The Art of Rivers

by Janet W. Ferguson

  “I’m sorry.” Her gaze roamed his face now, tender and sincere. “I’ve treated children who’ve gone through similar situations. It’s hard, especially when comparing yourself to a successful sibling, or a cousin in your case.”

  “Treated?”

  “Art therapy. That’s my main profession. I also worked in a gallery, taught a few private art lessons, and painted for worship services.”

  She was a therapist, too? He let that sink in. “That’s a lot of jobs for one person.”

  “Paid off my student loans. Living at home after college helped too. Well, I had moved some of my things into the new house we were going...” Her hand left his, cool air replacing it.

  Head leaning forward, she covered her eyes. She swayed as though she might fall, and Cooper caught her around the waist. Her weight was even less than he’d guessed, her loose shirt concealing the fact that she was skin and bones.

  “Have you eaten at all?”

  “I don’t think I remembered to do that.” Her voice came out breathy and weak.

  “Can I help you back to the cottage? Order pizza delivery?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve got to take care of yourself, Rivers.” Did she have a death wish? Yesterday the sandbar, and not eating today. How long had she been starving herself?

  “Okay.” She clung to his neck, the scent of lavender disturbing his sanity. What fresh torture was this? He turned them toward the cottage and clomped through the sand, assisting her as best he could. At least they hadn’t walked far. Once he reached the porch, he helped her sit on the top step and pulled out his phone. “What kind of pizza do you like?”

  “I don’t care.”

  That much was obvious. She didn’t care what happened to her anymore. The local pizza parlor’s number was programmed into his phone, and he pressed the contact.

  Three rings later, a man answered, “Mario’s.”

  “Hey, Devon. It’s Coop. You making it?”

  “Staying clean.”

  “Good deal. I need my standard order times two. Different address.” Cooper reeled off the house number he hadn’t spoken in five years.

  “Really? There?”

  “Long story. Can you make it quick? I’ve got a pretty woman fainting here.”

  “For you, no. For a pretty woman, I’ll be right over.”

  “Thanks.” Cooper cut the connection. If only he could support Rivers in some way. Maybe she wasn’t an addict, but she was definitely fragile.

  Chapter 6

  HOW EMBARRASSING THAT Cooper had been forced to practically carry her to the porch steps of the cottage. Rivers shoved her third slice of the Canadian bacon and pineapple toward her mouth. Oddly, he had chosen her favorite pizza toppings. Hunger had roared to life once the aroma of pizza hit her nose. Goodness, she was ravenous.

  “Um, you might want to breathe between bites.” Cooper nudged her elbow.

  Still chewing, she rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a muffled laugh. Once she swallowed, she pinned him with a look. “You’re the one who was worried about me eating, and now you’re making fun of me.” Something Jordan might have done. She buried that thought away.

  “Yeah, well...you’re not going to purge or something after all this, are you? I mean—”

  “What? No. Gross. I hate throwing up.”

  His dark brows furrowed. “But, seriously, if you have an eating disorder, I know someone local you can talk to.”

  “I do not have an eating disorder. Thank you.” But she had lost twenty-five pounds this past year. Pounds she hadn’t needed to lose. “After...” She hated saying the words shooting and murder and tragedy, hated thinking the thoughts. Her ridiculous bottom lip quivered every stinking time. “After I was released from the hospital, my appetite disappeared. I forget to eat. I’m not trying to lose weight or anything.”

  “Grief will do that.” His expression softened. “Can I see your phone?”

  She took another bite while she deliberated the odd request. He did the same, seeming not to mind the wait.

  “My phone’s on the console in my car.”

  A long sigh came from Cooper, and he wiped his fingers on the small napkin that rested on his leg. “I guess I’ll brave the Stink Bug then.” He stood and strode to the VW as if she’d given him permission.

  “What are you doing?”

  He ignored her question, and a minute later, he sat at her side once again. “Whew, I survived. Now, do you want to punch the code in or give it to me?”

