Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen.
He walked on, heading for Cole's room. He passed through the dining room into a hallway covered in family pictures, including one of a smiling Elizabeth in cap and gown, hugging her brother—her high school graduation, it seemed.
Strange, someone had taken out all of Cole's pictures and replaced them with botanical prints. Although maybe not so strange. Elizabeth must have done it, in an effort to make her mother feel better.
He went up the stairs, heading for the bedrooms. How many times had he run up these steps, eager to share a new game or a newly released movie with his friend? He paused in front of Cole's room, bracing himself for a surge of grief, then opened the door and walked in.
The room was unrecognizable. The posters and pictures were all gone. The furniture had been removed, except for the bulky desk. But Cole's prized computer was nowhere to be seen. Boxes were piled in a corner of the room and paint cans were on the other side. Elizabeth stood in the corner, unfolding a canvas tarp.
"Is that it?" he asked.
She jumped, startled. "What are you doing here? I just kicked you out."
"It's not a lot of stuff," he replied, ignoring her words. "It shouldn't take more than one trip."
She winced, almost imperceptibly. Great move, Gabe. Remind her that her brother didn't have time to accumulate much during his truncated life. Smooth.
"No, it shouldn't." She took a deep breath. "The white bags go to the Salvation Army, the black bags go to the Dumpster, and the boxes go to the library." She crossed her arms across her chest. "Have fun."
But she wouldn't get rid of him so easily. He had to convince her to trust him. And the big surprise that would get her to do just that hadn't arrived yet.
"Are you going to paint?" he asked her. Not the smoothest distraction technique, but it would have to do.
"Yes." She looked at the walls. "The room is small so I can get at least one coat of paint done before my parents come back." She paused, and her voice dropped. "Once I start to paint, my mom won't have any choice. She'll have to let me finish."
"She doesn't know you are doing this?" He lifted a box, not too heavy.
"No, she doesn't want to change a thing."
"Whatever happened to trusting your family and letting them make their own decisions?" he teased, trying to lighten the mood.
"That's your family." Her voice was devoid of humor. "Not mine."
With that, she grabbed a box and headed down the hallway. He followed. One by one, they took all the boxes to the truck. The boxes were all neatly labeled: clothes, books, shoes. He felt a tightness around his chest as he saw Cole's possessions lined up on the truck bed, but he shook it off. He'd already mourned his friend. These were things, only things.
He went back into the house. Elizabeth had moved the desk. Stubborn girl, couldn't she wait until he got back? She was laying down a tarp on the floor. Gabe looked at the dark blue walls and at her light-colored paint samples.
"That's going to take more than one coat. Did you get primer?"
"None of your business."
He stared at her.
"Of course I got primer," she said impatiently. "And all I need is one coat. One coat is the point of no return."
"Are you really planning to paint today?"
She nodded, not looking at him.
"Alone?"
She cast an annoyed glance at him. "Unfortunately, my parents' house doesn't have a resident handyman ghost. So, yes, I'm painting alone."
"I don't think so."
She shook her head. "I don't need your help, Gabe. I can lift a paintbrush all by myself. Anyway, what about the truck? Cole's old underpants aren't walking themselves to the dump, you know."
Stubborn girl. Did she really think he would let her paint this room by herself? The place was an emotional minefield. Gabe took out his cell phone and started dialing. "I'll have the truck picked up. Books to the library, and everything else to The Salvation Army, right?"
She sighed, giving up the fight. "Right. And the black bags go to the dump."
He barked a couple of orders into the phone, and it was done.
"Go away, Gabe," she said. "I don't want you here."
Why was she being so difficult?
"The last time I let you paint by yourself, I ended up with Queen Titania's space fairy parking lot. I'm not making that mistake again. We're going to need a lot of primer." Tons. Cole must have painted this room when he was in his Star Wars phase. The walls were a deep, deep blue. It was almost black. He peered at the ceiling. Yep. There were tiny glow-in-the-dark stars pasted on the ceiling. Those would be a pain to peel out. His neck hurt just thinking about it.
