. “Why are you living in Calamity?”
“It’s a long story, but basically my college graduation present was the motel.” Megan shrugged. “I didn’t want to run it, but my parents owned the property, so I realized I could do whatever I wanted with it, and I wanted to have a yoga studio.”
“Are you happy here?”
“I love it.”
“A yoga studio in Calamity is enough for you?”
Megan looked at her for a moment, as though weighing how real she wanted to get. Callie waited, wanting more than anything for her friend to give her a chance.
Even though you’re leaving? Yeah, even so. Because she was going to do so much better at keeping in touch this time.
But then Megan smiled. “Come here.”
Callie followed her out the back door and into the bright sunshine of the courtyard. The U-shaped motel rooms faced the pool.
“Do you remember Muriel and Colleen Bronstein?” Megan asked.
The elderly twins had not only dressed identically, but they’d lived together, too. Neither had married, and their parents had left them a fortune so, as far as Callie knew, they’d never worked a day in their lives.
“They teach ballroom dancing.” Megan pointed to the building on the left. “We knocked down walls for their dance studio, and they rent out half the bottom floor. Upstairs is the Artists Collaborative. Each artist has her own space, and twice a year they hold an open house, where you can go into the studios and see what they’re working on.” She gestured to the right side. “Mike Marshall has a dojo, and Donna Teller teaches ballet.”
“Megan. This is amazing.”
“Yeah. It’s pretty cool.” Her pride and enthusiasm came through.
“You could do an acting studio. Or even a small theatre.” What had happened to Megan’s dreams?
“Honestly, I didn’t love theatre. I liked being part of that world, but I didn’t want to be an actor. I don’t slip into someone else’s skin very well. Or at all, actually. But I realized that even if I didn’t have the talent, I could still be part of the arts community.” Megan gestured to the buildings. “I get to teach yoga, while being part of this artist’s collective. And I love it.”
“I can see that.” A frustrating restlessness stirred in her chest. “Looks like you’ve found your bliss.”
“You haven’t found yours?” Megan seemed surprised.
“I’m trying.” Too hard?
“So what do you need from me?”
“Well, I need that fellowship, and I’ll be damned if my ex is going to keep it from me just because he saw me kiss Fin like that.” She hadn’t really put the pieces together until just then. But that had to have been what set Julian off. She’d certainly never kissed him like that. “So I’m going to send the board of directors a video of my exhibition.”
“Does Julian have that kind of power?”
“His parents do.”
“But they saw the sex tape, too, and they know about the exhibition, right?” Megan asked.
“They’ve known about it for a while. I sent tear sheets to his mom.” She couldn’t believe she’d wasted money on personalized stationery. As if it would’ve had more impact than her son’s side of the story.
“So then what will a video do?”
“Well, that’s why I’m here. I’m adding classes to the exhibition. I thought I’d record them to show the board members a different aspect of it.”
“Classes?” She sounded skeptical.
“This exhibition’s about healing. So I’m going to offer classes…like bread making. You know, working your angst out through kneading dough.” She thought of Theo. “Art therapy.” Ooh, that’s a winner.
“And you want me to teach yoga?”
“I don’t know anything about it, but is there a kind that will let the participants release their pent-up anger and hostility?”
“Purging yoga?”
“Is that a thing?”
“It is now.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Sure, I’ll do it.” She sounded hesitant. “But if they’ve already rejected you, I’m not sure adding classes will change their minds.”
The high tide of hope that had carried her over to Megan’s studio sputtered out. “I just…I’m so angry. I’m a straight-A student, I’ve done an internship every semester, I’ve got amazing references….I mean, come on. So what if I kissed a guy and Julian pitched a fit? They should evaluate me based on my resume, and I’m pretty sure no other candidate pulled off her own pop-up exhibition.”
“Look, I get that you’re fighting for the job. I do, but I just don’t think going to the same people again will make a difference. Is there anyone else—maybe someone higher up?”
“There’s no one higher than the board.” Wait a minute. “Actually, it’s the Hilda Morrison Curatorial Fellowship. I just assumed it’s named after a patron who died and bequeathed the scholarship to the museum. But I don’t actually know that. She could be alive.”
“If she’s alive, tell her about your exhibition. Better yet, show her. Send her the video. It’s way better to see it than read about it.”
