The Nicci Beauvoir Collection: The Complete Nicci Beauvoir Series

by Alexandrea Weis

  “No, Nicci. You were more than that. I think his conscience got to him in the end. That’s why he didn’t go through with his plans.”

  I held on to the mantle trying to keep from falling over. “Do you hate him now?”

  “Yes and no. I’m more disappointed than angry. I really liked the man. He had integrity, or so I thought until tonight.” He came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder.

  I shrugged it off. “I cannot believe that after everything he has done, you don’t want to kill him. I hope I never see him again.” I turned and slowly made my way to the stairs.

  “I know he hurt you. In that sense, yes, I could kill him. That wouldn’t solve anything, sweetheart,” Dad admitted.

  “Perhaps not, but it would make me feel a hell of a lot better.”

  ***

  The next morning I awoke in the chair by my bedroom window. My face felt pasty with dried tears, and my body was stiff. Outside, the sun was just coming up over the trees in the garden. Everything around me looked strange, almost foreign. The furniture and bookshelves in my bedroom were unchanged, but the ambience of the room was different. It was no longer the haven of my childhood. The pangs of panic gripped my gut and began twisting in an uncontrolled frenzy. I had to get out. I had to find some answers. The dullness of shock had given way to anger. I had to find David.

  ***

  I parked my car in front of the small blue cottage, but there was no sign of his red Jeep Wrangler. The twisting inside of me wound tighter as I approached his door. I knocked gently, at first, then louder. I was banging my fists on the door, when the front door to the other half of the double flew open.

  Cora came out dressed in a light blue cotton jumper with a bright blue bow in her hair. She had a concerned frown on her lips.

  “Hey there! What ya bangin’ so hard for?”

  “Cora,” I said breathlessly, “where’s David? I have to find him.”

  Cora held up her hands. “He’s gone, honey. I thought ya knew.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “I don’t know. He came over last night and told me he was leavin’ and gave me the key. I asked, but he wouldn’ tell me where he was goin’. Said he would write and let me know where I could reach him.”

  “Goddamn him!” I shouted.

  “He said he left ya somethin’.” She ducked inside of her door.

  I stood there for few moments, lost in my heartache.

  Cora returned, huffing and puffing as if she had been running. “He said he left it in his place for ya. Told me that you’d be by to collect it. He made it sound like this was somethin’ ya knew about.” She opened David’s screen door and put the key in the lock.

  As we walked inside his half of the double, Cora turned on the lights. The furniture was still there; only his laptop and some books he used to have lying around were gone.

  “His furniture is still here,” I remarked, sifting through some of the unopened mail on his coffee table.

  “Furniture’s mine, honey. That poor boy didn’t have nothin’. All he had with him was that computer of his, and some clothes.”

  I hurried into the studio, where the bright sun had started to filter through the skylights, and my heart sank. The room was completely bare except for a single easel standing resolutely in the middle of the room. There was a portrait sitting atop of it. It was the first painting he had ever done of me.

  David had captured my face, my smile, and my eyes. I was looking out into the world with a happy enthusiasm. There was passion in my features. A fire for the world around me, or the painter in front of me, I wasn’t sure. It was the face of a woman who loved life. As I stared into the lifeless canvas, I could feel the numbing sensation of loss creeping up through my bones.

  Cora came alongside me and admired the portrait. “He must love ya a lot. I can see that in the picture.”

  The numbness had crept higher, and I could feel it approaching the walls of my heart. I fought back the urge to cry. “But it wasn’t enough, was it?”

  “Girl, look at that picture. A man don’t paint like that unless he feels somethin’ for the subject. It was obvious to me from the first moment I met ya. Don’t give up on him jus yet.” She took the portrait off the easel and handed it to me.

  “He gave up on us,” I sighed, gazing around the studio.

  There was no note. No explanation. The cold in my limbs had started enveloping my heart. I motioned to the painting. “So I guess this is all that’s left.”

  “No, dawlin’.” She placed my hand on the edge of the canvas. “This is his promise to come back.”

  I took the portrait from her, feeling the weight of it in my hands.

  We walked out together and stepped on to the porch. I breathed in the cool November air, while trying to fight back my emotions.

  “Thank you, Cora,” I told her, as she locked the door behind us. “Thank you for keeping this for me.”

  “Ya gonna be all right? We could jus set here on the porch and talk ‘bout it.” She put her arm around me like a mother hen. “Ya know, I’m gonna miss him, too. He was a special fella.”

  A lump was forming in the back of my throat. I bit down on my quivering lower lip. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. Thank you, Cora.”

  I headed down the steps and did not turn back. I put the portrait in the trunk of my car, trying all the while to shut out the memories of the man who had painted it. All I wanted to do was go home and lock myself away in my room. Never again did I want to venture out into the world of pain and loss. I was done.

  ***

  I was lugging the portrait up the stairs when my father came out of his bedroom. It was well after nine, but he was still lounging in his pajamas. Something he never usually did, unless he was ill.

  “What’s that?”

  “All that is left of Mr. Alexander,” I declared.

  “How do you know?”