"I have the stupid primer, Gabe. I also got rollers and trays. And I already taped up the walls."
"We're ready to go, then."
"'We' is the wrong pronoun."
He took a deep breath. "No, it's not," he said firmly. "'We' is absolutely accurate. I'm not leaving." He grabbed one of the paint trays. "I know I fucked up, Elizabeth. I know I'm a jerk to you. I'm a jerk to my family. I'm a jerk to the town. But—" He paused, looking for the right words. "I'm not enough of a jerk to leave right now."
She stood, eyes wide, looking at him.
"So, I'm not," he finished.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he grabbed a paint can before she could tell him to go to hell and take Cole's Hammer movies with him. He opened the can and poured it into the tray.
She remained quiet as they covered the dark blue paint with primer. The tightness in her shoulders didn't loosen. He tried to focus on the job, but it was hard. The emotional tension in the room could be cut with a butter knife. He tried to crack some jokes to lighten the atmosphere, but she didn't respond.
Too bad. He had to be here. He had no choice. He couldn't leave her alone to face this. Although Elizabeth was committed to the remodel, this was still a difficult time for her. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to make her feel better, which made him feel useless, a painful sensation.
"Stop trying to make me laugh," she said testily. "I'm still pissed because of the meeting."
"And you're plotting revenge. I know." He smiled at the thought. Elizabeth always had a counterattack.
"I can call a public town meeting."
That wiped the smile off his face. Few things could derail his plan, but another chaotic Banshee Creek town meeting could send it hurtling at full speed over an unfinished bridge and plunge it into a ravine.
"That wouldn't change anything." It was false bravado, though. If anyone could turn the town against him, it was Elizabeth.
"Wanna bet?" she asked, eyes flashing.
Her hostile tone angered him. He threw the roller in the tray, splashing his pants in the process.
She smirked. "Your personal stylist isn't going to like that."
Patience, Gabe, patience. The surprise should arrive soon, and her mood would improve after that. "I can fix it for everyone, Elizabeth."
"You think you can fix it for everyone. You always think you know best, Gabe. That's what gets you in trouble."
"I do know best. I do. You just have to trust me."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. He stifled the urge to throw a paint-soaked roller at her head.
"Would you give me a chance to convince you? Just one chance, that's all I ask."
"Give it a rest, Gabe," she said, with an exasperated sigh. She stepped back and looked around. "Looks like the first coat is done."
Elizabeth's hair had fallen out of her bun, her nose had a smudge of white, and she looked absolutely beautiful. She put the roller back on the tray and paused to admire their handiwork. The white primer wasn't a showstopper, but it did make the room look bigger and brighter. It wasn't Cole's room anymore. It was just an empty room.
But he wasn't interested in the room. He only cared about the woman in it. The tension had left Elizabeth's body. She looked limp and tired, and her eyes were shiny with tears.
&nbs
p; He hated tears. He had no idea what to do with tears.
"I'm okay. It's just that this room has always been blue." She looked at the splotchy white walls. "Maybe I should have picked a light blue instead of beige."
Her explanation made no sense. "You're not crying over paint, Elizabeth."
"No." She wiped her eyes. "Well, not exactly."
He looked around the room. It really did look different. Sunnier. Cheerier. "The color looks nice."
"Nice?" She stifled a weepy giggle. "You're kidding, right?"
"There's nothing wrong with beige," he said, confused by her reaction. "Don't you like it?"
"I don't have to like it. My mom is the one who has to like it. It's just..." She looked around the room looking lost.
"He's really gone now," she said, tears staining her voice.
Her words broke his heart. "He's been gone a long time."
She shook her head. "You just don't understand."
"Not completely, no." He ran his hand through his hair. "But I lost my best friend. So I understand a little."
"You didn't just lose Cole, Gabe," she said. "You lost yourself."
