No, he couldn’t walk in that identity anymore, not if he wanted a glimpse of a future. Yet staying in Houston left him little room to skirt the shadows.
Besides, he’d missed enough of his nephews’ young lives. And his dad could stand to go fishing with him . . . it was time. Time for a new chapter. Time to move forward and not look back.
Leah wouldn’t stand for him living in the past, anyway. She’d kick his tail and tell him to man up and get a move on, already.
He forced a smile at Ethan. The only way around the awkward was straight through. “Can’t guarantee either of us having a date, buddy. But I can guarantee I’ll look sharper than you.”
“In your dreams.” Relief flooded Ethan’s face, the same relief that always came over those who blundered in some way about Leah’s death. He’d gotten used to giving that grace. It was almost second nature now.
Almost.
“If you want a date, you better start shopping now. You only have ten months.” Chase nabbed the last piece of bacon, hating the way Stella’s picture in the newspaper kept popping into his thoughts every time either of them said the word date. Like that would ever happen, again, for about thirty different reasons. She was probably married, anyway.
Though her name in the photo caption had read, Varland.
He shoved the entire piece of bacon in his mouth. It didn’t matter. That chapter, however short-lived it had been, was closed, and Chase had no interest in rereading old pages. His vision was cast forward, and at this point?
He doubted any woman could keep up, anyway.
Stella dabbed a touch of baby blue paint carefully on her canvas, already smeared with streaks of aqua and cerulean, and wondered if she should give up on the attempted sky and just call the thing abstract art instead.
She swirled her brush in the water, cleansing the bristles and watching the water tint blue, and snorted. If her former pageant friends could see her now: Living in a rented duplex that would have technically been a studio apartment, except for the small room at the back corner of the living area that happened to boast a tiny window and an interior door. Painting, of all things. Painting as if she actually had talent, at that. As if she believed she was something more than she was.
Fantasy.
The nook had just enough room for an easel, a stool, and a skinny end table she used as a workbench for her more adventurous artistic attempts. Stella had claimed it for her own studio—an art studio.
And just shut the door when anyone stopped by.
Which, to be honest, wasn’t all that often.
The sky on the canvas seemed to mirror her irritation. Frustration built the longer she studied the painting. It didn’t look like the beautiful, clear sky that had initially inspired her this morning when she’d stepped outside with her coffee to get the mail. It didn’t look like anything.
A big, fat nothing.
Stella stabbed her brush into the jar of red paint and smeared it across the entire canvas. There. Failure complete. She dropped the dripping brush into a plastic cup of water, stood, and shoved away from her stool. Some days she wondered why she tried.
Then other days . . .
Her eye caught the one canvas she’d actually deemed decent enough to hang on her studio wall, and shook her head. Irony at its finest. A portrait of a princess, pastel ball gown swirling around her legs, one lean arm curled up over her heart as if caught by surprise. Her expression was concealed by blonde ringlets as she spun toward a faceless figure in a white suit.
The fairy tale.
Why was it so stuffy in here? She wrestled open the window and let in a wave of sticky, humid summer air. Sun streamed through the leaf-dotted limbs across the street and played across her cheeks. She closed her eyes against the afternoon light and breathed in the warmth. Breathed in peace.
Joy?
No. That was asking too much.
She’d be happy with peace.
Well, on second thought, she’d just be happy if she hadn’t made the newspaper. That would have been fun to wake up to. She rubbed the pinched space between her eyebrows and bit back a groan. Rested her head against the warm window pane . . .
And watched her mother slam her car door from a parking spot on the street.
Mama stepped carefully across the grass, a folded newspaper under her arm. The emerald stalks appeared to salute as she passed, as if even they knew better than to slouch in Claire Varland’s presence, even in the humid Louisiana heat. Had she really come all this way just to show Stella the newspaper?
She’d seen it all right—and received about a dozen texts about it in the past six hours too. Including those from her sister, who had started cracking herself up.
Hey sis. What’s black, white & red all over? U in the newspaper!
Can I have ur autograph?
If U were ready to leave that night, u could have just said so.
Guess smokey the bear forgot to mention u as a disclaimer.
Mama disappeared from view as she rounded the corner to the front door. Yeah, so not in the mood for this. What would happen if she just didn’t answer the door? Did Mama still have the key Stella had given her in the early days after her separation?
Probably. Knowing her, she’d made a dozen copies and had them stashed in various convenient places.
No one escaped Mama.
The doorbell rang, followed by a knock.
No one ignored Mama.
Stella checked her fingers for signs of paint, then shut the studio door and headed for the front door, trying not to look over her shoulder at her secret. She wasn’t ready for anyone to know it. Not now.
Maybe not ever.
It was one of the only things left that was truly and completely hers.
Mama bustled inside the second she twisted the deadbolt. “I have good news.”
Definitely wasn’t talking about the newspaper headline, then. Stella stepped aside, not in invitation but simply to avoid getting run over. “Define good.”
This should be interesting. But whatever distracted her mom away from the topic of the fire worked for her. She couldn’t handle the lecture. Could hear it now in her head. Pageant queens don’t set fire to homeless shelters, Stella.