  “I went to his place. His landlady let me in. She told me that he left last night and that this was for me.” I held up the portrait for my father to see, which was no easy task, considering the size of it.

  “That is magnificent!” He took the portrait from me and set it against the wall. “He painted that?” Dad paused again, staring wide-eyed into the painting. “A man does not paint like this just to earn your confidence, Nicci. There is much more here than just a painting. This is a work of love.”

  “You’re exaggerating just a bit, Dad.” I sat down on the floor of the landing, feeling overwhelmed. “If he had such feelings for me, why hurt me like he did? And then why run away?”

  My father knelt down next to me and put his arm around me. “Nicci, anyone who could paint with such love will never be free of you. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t approve of how he went about things either, but I can’t help but wonder if his feelings for you weren’t genuine. Looking at this portrait, I really have to believe the man loves you, perhaps more than he knows.”

  “Why aren’t you pissed with him? Why are you taking his side? The man tried to destroy you and your company. He was the enemy.”

  “He wasn’t the enemy. This did not start, nor will it end with David. It’s business. I go through this every day. And I’m not taking his side. If he had carried out Sammy’s plans, then I would be bitter. However, he didn’t do that. He changed, and I think you were the reason he changed.” He studied the portrait once more. “I can’t completely hate someone that painted you like this.”

  There’s a moment when you can actually feel your heart break. A searing pain shot across my chest and took my breath away. Then, an oppressive heaviness engulfed me, making it hard to move or even breathe. I began to lose all hope that there was a tomorrow, because the idea of going on from that moment became unbearable.

  I forced myself to stand and I held my head up. I pushed all the emotions swirling around in my stomach back into the blackness from which they had emerged. I squared my shoulders and took in a deep breath.

  “Are you all right
?” my father probed, frowning at me.

  “I’m fine,” I coolly answered.

  “What do you want to do with this?” He motioned toward the portrait.

  “Burn it, for all I care.” I strode along the landing to my room.

  “That won’t get rid of him, you know,” my father called.

  I stood in front of my bedroom door with my hand on the knob. “No, but it’s a start.” I went inside and shut the world away.

  Chapter 15

  It had been several weeks since my realization about David. That is what I called it; a realization. Everything I thought or felt about him had been a lie. No one who loves you makes you feel so useless and used. I had analyzed every word he had spoken, every movement, every touch, looking for some hint about his intentions. There were no answers. No revelations in the middle of the night. Each passing day, the questions became fewer and the pain in my heart eased a little.

  Since the wedding, I spent most of my time huddled in my room, staring out the window into the garden. The rest of my hours were consumed with school and studying. I barely made it through my fall semester exams. Now it was Christmas, and my father was trying to persuade me that a Christmas tree could cure all my cares.

  “Come on, Nicci. We have to have a tree. Santa always knows exactly where to put the presents when you have a tree,” he extolled. “After all, we have a lot to celebrate this year.”

  “Like what? The almost collapse of Beauvoir Scrap or the marriage of Colleen and Eddie?” I commented, eyeing him in my bedroom doorway.

  “I think the revelation in November was a godsend for the company. Lance has even started to take an interest in the business, well…some interest. I’m looking into diversifying into plastics. Next year could be even better for us. You’re right about one thing, though. Eddie and Colleen are not worth celebrating.” He chuckled, shaking his head.

  “And Sammy?” I asked, leery of his reply.

  “Has been as docile as a lamb. Which makes me wonder what she’s up to, but for the time being Sammy the volcano is dormant.”

  I smiled, relenting to his childish excitement. “All right, Dad. I can’t argue with you anymore. Let me get dressed.”

  ***

  Three hours, and several different tree lots later, we arrived home with the perfect tree. It was the first time in weeks I had spent a few hours without thinking of David. I had even laughed and was revived by the brisk, cool wind on my skin. I was not cured, but I was healing.

  We hauled our prized tree into the house and set it up in the living room. I thought my job was over, but Dad had more work planned for me. Before we left to go tree hunting, he had dashed up into the attic and pulled down every crate of Christmas decorations we had collected over the years. The boxes, about two dozen of them, were piled in the living room next to the fireplace.

  My father and I spent hours going through each of the boxes. Many of them had not been opened in years. The last time we had taken all the decorations out of the attic, was for our last Christmas with my mother. She was dying of cancer, and my father decided we needed to decorate the house with every Christmas ornament we owned.

  My mother died a few days after New Year’s. I remember coming home from the hospital and facing all the rooms, overflowing with Christmas decorations. My father and I had worked all night long, packing up the ornaments and putting them away in the attic. It had just been something to do.

  This year, after a lengthy discussion, we finally agreed on a theme for our tree: everything old is new again. We used the oldest, most faded, and most unrecognizable ornaments we could find to make our tree appear as if it came straight out of a junkyard. Afterwards, Dad made eggnog and scrambled eggs to celebrate our artistic achievement.

  I went up to bed well after midnight. For the first time in a month, I felt like I could sleep peacefully. There were no more questions about David in my head, just the warm feeling of brandy coursing through my veins.

