The oils were a bit strong. She may’ve overdone it. “Lavender.”
His head bobbed as he studied her. “Is it working?” The tiniest smirk lifted one side of his mouth.
“Why are you here?”
The smirk was replaced by a more serious expression. “Blake’s in the emergency room. We weren’t sure what he’d been using, but we know now it was heroin. He needs withdrawal treatment.” He shook his head. “He’s in worse shape than Star, and he hasn’t been stabbed.”
“Oh, no.” She’d heard that heroin use had become an epidemic.
“What?” Star’s eyes opened. “Don’t let them put him in psych.” The girl sure had good ears.
“He needs help with detox.” Cooper stepped closer to the bed. “If you care about him, you’ll let him get cleaned up, then you can both work to get sober.”
“You know nothing about us.”
“I don’t know you, but I know Blake came into the sober living house where I work to talk about getting clean, except he didn’t want to leave you alone. I don’t know you, but I’ve lived the throes of a heroin addiction. I know I couldn’t get clean on my own and kept relapsing. I know the ministry at Re-Claimed was there for me when no one else was, and with God’s help, I am five years and twenty-eight days sober.”
He still counted the days. Rivers absorbed the sincerity in his words, the low, patient tone of his voice. How hard had each one of those days been for him? Were they still hard? She was surprised by how much she hoped and prayed he was no longer tempted by narcotics.
THE LIGHTS OF THE HOSPITAL blared in the early morning while Cooper made his way down the maze of halls to find Rivers. The scent of coffee stirred a hankering for caffeine, which he’d ignored, but maybe she’d like a cup. It had been a long night for both of them. Fortunately, volunteer counselors had shown up to take their place. Re-Claimed was blessed by these dear people with a heart for addicts. Not many people could handle the frustration. One woman had trained in counseling because of her sister’s addiction, and the other man was a recovered alcoholic who’d retired after spending years working as a counselor. They both served as relief workers at the Re-Claimed houses.
Cooper reached the lobby, where he’d asked Rivers to meet him. It was impossible to miss her profile standing in front of the entry window, the sun gleaming through the light blond hair, which poked up all over. She was already nursing a half-empty cup of brew, so no need to offer to buy her another.
“Hey, Rivers.” He joined her at the window. “Ready to go get your Stink Bug so you can rest?”
Tired blue eyes met his. “Ready.” A smile played on her lips. “Not sure you’re entitled to make fun of my vehicle since yours smells like a wet dog. I’d dub it the Reek Jeep.”
“Touché. But it will take us away from this place.” He motioned toward the automatic doors, waiting for her to exit first.
“I can’t wait to smell it then.” She chuckled and did some sort of little dance move with her arms and shoulders, nearly spilling her coffee.
It was absolutely adorable. Cooper’s heart did a similar frolic just watching her. “What the heck was that?”
Her eyes widened, and her brows rose. “Oh wow. I did my happy dance. I haven’t... That hasn’t happened since...”
No stopping his arm. It wrapped around her shoulder and squeezed. “My Reek Jeep has never excited anyone so much.” He pulled her close as they walked, careful not to knock the coffee in her other hand. His gut twisted thinking about how her sentence would’ve ended.
Chapter 12
“DO YOU WANT TO COME in? I can ask Davis to bring breakfast to the gallery.”
Rivers blinked at Cooper’s question. She’d been lost in thought for most of the ride home, and soft praise songs had filled the silence in the Jeep. Her stomach rumbled as Cooper parked beside her VW, and she pressed her hand against her abs. Maybe he hadn’t heard it.
“I’ll take that as a yes?” One of Cooper’s brows lifted in a sarcastic arc.
He’d heard it.
Why not? She still hadn’t found the grocery store. “Sure.” She glanced at the clock on her cell. Eight-thirty. “What time do you open?”
“Nine. I need to run upstairs to change.” He turned off the vehicle and removed the keys. “I’ll let you in while I call Davis. It won’t take me long. You can look around.”