Maybe she could avoid the inevitable a little longer. Get some sanity back first. “Want some coffee?”
“It’s three in the afternoon!” Claire said with the same disdain and shock as if Stella had offered her hard liquor at 9:00 a.m.
“Fine. Coffee for one, then.” Too much caffeine was a concept she had never understood. Stella made her way to the tiny kitchen area and fumbled around for a Keurig cup. One of the only things she’d insisted on keeping after the divorce. It’d been her companion for more than one sleepless night after Dillon left.
And more than one sleepless night, fighting away dreams of Chase.
Or maybe those had been nightmares.
Her mom settled onto a bar stool Stella had recovered in coral fabric, smoothing the pleats of her dress pants. “The mayor and I had lunch yesterday.”
“That’s the good news?” Stella grabbed a mug from the cabinet, her favorite one with turquoise polka dots, and stuck it under the drip as the coffeemaker bubbled to life.
Her mother ignored her, as Stella expected. “We were discussing some of the events I intended to bring up at the Junior League committee meeting.” She sniffed. “You know, the one I went to right before coming to the homeless shelter last night.”
Here came the fire comment. She knew her mom would be unable to dodge it completely. After all, Kat and Stella got their sarcasm honestly. They just owned theirs, while their mom tried to hide it under the pressed and pleated façade. Daddy missed sarcasm completely. Flew right over his balding head.
“Thankfully we had this discussion yesterday, before the incident.”
Incident? She turned her back so her mom wouldn’t see her roll her eyes. Smoke detectors went off and turned on a sprinkler system. It wasn’t as if the building had
become engulfed in flames.
Though the shelter would be down for a few days while they dried it out.
She bit her lip as the coffee dripped into her cup. Where would everyone go? That part still made Stella sick. She was never impulsive these days. What had possessed her to do that? Flighty and self-oriented was her MO of the past. She wasn’t the same woman she’d been onstage at pageants. That tiara only fit a big head.
Hers had shrunk right down to where it belonged.
“Anyway, the mayor mentioned he had granted the Downtown Development Committee the budget to finally restore the old theater.”
Stella turned back around. “The Downtown Development Committee? Bayou Bend has one of those?”
“It’s new. Formed about six months ago.”
She picked up her warm mug from the Keurig and smirked. “Wait—there’s a committee in Bayou Bend that you’re not on?”
Now it was her mom’s turn to roll her eyes. “Very funny, Stella. What’s wrong with getting involved, anyway? It might do you some good these days.”
“You do recall that the last time I volunteered I made the front page of the paper?” She blew on her coffee as steam spiraled into her face. Maybe the “incident” could work in her favor for once. She had no desire to follow in her mother’s shadow and flit from committee to committee. She loved Bayou Bend, but that didn’t mean she wanted to control it.
That was her mom’s specialty.
“Stop interrupting. I’m trying to get to the good news.” Claire shifted on her bar stool, her expression not nearly as annoyed as her words sounded. In fact, she almost looked the way Kat did when she knew a secret and wasn’t ready to tell.
Did she even want to know?
“Go ahead, Mom.” She braced herself for the unknown and took a sip of coffee. Maybe the mayor had asked her mother to head yet another team. Maybe she was about to take over downtown. Or the world at large.
Maybe Mom was about to run for mayor herself.
“I got you a job.”
Stella sprayed coffee on the counter.
“Stella Varland.” Now the annoyance in her tone matched her features. “Pageant queens do not—”
“What job?” She grabbed a napkin from the dispenser by the sink. How had they gone from talking about the mayor and some random committee to Stella having a job? A job her mother secured for her . . . through the mayor? Was she about to become a committee hopper after all?
She tried to clean up the spill as her mom rambled on.
“I told you. The Downtown Development Committee has a budget now to restore the old theater on Ninth Street. They’ve been campaigning for the cause since they formed, and before that, Marcie Jenkins went on a yearlong tangent to get it done but couldn’t get the funding.”
The Ninth Cameo Theater had been shut down most of Stella’s life. She remembered vaguely going to see a few plays as a young child, sitting on the end of the aisle next to Kat, swinging her Sunday-shoe-clad feet and hating the way the wooden seats bit into the back of her knees.
“They’ve hired some contractor from Texas. I didn’t get his name.” Mom waved her hand, as if the actual reconstruction of the theater wasn’t of any importance. “But three guesses who the interior designer will be?”
And the first two didn’t count. “Me?”
“Exactly.” Mom folded her hands on the countertop, leaning forward and practically beaming over her good deed.
Mixed feelings roiled in Stella’s stomach. Was she such a charity case now she couldn’t even find her own jobs? But this would be a good one . . . and it’d be fun. Definitely a change from the typical residential designing she could do with her eyes closed. Maybe a challenge was what she needed to get inspired again for her own artwork. Not to mention it would build her portfolio toward future jobs.
Claire took the napkin Stella had abandoned and finished wiping the coffee drips from the Formica. “They’ve gotten approval to pay for the whole works. It’ll be like new again.”
