Love Arrives in Pieces

by Betsy St. Amant

  She trailed her fingers down the length of one, the silky fabric flawless under her hand but completely the wrong texture for the Cameo.

  Hmmm. Maybe she could find those same colors in a tapestry . . . something thicker and heavier that would cover portions of the wall around the theater and by the stage. She glanced up and down the row of options. She’d have to try the back of the store for the wall hanging samples. But maybe she could use the lighter fabrics here, like the silk, as accents in the lobby.

  Her mind raced with ideas. She could bunch it to form a bouquet. She’d seen that on Pinterest a few months ago. Or she could use some of the material in the restrooms, somehow, again with the bouquet, or as part of a collage wall mount. Or cut into strips and—

  “You’re not actually thinking of using that silk, are you?”

  He had to be kidding. She risked a glance.

  Yep. Kidding.

  She ignored him.

  But her traitorous eyes darted once again to his stubble-covered smirk, and her heart stammered a truth she couldn’t keep denying.

  She’d never been able to fully ignore Chase.

  And in that regard, absolutely nothing had changed.

  He really shouldn’t stand on ladders when he knew Stella would be around.

  Chase wobbled and grabbed the top rung for balance as he tried not to watch Stella bustle into the lobby of the Cameo, toting several bags brimming with the material they’d bought a few days ago at the fabric store—the store he had almost gotten kicked out of. That owner hadn’t warmed up to him after he knocked over that display, and then even less so after he kept talking too loud and making Stella laugh. Someone took her store a little too seriously.

  Though maybe he had taken a bit of their conversation a little too seriously too. His running shoe still felt permanently wedged in his mouth. How could he have slipped that way with Stella, calling her Tiara, bringing up the past so flippantly? He was trying to keep all of that separate from the project at the Cameo, and yet here he was, waving old memories around like a red flag in front of a pacing bull. Would he ever stop asking for trouble?

  Stella swept past him again, tossing her bags on the concession counter, and then began to pull out yards of blue.

  Speaking of trouble, he really needed to get off this ladder.

  He climbed down quickly. Meanwhile, Stella’s presence in the Cameo hadn’t gone unnoticed by his crew. Tim rushed to her side before Chase had even cleared the bottom rung. “Need some help, Ms. Varland?”

  “No, but thank you.” She smiled at him, all white teeth and shiny lips, and Chase briefly wondered if he should catch Tim or let the boy fall on his backside and get what he deserved for ogling.

  Though he hadn’t fully grasped that lesson for himself yet.

  “Whatcha got there?” He joined Tim at Stella’s side as she continued pulling fabric from the bags, ignoring the slight frown Tim sent him at being interrupted. He was doing this kid a favor. Equivalent to shooing away a fly about to get tangled in a web.

  Not that Stella meant to be a spider. Not anymore, anyway, with this new demure thing she had going on.

  Once upon a time, though—absolutely.

  She folded up the now empty bags. “Just wanted to get a few more measurements, and hold everything up where it’s going to be, so I can see if I still like it.”

  She’d better like it, after what they paid for all that fabric. There wouldn’t be room in their tight budget from the city for her to start over. He shifted his weight. “Is there a chance you won’t?”

  She turned that smile on him, now, and he immediately berated himself for judging Tim’s weakness. “There’s always that chance. I’m an art—” She stopped, looked away, and smiled again, though it shone weaker this time. “I meant, I’m a designer. We have license to change our minds.”

  “Changing your mind isn’t in the budget.” Nor was there room in the budget for her to keep rendering him and his crew useless every time she stopped by the theater. Thankfully, the last few days, she’d been working from home on some computer program he’d never heard of, laying out her design in what she called layers, playing around with different visuals until she found a few that made her want to come pretend in person.

  Designers. He’d never understand them.

  Never understand Stella, for that matter.

  “Relax, Moneybags. I’m not going to hurt your budget. If anything, I’m going to save you money.”

