Love Arrives in Pieces

by Betsy St. Amant

  “Thank you.” Stella finally used her other hand to tug her captured one free, and shot Chase a glance, one reminiscent of the spark she’d had earlier with him onstage. One that threatened to take them all down with her leftover kickboxing skills if they didn’t acknowledge and own their place.

  Feeling as if the world made a tiny bit more sense now, Chase sat down, relieved. Stella was fine. She was in this. They could carry on.

  He pulled out the empty chair between him and Lyle, narrowly missing knocking over the spit bottle. Lyle rescued it just in time. “Tim, you’ve got to quit leaving this nasty thing sitting around.”

  The boy sputtered, shooting a nervous glance at Stella. “What? That’s not even my—”

  “As I was saying before . . .” Chase raised his voice over Tim’s high-pitched protests and ignored Lyle’s responding chuckle. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, and there’s plenty of it to go around. So let’s focus on business.”

  His tone, the one he’d perfected on various crews over the past several years, left no room for argument. “First, a little bit of housekeeping. Tim, you can wield that sledgehammer, but don’t you dare pick it up without permission first as to what you’re about to destroy. Just because something looks ruined doesn’t mean it needs to be pulverized. Almost anything in here can be rebuilt with some effort.”

  Stella shot him a look then, one he couldn’t decipher, and one that seemed to pack a punch much harder than any he’d seen her land on a bag. In fact, it made him pause long enough to drink a swig of energy drink. One that was doing nothing but making him nervous and unfocused.

  Or was that Stella’s effect, rather than the sugar and caffeine’s?

  Tim fist-pumped the air in victory. “Yes! The sledgehammer is mine.” Then he caught Stella’s eye and shifted in his seat, slowly lowering his hand to his lap. “I mean, that’s cool, Boss.”

  Jack snorted, shaking his head, his grin nearly covered by his salt-and-pepper beard. “I’ll supervise Junior on that one.”

  “Thanks, Jack.” Chase continued before Tim could argue. “Right now, I’d like for you three to spread out, look over the theater and lobby areas, and get familiar with the place. Take some industrial trash bags with you, and let’s start clearing out what we know can be tossed. Lyle, you get final say over what’s deemed trash. If it looks remotely valuable or vintage, make a pile and I can go through it later. Stella and I will start going over some design ideas here.”

  “Aw, man.”

  Chase had to give Tim props for the softer-voiced complaint, but he heard it, nonetheless. From the way Stella tucked her hair behind her ears and looked away, he could tell she probably had too. But she didn’t seem to bask in the compliment, the way she used to. In fact, she looked downright . . . embarrassed? Awkward?

  The men started to stand, and Chase tossed Jack the roll of trash bags. “Remember, guys, the goal here is to start clearing stuff out so we can see what we’re working with. Think big picture.”

  He waited until they began to fan out through the lobby space, bags dragging the ground behind them, and turned to Stella with a deep breath. “That’s the crew.”

  She nodded, lips pursed. “Eclectic mix.”

  He felt an odd compulsion to defend them. Or maybe defend himself, since he technically hired them. “They’re hard workers. You’ll see.”

  She squinted after them. “I don’t doubt that.”

  So what did she doubt?

  Man, he had to quit getting so deep. The inner workings of Stella Varland were no longer his territory. She’d made that crystal clear, and he’d moved on years ago. No sense in rereading an old chapter in his life. Not when there was too much to do going forward.

  He tapped her folder. “What’d you bring?”

  “Some design ideas I put together last night, color schemes and stuff.” She slowly slid it across the table to him. “I based the drawings off old images of the Cameo from the Internet, to get an idea of the layout since I hadn’t seen the theater in person since I was a child.”

  He took the proffered file and flipped it open. Various sketches filled several pages, rough drawings of the theater and even more of the lobby, shaded in colored pencil with what he supposed were vintage movie posters hanging on the walls. Black, red.

  And not much else.