Oh, I like that. “I’m not sure the board members would appreciate me going around them.”
“But what if it gets you the fellowship?”
>
She thought about Julian’s text. You didn’t seriously think we could work together? And determination set in.
Megan started for her office. “Let’s look up old Hilda and see if she’s still breathing.”
It took no more than a few clicks to discover that Hilda Morrison was alive and kicking on the Upper East Side. Living in a storied penthouse, her wild and colorful past included six husbands, a life of philanthropy, travel, and countless acts of outrageous behavior.
“Looks like Hilda’s hitched her skirt up for plenty of guys. She shouldn’t have a problem with your sex tape.” Megan glanced up from her laptop. “Go get her.”
Affection surged through her. “Thank you.” She leaned down to give her a hug. The position was awkward, but Callie forced it. “Thank you so much.”
“You got it. Now, go. I’ve got a class to teach.”
As Callie left the office, ideas popped up on how to expand the exhibition. Her dad could do a bread baking class—Pounding Out Your Anger. Megan could do Purging Yoga, her mom could do gardening—Yanking Your Pain Out by the Roots. And what about getting a therapist to run a weekly counseling group?
Forget therapy. Make it a support group. Just give people a chance to talk to others who’re broken-hearted.
Yes. This is so good.
As she stepped out onto the boardwalk, she realized she could only do the classes if the Cooters wanted to run the programs after she left. She’d talk to them before she did anything else. And then she’d find a way to get a hold of Hilda and convince her to give Callie a shot.
No way would the Reyes’ win.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
With Stan teaching a clunky and awkward Judy how to waltz and Barbara replenishing the sharpened pencils in a basket, Callie turned off the television screens. They’d already locked the doors for the day, and she couldn’t wait to talk to Fin. Not only were the Cooters interested in running the programs, but they had great ideas for other classes.
When the music shut off abruptly, everyone turned to see Fin striding toward them from the back hallway. His athletic grace and masculine swagger, those lips curled into a delectable smile, made her blood fizzy.
“Well, I should get home.” With eyebrows raised, Barbara tipped her head to the door.
Stan nodded. “Yep. Grandkids’re coming for dinner tonight.”
It took all of three minutes for everyone to leave.
With just the two of them alone, Callie shook her head. “Way to clear a room.”
When he reached her, he caught her around the waist and kissed her soundly. “Got some great news.” He set her down. “I got a call this morning. From Walter Braverman.”
“Are you talking about Braverman Productions?”
His smile grew wider.
“He called you?”
With a nod, he said, “He offered me a contract.”
“Oh, my God, Fin. That’s amazing.” Over the years, she’d heard the brothers talk about a contract with Braverman Productions. It was a big deal.
“He said he hasn’t offered it before because I’m a Bowie and can fund my own trips. But he hasn’t signed anyone in a few years, and there’s no one he wants more than me, so he figured he’d take a shot and ask.”
“He doesn’t know you guys don’t touch your Dad’s money.”
“It’s nobody’s business what we do, but no, he doesn’t know.”
She forced her smile to stay in place. This is good for him. Really good. “Fin…I’m really happy for you.” But her heart hurt like hell. She wouldn’t show him that, though. He’d earned this great honor. “I’m proud of you.”
He cupped her chin. “Why so sad?”
“I’m not sad. I’m genuinely happy for you.”
He lifted her onto the nearest library table and boxed her in with both arms. “Last time we messed up because we didn’t talk to each other. You were so afraid I’d choose MSU that you didn’t come right out and ask me if that was what I wanted. I was so intent on not screwing up your dream, that I didn’t tell you about the pressure from my dad and brothers. But we should’ve talked about it. Because the foundation for everything going forward? Is that we’re in this together. That’s our base camp. From there, we figure out our plans, even if it means we ride different spines for a while.” He leaned back, examining her expression. “What’re you thinking?”
“You said we’re in this together.”
“That’s right.”
“I want that, Fin. More than anything, but—”
“There are no buts. The sentence ‘more than anything’ ends right there. There’s nothing we want more than being together. So that’s our starting point. The rest we figure out together.”
“It’s not that simple. I’ve been cut from the fellowship.”
He pushed back. “What’s that mean?”
“It means there’s no interview. I got a letter saying they have better candidates.”
“Bullshit. Man-Bracelet saw the video and whined like a bitch to his mommy.”