  Stella Varland? Save money? That’d be a sight to see. If her closet was anything like the way he remembered—brimming with sequined shoes and poufy dresses and about a hundred button-down shirts to “protect her pageant hair”—she could sell the entire contents and feed everyone in Bayou Bend prime rib for a month.

  He’d only seen that closet once. That day he stopped by because he couldn’t find Kat, and she wasn’t answering her phone. Stella had opened the door and invited him in to wait. He shouldn’t have, but at the time, Stella’s spun web was too much for that fly to resist.

  Not that she knew it. He’d never accuse her of being alluring on purpose, not like that, anyway. She knew she was beautiful, sure. And she used it to her advantage, but never to hurt someone.

  Never to hurt Kat.

  No, he’d done that all by himself.

  He’d gone inside to wait for Kat, texted her again, and the next thing he knew, he’d put his phone down and forgotten to check it for the next two hours as he laughed at Stella’s runway stories, joked with her about world peace, and gotten a rare glimpse into her heart. She’d shared how she worried over still not knowing what she would actually do with her life one day, shared how she still struggled with comparing herself to other contestants. Shared how insecurity could wedge deep like an injury, how there were flaws hidden in places the spotlight could never touch.

  He had even opened up about his own concerns with his family, his future, his path in life. His own insecurities and doubts—the ones that still lingered today, if he allowed himself the chance to stop long enough to recognize it. Doubts that he had what it took to succeed. That he could make a life worth living one day, that he was capable, that he could ever commit to one career and make a difference to someone, somewhere.

  When the conversation had gotten too heavy, she’d shown him her collection of pageant ribbons, pointed out the layer of glitter on the floor of her closet that was pointless to vacuum up, and wrapped him in a pink boa until the ridiculous feathers made him sneeze and he forgot how unsettled he’d been just hours before.

  He and Stella had connected in a way that couldn’t be reversed.

  Thirteen missed calls from Kat later, he’d finally driven to Kat’s town house as they’d originally planned. Sick to his stomach. Unsure what was happening in his heart, unable to get Stella’s smile out of his head.

  And scared to death.

  “Here, Boss.” Lyle interrupted his stroll down memory lane by setting a half-full industrial trash bag at Chase’s feet. “This is the last of the trash we found off the side of the stage.”

  Chase stepped back to get the bottom of the bag off the toe of his boot. Slivers of wood poked through the sides, while the entire top was dusted with sawdust shavings. “Anything good in there?” He peered through the opening at the top, unwilling to dig through it without his work gloves.

  “Yeah, anything good in there?”

  Chase jumped at the sudden echo over his shoulder. An older woman he’d seen once at the theater before squinted over his arm into the depths of the bag, as if she had absolutely nothing better to do than evaluate garbage.

  “Dixie!” Stella shook her head, with surprise or frustration, Chase couldn’t be sure. “What are you doing here?”

  “One man’s trash just might be my treasure.” She waggled her eyebrows, nudging Chase out of the way. He gladly stepped aside, rubbing his ribs. Who was this lady, anyway?

  “Or . . .” Her voice trailed off dramatically as she held up one finger. “O
ne man’s treasure might turn out to be what he thought was trash.”

  Cryptic gypsy. A shiver skated down Chase’s back. Was this woman crazy?

  He smelled cinnamon.

  Stella grinned, but he could tell she didn’t fully get the woman’s comment, either. Lyle backed away, hands up, as if surrendering the entire lot of the trash and the woman—who now, at second glance, might be homeless. That would explain why she hung out randomly at the Cameo and was interested in the theater’s refuse.

  But how did Stella know her?

  The newspaper article, with the headline regarding the fire at the shelter, popped into his mind’s eye. So that was how.

  Lyle pulled an empty twenty-ounce soda bottle from his back pocket and spit into it, then called over his shoulder as he turned away. “Tim, come on, boy. You can use the sledgehammer.”

  Tim grudgingly shoved away from the concession counter. “Fine. I’m coming.” He followed after Lyle, hands in his pockets, turning back twice to look over his shoulder.