  He glanced at Stella, confused. Where was the vibrancy, the way she used to nearly assault things with life and color? These sketches felt stale. Half-hearted, at best. He cleared his throat. “I take it you favor a . . . classic style.”

  Stella nodded. “Simple. Subdued.”

  Since when? And besides, these weren’t simple or subdued. More like boring and cliché.

  He shut the file. “Well, now that you’ve actually seen the theater, you can go back and work on a new design that fits.”

  “What do you mean, fits? This still fits.” She gestured around the lobby. “In fact, I’m even more certain of it now that I’ve seen it in person again. A classic black and white theme would be perfect. Bob said vintage.”

  “He did. But vintage doesn’t have to mean boring.”

  Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

  He hadn’t been particularly trying to bring back her fire, but apparently crossing her was still the way to do it. Note taken. “Stella, this design isn’t going to work. Just head back to the drawing board, pardon the pun, and try again. You’ll get it.”

  “I don’t need to be patronized, here.” She grasped the file with both hands, knuckles squeezing white.

  “I’m not patronizing. I’m just saying, there’s no need to be embarrassed. I Googled some of your work—you know what you’re doing.” He pointed to the file. “So, you know. Go do it.”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits, and he was suddenly grateful that looks couldn’t actually kill. “There’s nothing wrong with classic.”

  Chase leaned back in his chair, rocking back on two legs as Tim had, and offered a casual shrug, hoping his noncombative stance would slow her roll. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean it’s right, either.” She’d said she’d done the drawings the night before, before she’d even seen the theater up close. How could she still be convinced it was the best choice?

  “I’m the designer for the theater.” She leaned forward as he rocked, her blue eyes angry, and lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “I was hired to make these decisions.”

  “And I’m the contractor and foreman on the job.” Chase met her gaze, half admiring that familiar spark of hers that always got what she wanted, and half wishing she’d go back to Stranger Stella who seemed too distant to fight. “I’m hired as final say in everything that happens here at the Cameo, and I’m saying that this classic style isn’t going to cut it.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Stella stood, tucked her file under her arm, and strode past the table.

  “Where are you going?” He craned his head over his shoulder at her retreating figure, watching as she made an about-face and doubled back, lips pursed.

  She smiled, the pageant queen smile, the one that made him want to strangle every Barbie doll in existence. “Oh, I’ll be back, don’t worry.”

  A sudden thump on the legs of his chair registered much too late. He landed hard on his back.

  “Oops.” She pressed her fingers over her mouth, eyes full of mock concern. “Don’t worry. There’s no need to be embarrassed.”

  And the Stella Varland he knew all too well walked out of the theater.

  five

  She hadn’t meant to do that.

  Well, maybe a little.

  Stella yanked open the doors to the Chamber of Commerce building, where her mom told her the Downtown Development offices were temporarily located, and welcomed the rush of air conditioning on her flushed face. Chase had just looked so smug, rocking in that chair, arrogant and know-it-all. It was such a flashback to when he used to hit on her.

  While still dating Kat.

  Tangling her heart up. Knowing it was all off
-limits. Was that the only appeal the whole time? That she was forbidden?

  She landed at the receptionist’s desk, trying to find a pleasant expression that hid the turmoil raging inside. “Hi, there. I need to speak to Cow—I mean, Bob.” She couldn’t even remember the Director’s last name, now that she’d ingrained Cowboy Bob in her head as his title. Great. That was one way to be professional.

  The brunette receptionist grinned knowingly from behind the tidy desk. “And your name?”

  “Stella Varland. I’m working on the Cameo Theater.” She hesitated a little, a bit of the fire that had driven her here slowly extinguishing. Had she made the right decision in coming? Maybe her emotions had taken over. It wouldn’t be the first time—though it would be the first time in ages.

  Except for the other night at the shelter, of course, when she ignited her divorce papers.

  What was wrong with her lately?