“Probably.” She rubbed the developing ache over her left eye. “But Megan gave me a great idea to go to the source, so I looked up the woman who sponsors the fellowship and found her alive and well in New York. I asked one of my graduate professors if she has a way to get to her. Luckily, she does. So I’ve sent her my resume and links to the exhibition, and I’ve asked if I can meet with her.”
“This all happened since I saw you this morning?”
She nodded.
With a slow shake of his head, he said, “You’re something else, wild thing.” With a determined gleam in his eyes, he caged her in again. “You want New York?”
“Yes.” She had to get that fellowship. And Fin had to sign that contract. “And you’re going off on your grand adventure.” Mixed in with the dread of fearing their relationship couldn’t work was hope. Was there some way to make it work? But he just stood there with that smirk on his face. “How is this funny?” She shoved at him, but he was a chunk of granite.
“What did I just say to you?”
“That you’re signing a contract with Braverman, and I’m moving back to New York.”
“You’re not a very good listener.” Still, with that stupid smirk.
“I’m a great listener.” She shifted to slide under his arms, but his big body held her in place. “A world-class listener.”
“How do you still not get it? You are my grand adventure. Some people want to climb Everest, some want to have a big family, some want to be world leaders. But I just want you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“I live in New York.” Hope drummed a steady beat in her blood. “You’re going to be in the mountains.”
“Four trips a year. And the rest of the time I’m going to be with you.”
Her body clamped down on a burst of excitement. “The fellowship pays twenty-four grand a year. I won’t be able to come home that often.” Home. She would miss her parents and Theo. God, that little boy had just begun to trust her. By the time she came back for a visit, would he have forgotten her?
She loved Theo. She didn’t want to miss out on his life.
“We’re the base camp, remember?” The look in his eyes—steely determination mixed with utter adoration—it was everything. “That means home is where you are.”
Excitement fluttered in her belly. “What’re you saying?”
“You got a new roommate yet?”
“No.” She scooted closer to the edge of the table. “You’re going to live with me?”
He smiled. “Of course.”
“In New York?”
“If that’s where you are, then that’s where I’ll be.”
“How will this work?”
“We’ll get a place big enough so my team can crash there when we’re planning. I’ll take my trips and come home to you.”
“You’ll hate New York.”
“I’ll get my fill of the mountains four months out of the year. The rest of the tim
e I’ll be with you. Sounds damn good to me.” He pulled away, worry darkening his gaze. “Is that not enough? Because I can tell him I’ll only do three trips a year. Or even two—”
She put her fingers over his mouth. “No. You take as many trips as you want. I’d never hold you back from doing what you love.” She threw her arms around his neck. “I love you, Fin, and I’m all in.”
“Good, then let’s get out of here.”
They headed toward the back. Just as she reached for the light switch, she heard a knock at the door. “Let me see who it is. One of the Cooters might’ve forgotten something.” She hurried back to see.
An elderly gentleman in a Stetson rapped his knuckles against the window. When he saw her, he waved and stepped back.
She unlocked and opened the door. “Hey, there. Can I help you?”
With his baggy jeans and worn cowboy boots, he looked like a rancher. “Evening.” He pulled off his hat and held it against his chest. “I’m told there’s a message for me here.” His voice sounded as wrecked as his tanned skin.
Fin came up beside her. “Are you looking for Town Hall? Because it moved about two years ago. This is a museum now.”
Callie elbowed him. Exhibition.
“No, sir. I’m told you’ve got a message board and that there’s an envelope with my name on it.”
Callie jerked like he’d just pinched her, and two pairs of eyes slid over to her. “Yes. There is.” She stepped aside, ushering him in. “Please, come in.” Excitement hurried her pace. “Right over here.”
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod. She wanted to call Helen and shout, He’s here! He came! But, of course, she had no way to contact the older woman who came in dutifully every day to check the corkboard to see if the man she hadn’t chosen had come to claim his note.
Callie couldn’t believe he actually had. At least she hoped it was the right man. She unpinned the envelope and handed it to him. “Are you Desi?”
For a long moment he didn’t answer, just stared at the handwriting. If the muscles around his eyes hadn’t flinched, she wouldn’t have detected an ounce of emotion in him.
The hand he lifted to take the envelope trembled. “Yes, ma’am.”