  “You seem to be making yourself at home with my things, so 567326.” Give a possible addict access to everything. Smart. But maybe being alone in this town and dealing with all this mess was robbing her of sanity. Or maybe Cooper just seemed...kind.

  Once he’d cleared the home screen, he opened the clock settings and fiddled with the alarm times, then added a contact. What was he doing?

  “Here.” He offered the cell to her. “We serve three meals a day at Re-Claimed. I set an alarm for thirty minutes before lunch and dinner. My number’s in there if you get lost.” He shrugged. “Or make your own meal. Just don’t ignore the reminder. You have to eat. You have to take care of you.”

  That was a tad thoughtful—something she might’ve suggested to an older client in therapy—but that didn’t mean she wanted to eat with a bunch of people in recovery. “What’s your position with that place?”

  “The sober living houses?” One brow lifted suggesting a hint of sarcasm.

  “You know that’s what I meant.”

  “Well, at those places, I admit clients, counsel them in groups and one-on-one, and in the evenings, I offer art therapy for the men.”

  “What qualifies you to do all that?”

  “Degree. Florida State.”

  “Hmm.” Florida did have an accredited program. A good program actually.

  “Oh, crud.” He scrambled to his feet and took off toward his Jeep. “I have to go.”

  She blinked, and he was in his vehicle, in reverse, and gone.

  “Okay.” That was officially weird.

  “High tide, you know,” a female voice chirped.

  Rivers turned toward the side yard where a woman with salt-and-pepper hair stood. Sort of stood, anyway. She was bent forward, leaning on a metal cane.

  “He’s one of a crew that takes turns going out at high tide. All that guilt they laid on him.” The woman’s hazel eyes sparkled above a pair of reading glasses that rested on her sloped nose. “That girl wasn’t any saint, but the women in that family wouldn’t hear the truth.”

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  “Little Jaybird. That’s the nickname Jordy gave him one summer.” The woman flapped her free arm toward the street. “Such a sweet child and so talented in the arts. His mother, Pearl, never gave him credit. She just wanted the perfect son like Brooklyn’s Jordy. They all doted on that one. Even Stella. And I told Stella she was old enough to know better.” The woman clucked her tongue. “A grandmother shouldn’t play favorites.”

  Little Jordy? Brooklyn was Jordan’s mother’s name. “You’re talking about Cooper and Jordan’s family?”

  “Poor souls. One tragedy after another.” Nodding, she took careful steps forward. “I’m Priscilla Kelly, and I’m younger than I look.” A wide smile lifted her cheeks.

  Rivers took in the whole picture of the woman before her. Though arthritis twisted her fingers, her face did appear to belong to a woman near Mom’s age, maybe a little older, in her early sixties.

  “I’m Rivers.”

  “You bought the cottage?” Priscilla asked.

  That ball of hurt twisted in her chest. Bitterness coated her tongue. “Inherited it from my fiancé,” Rivers managed.

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Priscilla had finally made it close enough to reach out and touch Rivers. “You were the sweet girl engaged to Jordy.”

  All Rivers could offer this lady was a single nod. The quiver in her lip was joined by blinding, burning
tears.

  “I know what it’s like to lose someone. My husband passed away, but we had over thirty years together. And our son.” A sheen covered Priscilla’s eyes too. “It wasn’t fair what happened to you.”

  Exactly what Rivers had wrestled with—what she had banged on the doors of heaven with—for twelve months. If onlys. If only they’d had more time. If only they could have at least gotten to become man and wife. If only they’d had children.

  And often...if only she’d died with Jordan.

  “Come have tea with me, honey. I’m your next-door neighbor.” Priscilla’s hand returned to give a comforting pat. “And you need a friend.”

  Having a friend here did sound nice. “Okay.”

  Rivers set the pizza box just inside the door and followed the woman’s slow steps down the sidewalk to the small house behind what was now hers. Having not really paid attention since arriving, she studied Priscilla’s gray stucco ranch. This design also looked left behind from another era, certainly not one of the new builds. The period was unclear, but the metal roof looked new. Was that tin or painted copper?