  She just couldn’t let Chase get away with the . . . the what? Bullying? No, that was probably a little strong, especially for someone who had no idea of their history together. It was that condescending, almost insulting way he’d addressed her work that gnawed on her so badly. What had he said, exactly? You know what you’re doing. So go do it.

  As if all her work on the Cameo so far had been a tease, a mere shadow of what she’d once done. As if it hadn’t even counted or had been some kind of joke.

  She gritted her teeth. Dillon might have taken a lot from her, but he’d not stolen her ability in the design field.

  Now her art ability—that was a different story. But that had nothing to do with Dillon. Or the theater. Or Chase.

  And it never would.

  “Right.” The younger girl punched a few buttons on her phone. “Mr. Erickson, Stella Varland is here for you.”

  She heard him coming before the receptionist could even hang up the receiver. Was he wearing spurs? Something jangled as he came down the carpeted hallway. “Stella! Trouble in paradise already, little lady?” He adjusted his hat and peered down at her.

  She squared her shoulders. Chase had gone too far, and they needed to clear up this little matter of who was in charge right away. Before it went any further. Before the negative chemistry between her and Chase mixed into some kind of explosion.

  She cleared her throat. “Not exactly. Just have a few questions for you.”

  “Of course. Come have a sit-down.” Bob led the way to his office, which gave the impression of being a renovated janitor’s closet. If Stella had doubted the newness of the development committee, their allotted space certainly confirmed it.

  Maybe that was why her mother had dodged this one.

  Bob squeezed behind the rickety wooden desk and gestured to a single folding chair across from it. “How can I help you?”

  “I know you’re a busy man, Bob, so I won’t waste your time with small talk.”

  “Well that’s mighty considerate of you, ma’am.” He smiled, and a rush of hope for the Cameo flooded Stella. Maybe he’d take her side and they could settle this a lot quicker than she’d originally hoped. “What’s your question?”

  Chase Taylor could stand to be taken down a peg or two, last she remembered.

  And after she had fainted in front of him, she was way behind on the scorecard.

  “Theoretically speaking, if two people working on a project—say, an interior designer and a foreman—had different visions for said project . . .” Stella nibbled on her lower lip, suddenly feeling a lot like a four-year-old tattling in preschool rather than an established businesswoman working on a city’s beloved old theater.

  “Yes? Go on?” Bob scooted to the edge of his seat, face lit as he waited for her to continue.

  Ten bucks said he watched soap operas in his spare time.

  “Well, if an unfortunate situation like that were to occur . . . who would get the final say?” She shifted in her chair, hoping the flush working up her neck didn’t show as strongly as she feared.

  Bob leaned slowly back in his chair, steepling his fingers and raising his chin as he appeared to stare her down over his mustache. “I would imagine the most important part is that the project wouldn’t suffer in the scuffle.”

  “There’s no scuffle.” Yet. She tried to put on a reassuring face but figured it probably came off more as a wince. This meeting was not going as planned. But what had she expected? This is why she stopped doing things full speed and spur of the moment. It always got her in trouble. Like accepting Dillon’s offer of a first date. Like accepting that diamond ring a few months after their second.

  And like agreeing to work her rear off to help put him through school so he could achieve his dreams, while she stared at the shattered remains of hers that he left in his wake.

  “I would hope not.” Bob jerked her back to reality, back to the present, where she remembered all too quickly she wasn’t fireball Stella anymore. She wasn’t light ’em up and burn ’em down Stella, the one who could get anything she wanted with a wink or a smile. The one who flirted her way out of traffic tickets and couldn’t walk into a room without giving at least one poor guy whiplash.

  Her days of Vaseline teeth and tiaras and world peace had long since faded in the rearview mirror, despite her mother’s desperate attempts to keep those particular objects closer than they appeared.

  She didn’t use her beauty anymore. In fact, she didn’t want anything to do with it at all. If she hadn’t been so gorgeous, she would never have caught Dillon’s eye in the first place.

