Love Arrives in Pieces

by Betsy St. Amant

  She’d always liked Disney movies. What was that one where the chick hurt her finger? Sleeping Beauty. That was it. Stella had turned into a lifeless version of herself, still beautiful, like the princess in the show as she’d lain motionless on a flower-strewn bed.

  Or was that Snow White, after she ate the apple?

  Either way, he’d been painted to be a villain by the Varland family, and maybe deep down they were right. He’d changed a lot since those naïve evenings in Stella’s company.

  But even in the movies, the villains always had their side of the story. She’d never really gotten his.

  And he still didn’t have all of hers.

  “Stella . . .” His voice trailed off, and he shifted his weight, hating the guard that already slipped into her eyes the second he said her name. “Will you tell—”

  “Here. See what you think.” She surrendered the sketchbook, and he wondered briefly if it was because that’s what she assumed he’d been about to ask—or because she considered it the lesser evil compared to opening up to him.

  Fine. He’d get the design first.

  And her story second. This wasn’t over.

  He ran his fingers lightly over the cover, intentionally, slowly, shooting up a prayer for the right words to speak in case he hated her entire design. Again. And had to ask her to redo it. Again.

  He opened it to the first page. Which was blank.

  Um. He raised his eyebrows at her. “Is this a joke?”

  “What?” She craned her neck to see around the notepad, then snorted. “Sorry. Next page.” She leaned away and stepped fully aside, as if giving him room to view her creation in private. Maybe she just didn’t want to watch. If he was nervous, he could only imagine how she felt right now.

  He turned the page.

  And the design stole his breath.

  His inner gasp must have been out loud, because she flinched like she’d been pricked. “Is it that bad?” Her tone held the word she didn’t utter afterward. Again?

  “No.” He shook his head, wishing he could find the words to settle her unease but still rendered speechless at the beauty in his hands. She’d kept the gold theme, but replaced the silver with a shade of turquoise. A deep aqua that reminded him of Caribbean waters and Montana skies and her own eyes when she got angry.

  She’d found her color.

  “Is it worse than bad?”

  “NO!” He shook his head harder, her frown only deepening in confusion as he struggled to speak. “It’s . . . it’s Stella.”

  He hadn’t meant to say that, but the design was just so very Stella. The Stella he knew still existed, the one he’d been trying to dig out since he first laid eyes on her in the Cameo lobby with Bob. This was what he knew she’d been capable of.

  All that expectation on his part, and she’d still managed to blow him away.

  “It’s me?” Her confusion lingered, but a wary hope lit her eyes, as if trying to decide if he was complimenting or teasing.

  “It’s beautiful.” And so was she. He focused on the colored sketch in his hands, not on the way her igniting spark of life turned his grip shaky. It was as if the real Stella was awakening from slumber, and watching the beauty of the process turned his knees weak. Like a sunset. He couldn’t look directly at it without it burning his eyes, yet somehow, neither could he bear to look away and miss a moment of the miracle.

  She came closer, an intrigued moth to a flame. His flame? Or just acceptance from someone in general?

  He wasn’t sure which scenario would be worse.

  Her voice hitched higher. “You really think so?”

  That was still the shell of Old Stella talking, the reform not having quite made it to her voice, though it had consumed her expression and body language by now. The confidence was returning, the sass, the moxie . . . taking over even as he watched. Her arms unfolded from across her body and her cheeks flushed pink. She stood on tiptoe, rocking up and down as she peered over his shoulder at the sketch.

  “I know so.” He cleared his throat, hating the emotion that deepened his voice to a rasp. His telltale giveaway only heightened her assurance.

  Yet left him raw and vulnerable.

  He handed her the sketch, as if he could pass the baton of emotion with it—and free himself of all that had shifted inside when he looked at that sketch book. “Well done.”

  He started to walk away, away from the sketch, away from Stella. He needed to get back to work. Needed to refocus, get his mind off the amazing creature half dancing beside him with joy, and get his crew together for an update.