Like new again . . . now that was a concept. If only.
But Stella wasn’t getting anywhere hiding in her apartment, waiting to get evicted and creating unsightly works of art. Something had to change.
And this would be it. She took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Her mom raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Of course you will. I already accepted for you. You meet with the contractor tomorrow.”
three
The Ninth Cameo loomed over Stella’s head like a ghost—a ghost who didn’t particularly care to come back to life. Shutters, once painted gold, slumped on their tired hinges. Every window had broken panes, while the giant marquee sign, once sparkling white, couldn’t muster more than a dingy tan sigh. The ripped awning leading to the gilded front doors flapped in the early morning wind.
A warning? A cry for help?
The entire structure seemed to shudder.
She had her work cut out for her. Yet a tiny spark of inspiration ignited inside, and she closed her eyes against the breeze, letting the summer sun warm her bare arms. She hitched her purse higher on her shoulder and breathed in the potential of the building, picturing gold and black décor, maybe with subtle red accents. Something classic, vintage. Something to restore the Ninth Cameo to its original glory.
That too-familiar, bittersweet ache tugged in her heart, and she quickly opened her eyes. This was about the theater. Not her past. And definitely not her future.
Some things couldn’t be restored.
She carefully made her way up the cracked sidewalk to the front doors and slipped inside. She struggled to take a full breath of the humid air and winced as the silence of the theater confirmed her earlier feelings of ghosts at rest. Where was the contractor? He was supposed to meet her—and the Downtown Development Director—at eight o’clock. It was now ten after. Her daydreaming outside might have cost her a good first impression.
Unless they weren’t here yet. But the door had been unlocked, so surely . . .
She resisted the urge to tiptoe across the stained, tattered burgundy carpet of the lobby. Ridiculous. Either she was the only one here, or the men were nearby, ready to get to business. Either way, there was no need for hiding. It was just . . . something was different here. She’d been in vacant buildings before, buildings long deserted and forgotten. Buildings like this one.
Except this one still had a voice.
She just couldn’t hear it yet.
She paused at the concession stand, running her fingers along the dusty wood. The high counter seemed in good enough shape. Wouldn’t take more than a quick sand and finish job.
She turned a slow circle. Giant frames, empty of their movie posters, hung bare on the lobby walls. Sagging velvet ropes on golden stands still lined the hallway, eager to form crowds waiting for quality entertainment.
Maybe this ghost of a place was a little more eager to live again than she’d first thought.
“Hello?” Stella called out as loudly as she dared. Raising her voice in such a tomb felt irreverent. The hairs on her arm prickled, and in spite of the heat she fought back a shiver. “Anyone here?”
“There she is!” A loud, twangy male voice echoed across the lobby.
Stella jumped, clutching one hand to her heart and nearly dropping her purse on the carpet. She spun around, purse swinging wildly from her arm—until it connected with a solid thump.
“Oomph.” The second figure bent over double, holding his stomach. Sandy brown hair filled her peripheral vision.
“You okay there, little lady?” The owner of the booming voice, wearing cowboy boots and a studded belt, let out a laugh as big as his waistline, startling her again. She spun the other direction, her purse once again slamming into the second man. He ducked a moment too late.
“I am so sorry.” Was this really happening? A rush of heat flared up her neck. Apparently being a few minutes late wasn’t the sum of her negative first impression today. “You scared me.” She struggle
d to get her purse under control as her poor victim stood and her adrenaline slowed.
And then spiked.
“Chase?” Chase Taylor. In living flesh.
What?
How?
“Stella?” His blue eyes widened. Either he was still an expert at hiding the truth, or he really was just as shocked to see her as she was him. Talk about ghosts from the past.
She blinked, but the man before her didn’t fade away. He was still there, still right there before her in faded jeans and a black T-shirt stretched tight against toned muscles. The fact that he hadn’t gotten any less handsome over the years only made her angrier. “What are you doing here?” She wasn’t nearly as sorry about her purse now.
Make that not even a little sorry.
Make that she wished she had put some bricks in her purse this morning.
“Well, now. It looks like you two don’t need an introduction.” The paunchy middle-aged cowboy held out his hand to Stella. “But I believe we do. Ma’am, I’m the newly appointed Downtown Development Director, Bob Erickson.” He grinned. “I know your mama.”
Didn’t everyone.
Stella glanced at Chase. His eyebrows lifted at Bob’s comment, but to his credit, he didn’t say anything. Maybe just overwhelmed by the sheer number of sarcastic responses he had to choose from. She tried to put a confidence she didn’t feel into her handshake. “Stella Varland.”
“Right. Our interior designer on the project.” He released her palm and clapped a beefy hand on her shoulder instead as he turned to include Chase in the conversation. “This gal comes highly recommended.”
Like that would impress Chase. Like she even cared if it did.
Why was he here, again?
“And so does Chase. All the way from Texas.” Bob hitched his thumbs in his belt and rocked back on the heels of his boots.
“Texas. Wait. You’re the contractor on the project?” Understanding dawned, followed by a shockwave of protest.
Love Arrives in Pieces Page 3