There was a simple sweetness to her tone. Like she didn't mean to be hurtful. But it hurt. It hurt a lot.
"Yeah, maybe." He shook his head. "I don't think of it that way, though."
He used to think of it as an evolution, becoming a better, more efficient version of himself. But Elizabeth's words forced him to reconsider that. It was like looking into a mirror and having a stranger look back.
"I don't want to do that. I don't want to lose me." The words were pouring out now. "I already lost Cole."
Gabe clenched his fists. There was nothing he could do to help her through her pain.
"I mean," she sobbed. "I'm doing a beige room. Beige."
He paused in confusion. What was wrong with beige exactly? He liked beige. It was a simple, elegant color, very soothing. Well, not right now it wasn't. Elizabeth was having a breakdown over it and he didn't understand why. This was exactly the kind of thing he was terrible at. What was he supposed to say? "Beige is nice," he said. "It's a very restful color."
Her eyes widened in horror.
So that was the wrong thing to say.
He gestured toward the painted walls. "Your first instinct was to do beige. I think you should go with your gut."
"That's your advice? Go with your gut?" She looked at him intently, and he started to suspect that she was talking about something completely different.
"It usually works for me."
"Is that what we're doing? Going with our guts?" She looked at him intently.
"Are we still talking about paint?"
"No."
He looked into her weepy eyes. He didn't like the tears, but he knew crying was good. Crying meant healing. Healing that would be faster and easier without him around.
The knowledge felt like a lump of lead in his chest.
"Elizabeth, if I went with my gut, I'd run away from you as fast as I could."
His words hung in the air. Then his phone rang, and relief swept over him. The conversation had gotten a bit too intense.
"You're here?" he said into the phone, as she aimed a questioning glance at him. "Great. Tell the guys to come upstairs."
"Here? Who's here?" she asked. The sorrowful girl was gone and the haughty alien princess glare was back. "No one told me I was having a party."
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
BUT HER question remained unanswered. She was identifying a pattern here. When faced with a question, statement, or fact he didn't like, Gabe resorted to selective deafness.
"There's some painting to be done." He ran his hand through his hair as he spoke into the phone, and she couldn't help but notice that a glob of paint had fallen on his head. "Moldings? I don't know." He looked at the ceiling. "Yeah, Liam. It already has moldings."
Liam? He'd called Liam? He'd called a contractor? Was he out of his mind? If she'd wanted this job done by Liam, she would've called him herself.
"So yeah, it should just be paint. Window treatments?" He looked at the walls. "I see some blinds. Are those window treatments?"
This was all her fault. She should have smacked him with a bucketful of beige paint. This was what happened when you tried to be nice. Gabe trampled you with contractors.
"Yeah, upstairs. Cole's bedroom."
The call was done. She was practically trembling with rage.
"You hired a contractor without asking me?" She felt like screaming, but managed to keep her voice calm. That was good.
"Well, yes," Gabe said carefully. Something in her tone must have raised an alarm. He looked a bit uncertain. "You know, you could've called him, Elizabeth. He was happy to help."
"I don't want any help." She paused, trying to manage her mounting frustration. "I want to do this myself. It's important to me."
There. That sounded better. She was going for self-assurance, not volcanic anger. And yet that was exactly how she felt, as if suspended at the edge of a deadly burning thing. One wrong word, and she'd tumble inside and be consumed.
"I know. But look at it, Elizabeth. It's not turning out very well, is it?" He gestured toward the wall.
His arrogant tone made volcanic anger look really attractive right now. But she controlled her anger and focused on the walls. The splotchy primer didn't look good, far from it. But that was just primer. The room looked better. It looked clean. Clean of grief, clean of pain, clean of memories. That was what she'd wanted, right? She'd wanted a clean feeling.
And she'd gotten clean.
She just hadn't expected it to look so empty. Or so cold. Or so splotchy.