  Too bad the demo stage was over. He could stand to swing a sledgehammer right now. Beat out some of these nails starting to pound into his heart.

  He and Stella were done. A thing of the past. His relationship with Leah deserved to be honored—it was too soon for anything else, for anyone else. He wasn’t ready.

  Never mind that Stella wasn’t just anyone. Their history ran deeper than his and Leah’s, for that matter.

  But no. He was back in Bayou Bend for a fresh start. Not a review of dusty old chapters better left unread. He walked faster.

  “Wait.”

  He turned at her plea, slowly, the way a man might turn to view his own gallows. His heart stammered, and he raised his eyebrows in question, not trusting his voice to stay steady enough to speak.

  She lifted her chin a little, eyes narrowing as she considered him. “Well done? That’s it? No stipulations? No conditions? No ‘well done, but . . .’?” A longing for an extra measure of assurance flickered in her eyes. She believed him, but needed just one more confirmation. And the stubbornness lingering in the aftermath proved how much she hated the fact that she needed it.

  And like a man tightening his own noose, he gave it to her.

  He glanced at the open sketch pad in her hands, then let his gaze travel pointedly to her face. “Beautiful. Just the way it is.”

  That hadn’t gone as planned. Or, rather, as expected.

  Stella stood at the bathroom sink in the ladies’ room of the theater, staring at her reflection in the cracked glass and wondering what in the world Chase saw. Both in her design . . . and her image. She squinted at herself. No makeup. Navy T-shirt, slightly wrinkled from her dresser drawer. Jeans she used to save for her “fat days” that now sagged all the time. She’d lost weight after Dillon left, and never put it back on even after the initial shock and depression had faded, even though she’d stopped religiously carb-counting and actually enjoyed meals from time to time.

  When she remembered to eat, anyway. Or stopped painting long enough to do so. Or bothered to cook for one instead of two.

  He’d said it was beautiful. Her design . . . or her?

  Both?

  And why did the thought give her butterflies?

  She pressed her hand against her stomach. The butterflies turned to gavels, thumping judgments in her stomach, sealing orders unspoken yet so very permanent. She and Chase were history. A moment of connection over her new design didn’t change anything. It didn’t change how he’d ultimately betrayed and hurt her sister. Didn’t change how he’d pitted them against each other. Didn’t change the fact that Chase had no idea she’d already been married and divorced and knew nothing about her current life.

  Didn’t change the fact that the door between them had been slammed shut and dead-bolted a long time ago.

  She stared hard into her own eyes in the mirror, half wishing she could see what Chase had seen and half terrified to try. He’d inspired a flash of creativity, prodded her to do her best. That was all. A connection like that could easily be misunderstood as attraction.

  No big deal. Right?

  So why did he keep using the word beautiful?

  And why did she see a ghost in the mirror? A faded, colorless image of who she once was, before Dillon stole the best parts.

  Or had he? She still wasn’t convinced the “best parts” had been all that great in the first place. She might have wow
ed the judges on a regular occasion during the pageants, but the judges saw the made up pieces of Stella Varland. The lipsticked, glossed up, highlighted, bronzed version of herself.

  Dillon saw the real her, and had bailed.

  That had to mean something.

  What would Chase do if he knew she’d been divorced? Rejected? Dried up and cast aside like last month’s prize-winning bouquet? She might have been a queen on the stage, but at home—in her marriage—she was nothing better than runner-up.

  There was no “well done” for that. No prize for imploding before the five-year wedding anniversary. No award for becoming an ex-wife before she could become a mother.

  She’d failed.

  Her beauty had failed.

  With a cry, she threw her notebook hard at the mirror. The corner cut into the already cracked glass, and a fragment clattered onto the dusty countertop. It bounced and slipped into the sink, but she grabbed it before it could make it down the drain. The pointy end pricked her finger, and she winced as she dropped the shard back on the counter. Great. Now she was bleeding, the mirror was even more destroyed than before she got there, and she’d pitched a fit like a toddler.