  Tim might want to stay and see what happened next, but Chase sort of wished he could disappear too. He hadn’t figured this out yet. And after Stella’s jokes about the Cameo being haunted . . .

  He shivered again. Just bad timing. That was all.

  Though was there ever really a good time to be renovating an old theater and have a crazy old lady appear out of nowhere to dig through the garbage?

  “You gone through here yet?” Dixie directed the question at Stella as she pawed through the top of the bag, seemingly unconcerned about the sharp fragments piled within. “Find what you’re looking for?”

  “What do you mean?” Stella frowned, her gaze catching Chase’s before she shrugged and shot a cautious smile back at Dixie.

  “You’ve been searching. I’ve seen you. Seen you searching.” Dixie kept digging methodically through the bag.

  Chase couldn’t look away from Stella’s expression, a mixture of wonder and confusion all topped with a heavy layer of denial. She forced a laugh, her eyes darting between him and Dixie and the bag. “Dixie. I don’t know—”

  “Here,” the woman interrupted by holding out a curved fragment of something that looked like it might have once been a stage prop. Three inches of metal with shiny rhinestones glued all over it. A quarter of the rhinestones were missing, leaving behind smudges of white glue.

  Stella hesitantly took the piece. Dixie continued rummaging, then as quickly as she’d started, stood up straight, tipped an imaginary hat at Chase, and left the lobby, disappearing into the sunshine.

  Then she popped her head back in and pointed at Stella. “You need an umbrella.”

  They both peered out the windows. Into the fully lit day, void of rain clouds.

  No matter. Dixie was gone.

  Chase watched the doors swing shut behind her. “So, yeah. That was creepy.”

  Stella was quick to defend. Too quick. “Hey, be nice. Dixie isn’t creepy.”

  “How do you even know her?”

  “She frequents the homeless shelter where I volunteer.” The words rattled off Stella’s lips. “Or she did, anyway, before I shut it down.” She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t even start with me on the newspaper headline.”

  “Wouldn’t have dared.” Chase waited a beat. “Is it going to reopen soon?”

  “I think so. Kat was just telling me about a fund-raiser they’re going to do there to raise money to expand.” Stella picked up a pile of fabric and began folding it into a manageable size. She shot him a sidelong glance. “She’s the one I volunteer with.”

  “You volunteer with your sister.” He hated how his insides still cringed at Kat’s name. Hated even more how Stella’s lips straightened into a line and her entire body tensed.

  Hated not knowing exactly what she was thinking. About the past. About his choices.

  About him.

  “Dixie thought you needed that.” He pointed to the rhinestone stick on the counter. “Why?”

  “Why does Dixie do any of the things she does?” Stella shrugged, and her motions at folding grew jerkier with every word. “No one knows.”

  “It wasn’t creepy?” It was creepy. He just wanted Stella to admit it. And if she couldn’t, then he wanted to know why she was so bent on defending the woman—the woman who gave her advice and rhinestone-covered trash.

  She stopped folding and glared. “Dixie is unique.”

  “Not creepy.”

  “Right.”

  Wrong. But okay. He held out his hands for the fabric. “Want me to help you carry some of that into the theater?”

  She folded the last bunch and began stacking the piles on top of each other. “I owe Dixie a lot.”

  He slowly lowered his hands. Right . . .

  “I single-handedly put the woman’s entire living space out of commission for over a week. And she was a big help to me after my—” Stella stopped short, stacking and restacking the fabric piles like a woman on a mission

  “After what?” He wanted to know. Why he wanted to know so badly, he couldn’t say, didn’t want to evaluate the what-if behind it. Just wanted to know. He leaned forward, as if he could tangibly pull it out of her. “What happened?”

  She met his gaze for a long moment, then looked quickly away, back at the material before her. She released a small sigh. “I just don’t mind if she wants to come up here sometimes, okay? Because right now she doesn’t have many other places to go. And she’s not like the rest of the group down there. She’s . . .”