  Priscilla rambled apologies about the yard not being kept up as well as it used to be and the house being dusty. At the door, she turned the knob with an awkward grasp that looked painful. “I should’ve asked if you’re allergic to animals.”

  “I love dogs and cats.” The door opened, and something scurried out from under a side table, running straight toward them. Its beady eyes weren’t that of a cat, and its tail belonged to a rodent. “Don’t move! A nutria rat’s gotten into your house. I’ll chase it out.”

  “No, wait, dear.” Priscilla chuckled. “That’s Phoenix, my opossum. He’s tame, and don’t worry, I have a permit as a Glynn County wildlife rehabilitator.” Her gaze dropped, and her smile fell away. “My husband was a vet, so people brought us injured animals. I sold the practice when he passed, but a couple of years ago, someone brought this fellow to me. I couldn’t say no.” The animal stood near their feet.

  “I think I could’ve said no.” Rivers took a step back, but the thing kept coming at her.

  A second later, soft fur brushed against her ankle. Rivers froze. It made sort of a clicking sound and stood on its hind legs. Small paws with what looked like fingers extended, and the teeth... A shiver shook her shoulders. “How? Why would you still have that?”

  Priscilla struggled to bend down and pet the animal. “Opossums are marsupials. One of the only kind in the U.S. He’s a sweet boy rescued as a tiny thing from a forest fire. That’s how I came up with Phoenix.” Her gaze lifted, and she smiled. “Clever, right?”

  The name maybe, but keeping the animal in the house? “Sure.”

  “You’ll love him once you give him a chance.” Priscilla winked. “Like little Jaybird. How did you two meet anyway? He hasn’t been to the cottage since the accident.”

  For good reason. “The gallery.” And the sandbar incident, but she didn’t feel like bringing that up. “I’m cleaning out to sell. Or at least I plan to. I’m having trouble getting started.”

  “It’s hard, I know. Give yourself time. You don’t want to make big decisions in a rush.”

  Fatigue weighed on Rivers, her eyelids suddenly heavy. So much to take in. So many decisions. So many sleepless nights. “Can I take a raincheck on the tea? I’m more exhausted than I realized. Maybe I’ll try to rest.”

  “Of course, honey. I’m here whenever you need me.” She grinned and lifted one hand. “I’m not much of a weight lifter anymore, but I can come over and find a way to help. I’ll even leave Phoenix at home if I have to.”

  Help would be nice, even just someone being there while Rivers plowed through the past.

  “I would love your company.” And yes, leave the weird pet behind. “We’ll talk soon.” She managed to lift her lips into a small smile before turning back toward the door.

  “Oh, Rivers, wait.”

  She glanced back. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “There’s an outdoor storage closet off the back porch. You might find more answers there.”

  “Answers?”

  “The past has light and shadows we don’t see without looking from a different perspective.”

  Chapter 7

  THE PATIO DOOR OPENED with the squeak of old wood and humidity. Rivers blinked back the sleep still blurring her eyes. She’d only drifted off for thirty minutes, but her dream had felt like it stretched much longer.

  Water, colors, and tides had swirled and pulled her out to sea. She floated aimlessly until suddenly she was home in Memphis beside the majestic river, its brown, muddy currents flowing strong like they did after a spring storm. The Southern sun warmed her skin, and her paintbrush dabbled blue across the sky of a new canvas. She glanced from the river to her picture, but the colors dripped and changed. The river streaked red, and so did her painting. As crimson as blood, flooding over the banks, rolling and sopping and gushing everywhere.

  She’d awoken with a gasp for air. A lot of good it did to try to rest. Now she paced the house, debating where to start working. Priscilla’s mention of the outside storage niggled for first place.

  Plastic bins of various sizes lined the shelves from floor to ceiling inside the small outdoor closet. Her gut sank like a stone in a pond.

  Another overwhelming task. How long would it take to clean this out?

  “One thing at a time,” she whispered and picked a box. This would do for now. She turned to close the door, but a yellow keyring caught her attention. The words Reliable Storage were printed on the tag.