“Okay.” She should know more about the gallery she owned, after all. On her last visits, her brain had been in another place. Overwhelmed, shocked, angry, she hadn’t taken much in.
Following Cooper along the sidewalk in the morning light, she tried not to notice the depths of the dark shade of his hair. Or the way, though tousled, it never looked an unruly mess, unlike her own chaotic mop. She’d done her best to beat down her wayward strands this morning, but her efforts hadn’t accomplished much.
Suddenly self-aware, she ran her hand across the top of her head. “Cooper, do you have a baseball cap I can borrow?”
He reached the door and turned the keys in the lock, earning a jingle from the bell inside. He pivoted to pin his gaze on her, and lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Why? You rock the Teletubby do.”
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Thanks for nothing.” He was a little funny, though.
“My bad. I’ll find a clean one.”
“Clean works.” She couldn’t stop a small smile and averted her gaze from his penetrating stare, those dark eyes like onyx stones reflecting the sun. “I’ll look around.”
“Make yourself at home. It’s yours.” His tone wasn’t bitter but carried more of a defeated edge, dredging up a smidgen of sympathy, not only for Cooper but for the others she’d met at dinner. Would closing the gallery affect their ministry?
Instead of checking his expression before he walked away, she focused on the walls, the art.
Colorful abstracts dominated the left side of the space. One large piece had a white background, but reds and yellows streamed down from the top right corner. Red had been the color of her nightmares since the shooting, but in this painting, the red tones with the yellows moved in ways that felt warm and inviting. The intensity of the colors and the sweeping waves flowing down drew her in.
“He calls that one Second Chances.” Davis slipped up beside her. No mistaking Davis’s playful voice. But then again, during his prayer, his tone had carried fire. “I hope I didn’t spook you.”
She’d been so immersed, she hadn’t heard the door’s jingle. Though she hadn’t noticed his approach, Davis hadn’t set off the jumpiness she’d been plagued with since the accident. Maybe she was getting back to normal. She read the printed card below the painting. Second Chances by J. C. Knight. James Cooper Knight.
Rivers pulled her gaze from the painting to make eye contact with Davis. “Cooper did this?”
“His paintings are popular.” Davis’s head bobbed. “I put your food in the studio. Gabby had already thought of boxing it up for y’all. She’s good that way.”
The painting stayed in the forefront of her mind, the warm feelings that washed over her. She’d love to give that feeling to someone again. “So Cooper offers a lot of his own work?”
“Their sales pay the bills here and help with expenses at Re-Claimed. The man should wear a cape, like a superhero.”
Certainly not the way he’d been described to her. “How long have you been a part of Re-Claimed?”
“Three-hundred and thirty-nine days.” He nodded toward the back. “Get your food while it’s hot. I can watch the front for Coop.”
“How did you end up...? Sorry. That’s none of my business.”
“No worries.” He shrugged in his carefree way. “I tell this story whenever the need calls.” He glanced at a clock, which had been mounted on an easel and hung above the front counter. “We don’t open for a few more minutes. I’ll follow you.” He scanned her form, but not in a seductive way. “You need to eat more, sister.”
His straightforwardness was somehow
refreshing. “Okay, okay. Got it. Gain weight. Where’s the food?”
He led her through the doorway into the back studio. More canvases lined the walls—some partially finished, some not-so-great, others amazing abstracts, still life, impressionistic. Her eyes tracked up and down, taking them all in. There were even a few pop art and cartoonish works.
Being surrounded by the pieces brought a sense of home the way her Memphis gallery and studio used to. A sensation washed over her she hadn’t been able to recapture in the past year...the unmistakable urge to create.
“Here you go.” Davis handed her a Styrofoam box from the counter. “You eat. I’ll talk.”
She sat on a stool in front of an easel with a blank canvas resting on it, the white space beckoning her.
Davis cleared his throat loudly and pointed, hinting not-so-subtly for her to put food in her mouth. She opened the box. Eggs, bacon, grits, and toast. That should hold her for a while. A plastic fork lay on top, and she scooped a bite of grits. The buttery carbs melted on her tongue. Delicious.