  But Chase liked her design.

  The fact that had blown her away and driven her to the privacy of the restroom in the first place. Now it returned to the forefront, perking her spirits.

  Chase liked her design. She had a mission now, a purpose to accomplish for the Cameo, without having to fight Chase along the way. She could make some real headway now that the design had been approved. Brainstorm ideas for the bathrooms. Head to the fabric store for samples and measurements. Get to work on her computer programs.

  Breathe life back into the Cameo.

  It didn’t matter that she didn’t have a whole lot of breath to offer.

  She had enough.

  It would have to be enough.

  She gave the cracked mirror one more glance. Her counselor used to assure her that her strength was still there, deep down, whether she felt it or not. She dug deep, searching.

  Strength, she wasn’t so sure about.

  Determination? There was that, at least.

  Hope?

  Ha. That’d be more likely found in a funhouse mirror, as twisted and distorted as that notion remained.

  She reached toward the mirror, her finger growing closer until it connected with its reflection, blending into one image. It was a mirror. Just a mirror. It didn’t define her. Just a reflection—and an inaccurate one at that.

  One day, she’d be strong enough not to look.

  With a deep breath, she shoved her shoulders back, tucked her notepad under her arm, and, on second thought, dropped the mirror shard into the outer pocket of her purse.

  Broken.

  She could relate.

  eight

  Row after row of fabric bolts spread before Stella like a meadow of rainbows, each color-coordinated section blossoming wild-flowers of potential. It was a creative artist’s dream. And it was hers for the plucking.

  As long as she stayed within budget, of course.

  “Oops.” A bolt of gray wool slid off the end-cap display and landed on the floor with a thump.

  And as long as her unlikely sidekick didn’t trample the flowers before she could form her bouquet.

  “How old are we?” Stella hissed as she side-stepped Chase and grabbed the bolt from the floor, avoiding the owner’s sharp glare from across the room. This was Stella’s favorite store, despite the hawk-like watching of management. They treated their stock as if it were fine China instead of material. Chase bumping into everything wasn’t going to help her reputation there.

  He was already making her nervous enough just tagging along. What if his acceptance of her final design attempt was just a fluke, and they continued to fight over every other decision for the Cameo? What if it was only downhill from here?

  “Be nice. It was an accident,” he whispered back, wrestling the fabric into place and shooting a sheepish grin to the black-clad woman behind the counter. She lifted her chin and sniffed.

  “Wow,” he snorted. “It’s not a library.” He didn’t whisper that one quietly enough, and Stella elbowed him in the ribs, nearly knocking him back into the same display. “Hey, stop that.”

  “You stop that.”

  “And how old are we now?” Chase grinned. “What’s next? I’m rubber and you’re glue?”

  Stella rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible. Why are you even here, again?” She continued her way down the aisle toward the blue section, simultaneously enjoying and hating how easy it was to fall back into their old banter.

  Yet somehow, the fact that they could pick right back up where they left off just seemed cruel. Not to mention confusing.

  If her sister could see her now . . .

  Stella stopped her train of thought as she halted in front of the rows of turquoise, aqua, and cerulean fabric. All of which perfectly complimented her design with the gold. Regardless of what Chase thought, regardless of the careful truce between them, regardless of her sister’s opinions, she was here to buy fabric.

  And somehow make the Cameo look classic and modern and brand new and vintage all at the same time.

  Easy peasy.

  “I already told you. I’m here to monitor any bright ideas you get about going back to black or red.” Chase shuddered, the intentionally overdramatic shiver both annoying and funny.

  “I’m not changing the design again.” Her tone held equal parts warning and acceptance. They’d agreed on the design. That was it. “I promise I won’t go back to my old ideas.” She shot him a pointed look. “As long as you don’t try to nitpick what you’ve already agreed to.”

  He held up both hands in surrender, the sudden motion nearly knocking over an end-cap display of bagged sequins. He caught one bag before it hit the ground. “Scout’s honor.”