  Even worse was knowing that if she’d somehow managed to be more than just a face, she’d have kept his eye a lot longer.

  And now Chase was back, Trouble with a capital T. And he made Dillon come off as amateur.

  Because if Chase hadn’t broken her heart first, she might not have been so quick to trust Dillon with all the crumbling pieces.

  “Is there a problem, Stella? Honestly, now.” Bob’s chair squeaked under his weight, and she tilted her head, appraising, calculating, trying to figure out how much of her vulnerable, bleeding heart to bare. How much did Bob really want an answer to that question?

  He had no idea how many problems she had.

  But the real Stella was done reacting. Her last reactions had ended in a soggy shelter and a headline, while this one was possibly about to end in the unemployment office. The old Stella kept trying to raise her perfectly coiffed blonde head and escape the box she’d locked her in. But she couldn’t afford to let that happen. No, she had to remember who she was now.

  No more spotlight. It was time for backstage Stella to learn how to blend in.

  Because shining equaled heartbreak.

  “No problem at all, Bob.” Offering one last beaming pageant smile, she quickly stood and hoisted her purse on her shoulder. “We’ll get it figured out. Like I said—theoretical question.” She turned for the door as Bob stood and tried to get around the edge of his desk to open it first, spurs jangling.

  “Was a pleasure, ma’am.”

  “Likewise.” Stella shook Bob’s hand and headed down the hall, swallowing hard. What a bust. She’d either have to go toe-to-toe with Chase and fight for her original scheme, or just rework the entire design and eat a giant helping of crow in the process.

  She somehow doubted even crazy-craving pregnant Kat had a cupcake recipe for that one.

  Chase Taylor had lost a lot of things when he left town years ago. Stella’s respect and admiration, to name a few.

  Unfortunately, he had not lost a single ounce of muscle.

  Stella stood in the shadows of the theater entryway, watching Chase show the youngest guy on the crew—the one who’d all but drooled over her earlier—how to use a sledgehammer. The muscles in Chase’s shoulders and upper back bunched and released through the thin fabric of his gray T-shirt, spotted damp with sweat down the middle as he raised the tool and swung it with the authority of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Even the young guy looked impressed.

  “You’ve got it,
Tim.” Chase clapped him on the shoulder as he handed over the sledgehammer. “Finish taking out that portion of the wall.”

  Tim eagerly accepted the task and went to work, fumbling only once before swinging with confidence. So Chase was still a good teacher too.

  But her respect and admiration were safely tucked away out of reach. No way was she going there again. Just the memory of Kat’s tear-stained face was enough to keep that wall up. And it was one no sledgehammer could crack.

  She took a few steps into the light of the theater—

  Wait a minute. They had lights now. A few, anyway. She squinted up toward the canned lights above the stage and then noticed an electrician perched atop a tall ladder. Chase certainly didn’t waste any time.

  The ache that had been building in her gut all afternoon intensified. Wasting time was turning into her specialty. First with the passing out and extended break today, and then with her running off to Bob like a child who’d gotten her hair pulled on the playground.

  “Look who’s back.” Chase started climbing the stairs toward her, stopping a few feet away and hooking his fingers in his back pockets. “Is it safe to come closer? Don’t want to get pushed down these stairs.”

  She briefly closed her eyes against the two very different and simultaneous waves that flooded her senses. Regret that she could be capable of such an immature reaction as to shove him out of a chair . . .

  And frustration that she hadn’t been able to catch it on video to enjoy over and over and over.

  “I’m back. Ready to work.” She dropped her purse into one of the upholstered theater chairs.

  “You sure about that?” He took a cautious step closer. Four steps away.

  She crossed her arms, half tripping over her own foot as she shifted her weight anxiously. Her defenses rose as he edged nearer. What was it about this guy that threw her so completely off balance—both emotionally and, apparently, physically? Any remaining chemistry between them was a joke. A really awful, world’s-worst-pun type of joke. One that would make chickens crossing roads seem downright hilarious.