  ***

  The next morning, I got out of bed feeling revitalized. I had discovered that I could have a few uninterrupted hours without thinking of David. I knew at that moment I would survive. I made a promise to myself, as watched the morning sun stream in through my windows. From now on, I would fight love.

  Love was a weakness and a foe to be conquered, not to be conquered by. It was not the mysterious and all encompassing drug that poets throughout the centuries had praised. Love was an evil, misguided mistress that would torture and maim without leaving any visible scars. When love left town, it was on the back of a garbage truck, stinking of broken souls. Love was a mistake, and I vowed never to make that mistake with anyone ever again.

  I dressed and began planning my day. I had to go on. Christmas was coming and I had not begun to shop for presents. I sat down at my desk and started to make my list. As I wrote, my eyes fell on one of the notebooks I had used for my journal, before my realization. I hadn’t written anything since the night of the wedding. I pulled the notebook out and started reading a few select passages.

  It was the melodramatic fluff of a woman whose thoughts were not on writing, but on love. I shook my head, wondering how I had gone so far overboard. Droning on and on about lovers, midnight rendezvous, and moonlit skies. I closed the notebook and put it away in the bottom drawer of the desk. Writing was another habit I decided to eliminate from my life. It had only been an opportunity to vent my feelings on to paper, more therapeutic than artistic. I could never be a writer. Writing was for dreamers. I was a realist, who would soon face the world of taxes and retirement planning. Nevertheless, whatever was creative and artistic would remind me of David. He had wanted me to write. Reason enough for me to give it up.

  I greeted my father downstairs with a warm “Good morning.”

  “You look good. Feeling better?” he asked, reaching into the refrigerator for the orange juice.

  “Yes, much better.” I dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. “I think I’m going to go shopping. Christmas is coming, you know.”

  “Well, I’m amazed. A few days ago I was about to give up all hope, and now…you’re sure you’re okay?” He eyed me suspiciously.

  “I’m better and better every day. I just think it’s time to get back to the land of the living. Put all the rest behind me.”

  “Behind you? I don’t like the sound of that. Last time you talked like this you were five and the cat had run away. You said you would never love another pet.”

  I took the carton of orange juice from him. “Love is no longer in my vocabulary.”

  My father’s face grew grim and he shook his head. “Shutting out feelings is not the way to come to grips with them, Nicci. Eventually, everything comes back to haunt you, whether it is feelings or bad Chinese food.”

  I put the carton down on the countertop and pulled a glass out of the cabinet over the sink. “I would prefer bad Chinese food to what I have gone through for the past month.”

  When the toast popped up, I decided I didn’t feel like toast, after all. Taking the slices from the toaster, I dumped them in the garbage. This talk about love had ruined my appetite.

  “All right, Nicci. Do whatever you need to do to get over this. I just don’t want to see you hurt anymore.”

  I poured some orange juice into my glass. “Okay, so I can go out and spend absurd amounts of money to make myself feel better?”

  Dad chuckled. “Now you’re starting to sound like a normal woman again.”

  ***

  At the mall, it took almost twenty minutes to find a parking spot. Once inside, I saw scores of people wandering in front of the heavily decorated shops. I stopped just inside the entrance and rummaged in my purse for my list. I never went anywhere without a list. My father called it my security blanket, because without it I would probably buy out the whole store.

  I was still looking through my purse when I was jostled from the side. I turned to look at the offender and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  “
Well, Nicci Beauvoir!” Michael Fagles was sporting a huge grin.

  “Dr. Fagles, what a pleasant surprise. Not off curing the terminally insane?”

  He giggled. “No, I’m out of the office for a few hours. Here to do the same thing you probably are.”

  “Buying a push-up bra?”

  “Well, you’re feeling very whimsical today, aren’t you?”

  I tried to think of a cute reply, but I decided just to smile and leave him guessing.

  He ventured to salvage our awkward conversation. “You look good. Better than when I saw you at the wedding. I wanted to call and see how you were, but—”

  “Thanks you for all of your help,” I cut in. “It was rude of me not to call you and thank you for everything you did. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. You’re forgiven.”

  We stood there, feeling embarrassed by our lack of conversation. I glanced down to see my list hiding in a pocket of my purse, and yanked it out.

  I held up my list to him. “It was good to see you again. Merry Christmas.”

  I was about to walk off when he stopped me.

  “Actually, I was wondering.” He sheepishly smiled. “Would you mind helping me find a present for my mother? You know how inept we males can be at buying appropriate female gifts.”

  “Yes, I know all too well.” I cringed at the friendly tone in my voice.

  I had not meant to encourage him. Still, I felt his pain. In the past, I had received many awkward gifts from boyfriends, my uncle, and even my father.

  Heaving an internal sigh, I asked, “What does your mother like?”

  Michael Fagles dragged me through at least a dozen little gift shops. We went from small trinkets to hats and handbags, but none of them seemed to be just right. The way he spoke of his mother, I was beginning to wonder when the woman was going to be canonized.

  “She has very difficult taste. I never know what to get her,” he confessed, as we walked into yet another gift shop.

  “So you told me, three stores ago.”

  He gaped around the store and sighed. “I don’t know what to do.”