“Me and Angelo were in the same Army platoon. Spent time in Afghanistan. One day, we were on a routine patrol, and an IED exploded.” He pressed his lips together before continuing. “Lost one of our brothers. Marcus.”
“I’m sorry.” A lump rose in her throat, and she struggled to swallow. “That had to be traumatic.”
He gave a slow nod. “Mayhem.”
“Were you injured?” She didn’t see any visible scars, but she had her own concealed wounds.
“I lost hearing in one ear. A lot of burns. Could’ve been worse. Same with Angelo, but he had some vertebrae injured too.” He sucked in a deep breath. “We couldn’t shake the violent images or the nagging questions. What did we miss that could’ve saved him? Why spare us? Why let Marcus die? He was a good man, had a wife...a baby, while we were just two single dudes living day to day.”
Oh brother, she could relate to the why questions. Her own survival over Jordan’s had felt wrong on so many levels. How easy it would’ve been to take something to numb the pain. Only she’d seen full well how that choice damaged everyone around the person doing the numbing. “I can imagine.”
“Angelo already had some issues. Came into the Army hoping to pull out of trouble.” Davis swiped his fingers through his hair. “We started drinking. A lot. One thing led to another. He kept ending up in jail.”
“Not you?”
“Don’t ask me how, but I kept a job as a handyman at some condos. Free place to live, too, although it wasn’t the nicest in town.”
“What changed you?”
“I went to get Angelo out of jail—again—and there were Cooper and Kevin talking to him. I was hungover.” A wry huff followed. “I mean I was hung-over. My head felt like a seed tick done sucked out all my brains and spit them back in.” He planted his palm on his forehead as if remembering the pain. “They convinced me to come, but I would’ve done anything to get them to shut up.”
Rivers couldn’t help but laugh at his honesty.
“What in the world are you telling her?” Cooper’s voice held both teasing and warning. He handed her a blue Atlanta Braves baseball cap. She took the offering and quickly placed it on her wayward hair.
“I cannot lie. I shared my story. Part of it, anyway.” Davis presented Cooper a takeout breakfast.
“It gets worse. Stay tuned.” Cooper shook his head.
Giving Cooper a playful nudge, Davis snorted. “Hey, were you not the man who said, ‘Showing your scars is showing who you are’?”
“That and ‘stay in your own hula hoop.’” Cooper’s black brows arched.
Rivers tried not to choke on her food, but the picture the phrase painted in her mind had her laughing.
Davis scrunched his nose. “Sounds vaguely familiar.” He spoke the words in a fake hillbilly accent.
“I asked him. Me being nosey.” Rivers ran a napkin across her lips, then scanned the easel in front of her. Her fingers tingled for a paintbrush. The waves, the birds, the sky she’d seen that first day, all flowed through her mind. “Would you mind if I paint?”
Cooper stared at her as if she’d offered to walk a plank and jump into shark-infested waters.
She sucked in a deep breath. “Is it against the rules? I’ll pay for the canvas and supplies.”
A shadow flickered across Cooper’s face before he regained his composure. “You’ll do no such thing. Have at it. What medium?” He stepped past her to a long table that ran the length of one wall. “We’ve got some of everything here, and there’s a sink and paper towels in the bathroom.”
She stood and joined him, perusing the blues, greens, and yellows. They cried to her to bring them to life. “I’ll go with acrylics. You guys have work to do, so don’t mind me.”
Cooper still stood there, his mouth slightly gaping. “Aren’t you exhausted?”
“Aren’t you? But you’re still going to work.” Rivers shooed him with a flick of her hand. “I’ll clean up and leave when I’m tired.”
“Finish your breakfast first, young lady,” Davis chided.
She nodded and took a bite, but she had to paint now, before the impulse slipped away.