Maybe she should have gone for a brighter color, something that would make the room look alive. But Gabe wasn't talking about the color. He was referring to the splotches. Like her father, Gabe could only see the flaws. And so would her mom. And so, apparently, did the Historical Preservation Committee. She forced herself to calm down. She'd lost, and she had to be mature about it.
"You're right," she muttered, feeling the urge to escape the suddenly claustrophobic room. "Liam should finish it."
Gabe stared at her warily. "He's just helping out."
"No." Her voice was louder now. "He can finish it."
"Elizabeth, don't be like that."
She ignored Gabe's plea and walked over to the pile of personal stuff he'd dropped on the floor earlier. She lifted the expensive-looking leather wallet and found two sets of car keys: one was a high-tech egg-like shape with a silver tag, and the other was a simple silver ring with a worn leather tag advertising Don Julio's Premium Tequila. She bent down and grabbed the leather keychain. An enterprising young lady had scribbled her phone number, and a number of little hearts, on the back of the tag.
"I'm taking Zach's truck," she said, grabbing the leather keychain. "The folks at the Salvation Army will help me with the boxes."
Gabe stepped forward and reached for the keys. "I'll help you."
She snatched them away. "No, I don't want your help."
Gabe reached for the keys again.
"I said no!" she shouted, the sound echoing through the room. Liam's workers turned to look at them and she instinctively lowered her voice. "I don't need your help. The town doesn't need your help. No one needs your help. No one wants your help."
"I know this is a very emotional time for you," he started.
"This is not me being emotional, Gabe. This is me being assertive. If I were being emotional, you'd be drenched in beige paint and your personal stylist would have a heart attack."
"If you would just listen for a second," he said, hands raised, trying to pacify her.
"No, you listen. I didn't want Liam doing this room. The town didn't want to be turned into a sideshow. But high and mighty Gabe Franco doesn't care." She stabbed her finger into his chest. "You're just like my father. You only care about you." Tears stung her eyes, and she brushed them away hastily. She didn't want to cry right now.
"That's not true." Gabe looked hurt and maybe a little offended. Well, truth hurt sometimes.
"Fine," she continued, the tidal wave of anger rolling on relentlessly. "Maybe you also care about imaginary Elizabeth who would swoon gratefully as you refurbished her brother's room and cheer you on as you turned her town into a never-ending Halloween party. Well, I hate to break it to you, Gabe, but your imaginary girlfriend doesn't exist. So get the hell out of the way." Her voice turned into a snarl. "Real Elizabeth has a town meeting to arrange."
She pushed him out of the way and stalked out of the house. She was making a mental list. She had to thank Liam and his guys on the way out. She had to take the truck to the Salvation Army and unload it. Then, she could park the truck somewhere and have a good cry.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
"SHE'LL COME around," Gabe said firmly. "I know it."
"You know," Liam replied, hands on the steering wheel and eyes on the road, "for a smart guy, you can be very dumb sometimes."
Liam's extremely competent employees were working on the room and thus, he had agreed to drive Gabe back to the pizzeria. Unfortunately, the ride came with a lecture.
"Oh, ye of little faith," Gabe said. "The room will look great. Once she sees it, she'll come around."
"There's still the ghost tours, Gabe." Liam glanced at him. Was that pity in his eyes?
"I'm fixing that. Trust me, she'll love it."
His friend shook his head. "I think you have what Madame Esmeralda calls communication issues."
Madame Esmeralda was a town staple. She was sixty years old, dressed like Stevie Nicks, and had a doctorate in Jungian philosophy from an obscure German university. She had read the tarot for Gabe many years ago, and her conclusion had been med school, followed by a Doctors Without Borders internship. Well, her second prediction came true, sort of. He had sent the organization a hefty check last year sponsoring a paid internship. Madame was batting .500.
"I don't need Madame's help. I don't have communication issues. I have 'people don't want to accept that I'm right' issues. The room will look better this way. PRoVE will help the town thrive. Why can't Elizabeth see that?"
Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) Page 31