  “Unique?”

  Stella nodded. “Exactly.”

  “And creepy.” He couldn’t resist. It was too easy. And Stella needed to smile more. He grinned.

  She glared.

  “I was kidding.”

  “Whatever.” She shoved a pile of fabric into his hands, but he saw the corners of her mouth turning up slightly before she hid the smile behind her hair. “Follow me.”

  And he did.

  He always had.

  nine

  Stella used to equate beauty with attention. She never felt lovelier than when she was onstage at a pageant, in a shimmering gown, hair cascading down her back in perfect ringlets, teeth shiny with Vaseline for a balanced, tireless smile. She could perform her “pageant walk”—the practiced strut and half turn, hip slightly cocked, feet angled, weight thrust backward—not only in high heels, but in her sleep. She had dreamed of it, many times. Dreamed of the next win, the next bouquet, the next ribbon.

  Terrified to dream about what came after the last one.

  Off stage, what was she? Who was she?

  Then Dillon had come along and she had been rescued from having to answer. She could be beautiful for him instead of the judges. Could prove herself as a wife instead of as a contestant.

  She’d never imagined marriage would be the one competition she’d never win.

  Stella shifted through the shoe box of broken pieces she’d collected from the Cameo, some even from the area near the dumpster behind the building, and blew out a sharp breath of frustration. She rocked back on the stool and squinted at the tiny workbench in her apartment, hoping for a vision to appear. This project—dare she even call it that? A project required a plan, and she didn’t have the least idea where this was going. It just wasn’t coming together. Not in her mind, and definitely not on her worktable.

  She picked up a few of the small pieces and let them slip through her fingers back into the box. She used to dream of art. Secretly, privately. Not even Dillon knew that part of her soul. The siren song that called to her to create beauty rather than simply to be beautiful. So much work and effort and practice went into those nights onstage, and when it was over, she just wanted the freedom to wear jeans and a sweatshirt and a ponytail—without being judged. Everyone expected perfection of her—most of all, herself.

  But what would it be like to create beauty instead? A beauty no one could alter. To create something that wouldn’t age or wrinkle or sag or become average.

 
; Something timeless. Forever beautiful.

  Forever worthy.

  That project was definitely not in this shoe box. She shoved the box away from her but couldn’t bear to throw the pieces away. They were fragments of the Cameo, and something within her heart connected to those slices of rejection, those broken bits no one else deemed usable.

  She’d toss it eventually. For now, the pieces deserved at least the hope of a future.

  Even if she wasn’t qualified to give them one.

  A knock sounded on her studio door, loud and confident. Not her mom’s knock. And definitely not Kat’s trademark tap. She shoved the lid on the shoe box of pieces, shut the door to her art nook, and peered through the peephole.

  Chase.

  With bags of fast food.

  Which reminded her—she hadn’t eaten. She’d come straight from the Cameo earlier that day, after having spent hours hanging fabric samples, hating her choices and doubting her entire career path, and then finally loving the design again. Come home to this failed artistic attempt with the boxed fragments.

  Now it was almost eight o’clock. What was Chase up to?

  And why did the thought of him at her door not send her into a frenzy, as it had a few weeks ago?

  That might be more terrifying than his sudden reappearance in her life—the fact that he could be a comfortable thought in the middle of it.

  She yanked open the door.

  “I come in peace.” He held out the bags like an offering. “And I come with French fries.”

  A few short years ago, she wouldn’t have even allowed the greasy side dish into her apartment—or the French fries, for that matter. She snorted at her own joke.

  How times change.

  “Come on in. I’ll grab the ketchup.” She shut the door behind Chase as he began spreading their food on the coffee table.

  “What’s with the random burgers?” She raised her voice to be heard from the kitchen, her heart pounding an unsteady rhythm in her chest. Okay, so maybe there was still a little bit of frenzy . . . as long as he didn’t see her art room, she could handle this. Burgers. Small talk. Then leaving.