BASICALLY DRIVEN AWAY, Cooper took his breakfast and left the studio. The gallery opened in two minutes, and Angelo hadn’t made it over yet, so Cooper shoved the food in his mouth, barely tasting the flavors. The weird thing was, not only did Rivers have to be exhausted on so many levels, but she’d claimed she hadn’t been able to paint since losing Jordan. Part of him worried she needed to rest after the drama last night. Another part warned him to stay out of her life. The last thing she needed was him butting in more than he already had. Then there was that piece inside of him, which, despite his best efforts, had gone berserk and wanted to curl Rivers into his arms, against his chest, and hold her. For a really long time.
A very bad idea. Stupid, insane idea. Not an idea he could allow to flourish. He tossed the food box away and visualized tossing the ridiculous thought in the trash too.
“Wanna talk about it?” Davis punched Cooper’s bicep before cranking up the praise station they played on a daily basis. “She’s occupied.”
“No.” His tone came out sharper than he’d intended.
“Oh, cool. Let’s talk about it.” This former military man had never been easily intimidated, which made him a great candidate to become an addiction therapist.
“What is there to say? I explained all this last time.”
“Not about the Titanic girl-crush. How is this affecting you regarding the gallery? That’s a harsh blow, buddy. This place has been your baby. Your lifeline.”
A dull ache began in Cooper’s forehead and spread, the candid truth ricocheting between his temples. “You’re right. The gallery is important to me.”
“The enemy will try to get you locked down. Get you bummed. The temptation will follow.”
“True that. He watches for our weak moments.” He’d need to pray and work the steps because everything he’d built since becoming sober was being threatened—his home, his means to help support himself and Re-Claimed. “Thanks for saying something. I’ll come to you if I get in that place. In the meantime, keep me prayed up.”
“I’m covering you already, bro, but I can speak over you now if you want.”
The shop should be open, but there was always time for prayer. “Bring it.”
Davis placed a hand on Cooper’s shoulder, and they both closed their eyes. “Father, fight for my brother, Cooper, in the heavenly realms. The battle is intense and real and present, and the thief comes to steal and destroy our sobriety. The enemy’s weapons are fear and lies, so we will stand against him with Your Word and combat him with truth and love. You are the King, the Healer, the Mighty Warrior. Guard Cooper’s way before and behind, above and below. Let Cooper trust You, God, with his uncertain future. You have never let him down before, and You hold him now in the palm of Your nail-scarred hand. Strengthen Cooper in the days, weeks
, and months to come. Give him wisdom and peace. In Jesus, we ask and we thank You.”
“Amen.” Cooper’s eyes and nose stung at the tender yet powerful words. “Are you sure you don’t want to go into ministry instead of counseling? You do have a message for the hurting.” He chuckled. “And the blunt truth.”
“A traditional church would probably fire me the first week. They’d think I was weirder than a rug lizard.”
“You’re probably right. What’s a rug lizard anyway?”
“If you don’t know, I can’t tell ya.” His eyes twinkled. “I’m more into sneaky-stealthy strategies in introducing the Gospel to addicts and prisoners. Black ops kind of stuff.”
“There is nothing stealthy about you and your mouth. Let’s get to work.” Rotating toward the door, Cooper glanced over his shoulder. “Thanks, brother.” And he meant it. Facing the future without the gallery would be quite a blow.
Chapter 13
THE PRAISE MUSIC STREAMING through the studio speakers ruptured the levee Rivers had erected around her heart. Emotions emptied out like black waters being cleared during a spring storm, a current deep and swift. The brush in her hand glided over the canvas almost as if possessed—but a good possession. The Holy Spirit seemed to whisper quiet words of comfort to her throbbing heart.
Blues filled the upper portion of the piece, sky and soft clouds set above a gleaming sea. Majestic white pelicans stretched their wings and soared above foamy cresting waves. Healing rays of light streamed down from a nail-scarred hand in the right corner of the canvas, sending warmth flowing over her body and soul like a soothing balm.
On the pearl-colored shoreline, the heron she’d seen at the beach that first day stood regarding the horizon, the little crab at the bird’s webbed feet. She’d often painted a lion on his haunches, mane massive and red, and a lamb resting in perfect harmony at his side beside a river, but this time the colossal bird and a little crustacean would serve well her vision of peace.
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