  He wasn’t a Scout. That she knew of. Hardly reassuring.

  Not that she could fully trust Chase’s word anyway, Scout or not.

  She smirked at the idea of him in that khaki uniform.

  “What? You think that’s funny? The idea of me keeping my word?” He was joking. Maybe. Mostly? His grin seemed hesitant. Unsure.

  Well, join that club. She was already president.

  She narrowed her eyes, wishing she could x-ray his thoughts and then decided, no, that would probably make things a lot more complicated. “Not funny. More like amusing.”

  Something flashed in his eyes so fast she wasn’t entirely sure she’d seen it in the first place. “I hear ya.”

  “I was kidding.” She reached to touch his arm, then stopped herself at the same time he stepped slightly away. Wow. “Chase. I was laughing at the idea of you in a Boy Scout uniform.”

  His features relaxed slightly. Had he really taken that much offense to the idea of her thinking his word wasn’t reliable?

  But did she believe his word to be reliable?

  And did it even matter, either way?

  “You’re right. Beige is definitely not my color.” He grinned, suddenly looking so much like the laid-back Chase she used to know that she briefly wondered if she’d made up the whole exchange. Chase, open and vulnerable? Never in a million years.

  Even now, since he’d been back in Bayou Bend, he’d been on permanent warp speed. Racing ahead with his conversations with Bob and the plans for the Cameo. Racing ahead with her designs and the steps that were her job to take toward progress on the project. Even now, he was racing down the aisle ahead of her at full speed, leaving behind a faint hint of cologne that lingered over the bolts of blue and green fabric.

  She struggled to keep up, torn between wanting to go back to the serious moment and dissect it and wanting to pretend it never happened. Regardless, she couldn’t let him have the last word.

  “You know what else isn’t your color?”

  He glanced back over his shoulder. “What’s that?”

  “Black and red.”

 
; He laughed. Out loud, long and loud. A sound she hadn’t heard in years but never fully forgot. “Well played, Tiara.”

  Her heart stuttered at the old nickname. Their eyes met, and the panic registering in his gaze convinced her he hadn’t meant to say it. Funny how one word could stir up a hundred memories, flickering through her heart like images in a flip book. One brief sketch after another, crudely drawn portraits of the past.

  The past that he had divided into two periods of time.

  When she and Kat were close.

  And when she and Kat were distant.

  She stiffened as the memories bristled, rubbing and scratching raw. She hated to hold grudges; they were so pointless. Hadn’t her counselor harped on that enough in the aftermath of Dillon? If she could learn to forgive her ex-husband for all he’d committed against her—though admittedly she used that term somewhat loosely—why was it so much harder to forgive Chase, a man she’d not even been fully committed to in the first place?

  Maybe that was the problem. Her heart had never had a solid place to land with Chase. And now, it still floated around, a restless ghost with nowhere to haunt.

  “Sorry. It . . . slipped out.” He looked remorseful enough. But hadn’t he looked remorseful when he’d broken Kat’s heart?

  Hadn’t Dillon looked remorseful when he’d gotten caught with the truth?

  Well, that might be a bad example.

  She drew a deep breath, willing her pulse to slow to a normal rate. How had a shopping trip for fabric turned into a psychoanalysis of the past?

  She was going to turn into a psycho herself if she didn’t shut off this circular train of thought and get back to business.

  This moment was in desperate need of lightening up. “Slipped, huh? Sort of like how you slipped when you knocked that fabric to the ground?”

  He snorted, relief flooding his eyes. “Uh-huh. Keep it up, blondie. Keep it up.”

  Blondie. Still a nickname, but at least not one from Back Then.

  Progress. She’d take it.

  And speaking of progress, they’d been on this row—and accidental topic—long enough. She rounded the corner to the next, still boasting multiple shades of turquoise and aqua and everywhere in between. The bolts seemed to beckon her forth, their spotless material intimidating and alluring all at once.