  Well, shoot. Did that mean Jordan’s grandmother had another whole storage unit filled with painful memories? Leaning her load against the doorframe, she freed one hand to grab and pocket the key.

  Later. She’d deal with it later.

  Once she navigated inside the house with her load, she laid the container on the antique walnut dining table. Her stomach fluttered as she opened the lid. What new agony lurked inside, waiting to be aired out?

  Photos. All turned face down.

  Her hands trembled as her fingers hovered over the top layer. May as well pick a large one. She flipped over an eight-by-ten. A young boy’s face greeted her, maybe eight years old, lips downturned for a school photo. The hair was lighter, but there was no mistaking Cooper’s haunting dark eyes. The sadness that shone there pricked at the walls of her heart. He looked like so many of her little clients. She shuffled through the stack finding more of Cooper. One picture in particular pinched at her chest. A Vacation Bible School foam frame with hearts surrounding it, along with the words Jesus Loves Me. Cooper’s hair poked up in the back like Alfalfa. A purple bruise underlined his right eye. Had he been in a fight?

  If someone had helped him back then, would things have turned out differently?

  The past didn’t matter now. He’d grown up. Savannah had died because of his addiction and neglect. The damage was done.

  So these storage boxes were where Cooper had been banished. She flipped over photo after photo of him. Different ages, different seasons, the same sad eyes. Once she flipped through them all, she replaced the lid and attempted to expel the pitiful images of him that seemed branded into her mind now. What should she do with them? Would he want them back?

  She retrieved another container, a large one, and began again. This one held a child’s artwork from preschool drawings to preteen sketches. Even at a young age, talent glimmered through. Once he could write, he’d signed his pieces Coop. He’d had an eye for color, composition, texture.

  Box after box, she filtered through drawings and paintings he’d composed and art awards he’d won in high school and college. Hours passed, and a crick formed in her neck. She’d quit after just one more search. How had all Cooper’s things ended up in this closet? Had his mother sent them here?

  The next container’s photos were older, some even black-and-white. Many were ancient family photos. There were photos of Jordan’s and Cooper’s mothers as children, Brooklyn
and Pearl standing next to a black-haired man with dark eyes reminiscent of Cooper’s, only they lacked the soulfulness. The terse line of the man’s mouth was hard, along with the furrow between his brows. At the bottom of the container, a large brown envelope held letters and a journal, the paper old and yellowed.

  Should she read them? The letters had been addressed to Stella, Jordan’s grandmother, and the journal had to be hers as well. Something about opening them felt intrusive.

  But, Stella had left them for some reason. She could have thrown them out a long time ago. Rivers ran her fingers over the cracking cover of the diary. Or was it simply a planner, with appointments written in it?

  An obnoxious alarm clanged, interrupting her deliberations. She stood and scanned the boxes. Where had she left her phone, and why was it ringing at this time of day? Or rather evening? Daylight dwindled outside the cottage windows.

  After circling the room twice, she spotted the blasted thing and shut it off. Five-thirty?

  Why in the world?

  Her stomach rumbled in the quiet room. Oh, right. Cooper had set it for dinner. He was correct in saying that she needed to eat, but she didn’t have to eat with him and his...clients.

  She stared at her phone. Where should she go? Maybe a grocery store? That way she’d have food so when the crazy reminder went off later, she could make a sandwich. Jordan had told her about great barbeque and seafood in St. Simons.

  He should be here to eat with her. The bitterness bubbled up again and churned around her insides like a whirlpool sucking her into mire.

  Go see.

  The impression hit almost audibly. Go see what?

  But she knew in her spirit what that nudge meant.

  And something about the pictures of that sad little boy pricked at her heart. How did therapists go about helping those lost in addiction? People like her mother. And Cooper.

  She had to see for herself what was going on with the gallery and the place Cooper had called Re-Claimed.

  “WHILE THERE’S A LULL, let’s set up for the evening therapy before dinner. It’s almost closing time.” Cooper waved the two workers toward the studio in back. By let’s, he mostly meant they would do it, and they knew it, knew what to do.