Love Arrives in Pieces

by Betsy St. Amant

  Some of them, anyway. Others labored for breath and refused to die at all.

  “The truth is . . . it’s rough.” Stella let out a long sigh. Should she tell Kat the whole truth, or just the highlights?

  And what were the highlights, anyway? That Chase’s ridiculous truce was a farce? That too much water had flooded that particular bridge to ever have a chance at staying dry?

  That she still had feelings for Chase?

  No. She grabbed a cupcake from the counter and pulled off a hunk from the top, shoving the almost-too-warm bread into her mouth, sans icing.

  “That bad, huh?” Kat tilted her head, studying her in that way only a sister could.

  Stella looked away, terrified the truth would start radiating out of her bare pores. “It’s confusing.” Which might be the understatement of the decade.

  Kat narrowed her eyes knowingly. “You can’t trust him.”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  “Telling. You can’t.” Kat shrugged, turning to peek through the oven window at the baking cupcakes. “Just know that up front and get through the project, and then you’ll be done. After the Cameo is renovated, you won’t have any reason to have to talk to him again.”

  The thought tightened something in Stella’s stomach she hadn’t realized was loose. She tore off another bite of cupcake, the sudden urge to defend Chase welling up from somewhere deep within.

  But not to Kat.

  Not ever to Kat.

  And where did that urge to defend even come from? He’d betrayed her. Invaded her space and her heart.

  But he hadn’t known. He’d been looking for a bathroom. To help her, because she was unconscious, for crying out loud. Again.

  Could she really stay mad over that kind of an accident?

  She bit her lower lip. “It’ll be fine. Just . . . it’s been complicated, because of—well, everything.” Stella wondered how it was possible to keep saying so many words without actually saying anything at all. And wondered further if Kat noticed. She needed to redirect, quick, before Kat picked up the scent. “On a funny note, I think the cleanup guy on the crew, Tim, has a crush on me.”

  Kat nodded. “He does.”

  Huh? “How do you know? You haven’t even met him.” Stella frowned.

  Kat rolled her eyes and blew a wisp of hair out of her face. “Is he eighteen or older?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he a male?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he has a crush on you, Stella.”

  “Whatever.” Those days were long over.

  And if they weren’t, they sure as heck needed to be.

  She changed the subject again. “At least Chase and I finally agreed on a color scheme for the theater.”

  “That’s good news.” Kat turned away and began plucking the cooled cupcakes from the tin on the countertop and setting them on wire racks. “See, you can work together and be professional. That’s a good exercise, really, for any time you have to deal with difficult people in your career.” Her voice grew tighter. “And it’s great you finally agreed on the design, because you can’t let people like Chase run you over.”

  Was it just her, or was Kat tossing those cupcakes a little harder than usual onto the racks?

  She continued. “Like I said before, just be careful. If you know up front you can’t trust him—”

  Yep. Her sister was definitely throwing cupcakes.

  “Then it won’t matter how he acts or what he does because you’re already prepared for the worst. For the inevitable, really. So you can just do your job then and not worry about anything personal.” Kat finished her tirade and faced Stella, pointing the oven mitt at her. “Don’t worry about anything personal.”

  Not a suggestion. A command.

  Stella bristled at the order, then reminded herself that her sister was hormonal, and they were discussing her ex-boyfriend. And not just any ex, but the ex that very nearly devastated Kat’s heart. Lucas was part of God’s plan for Kat, and she knew her sister would have gladly gone through the same heartache again to land where she’d landed now in her marriage and family. But exes were still a tricky subject—even for the relationships that ended well.

  Kat and Chase had not ended well.

  And her sister was always going to hold that tiny spark of blame over Stella’s head.

  Talk about preparing for the inevitable. “Nothing personal.” She was simply restating. Not agreeing. Right?

  So complicated. She let out a low sigh, finished the cupcake she’d systematically started mutilating earlier, and dropped the liner in the trash. “I’ve got to get to work.” She pushed out of the kitchen before she could say things she shouldn’t say. Because saying anything in defense of Chase would only fuel the embers that still glowed.

  And she really didn’t need to be setting any more fires.

  “Want to take some cupcakes to the crew?” The old Kat was back now, the normal one, the one who didn’t rage with hormones and conjure jealous green eyes over the distant past.

  Stella smiled. She loved her sister. Wanted to smack her, but loved her. “No thanks, sis. You know the saying about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach. And, well . . .” She purposefully let her voice trail off.

  Kat raised one eyebrow, waiting, a warning gathering on her face like a storm cloud.

  “I’d hate to give Tim the wrong idea.” Stella winked before disappearing into the front of the store, Kat’s laughter ringing loud.

  Good. Maybe she’d stay oblivious to the obvious a little bit longer. The inevitable.

  If only Stella could do the same.

  He figured he’d regret letting Memphis use the sander, but a boy had to learn how to use power tools eventually, right? He winced as the machine ground against the stage floor, and leaned down to adjust his oldest nephew’s grip. “Like this, dude.” Thankfully he’d had enough sense to give eight-year-old Aaron sandpaper strips, and a back corner of the stage where he couldn’t do any damage.

  “Sorry.” Memphis frowned, concentrating, as he resanded the same portion he’d gone over twice already. Talk about being afraid to step out of the box and give it a real go. The boy was beyond hesitant with new things. Might be why he’d been benched all season in football.

  It was something to work on. There was no time for second guessing or doubting—in school, in sports, in work . . . in relationships. Chase had learned that particular notion through and through, and if he had anything to offer his nephews after his hiatus from their life, it would be that singular important lesson.

  Time mattered.

  Speaking of time . . . he glanced at his watch. Jimmy had brought the boys by earlier to check on the renovation progress and bring him and the crew coffee—a nice gesture, very unexpected for his brother.

  Then the truth had become clear less than three sips into his coffee when Jimmy admitted he needed to run an errand, and could do it faster without the kids. So now the foreman and contractor for the Cameo was officially a hired babysitter—paid for in coffee and arm wrestling contests.

  He had let Aaron win.

  “Is that better?” Memphis called over the construction noise as he looked up, his need for affirmation and perfection practically glowing in his eyes. Chase recognized himself in the boy.

  Life had taken care of that neediness. Not a lot of compliments to be found when you had to start over at almost thirty, nothing to show for your time except a trail of broken hearts and the fragments of your own still trying to remember how to beat.

  And no time for perfection when there was so much to do, to achieve, to accomplish while he had the opportunity. If you hustled fast enough, nothing much could catch up. Memories. Pain. Failure. Regrets. They were all left in the dust, where they belonged.

  Except that lately, certain pieces of that dust pile had been reforming itself into bones.

  He nodded at Memphis. “Much better.” Somewhat better, anyway. But at least now his nephew s
aw that trying counted. A lesson Chase wished he had realized sooner in life.

  And speaking of teaching lessons . . .

  “But you’ve got to speed it up if you want to finish what you’re doing.” Starting a project well was important, but completing it was crucial. He gestured to the expanse of stage still needing to be sanded. “You have to finish what you start.”

  “Even if you don’t know what you’re doing?” Memphis frowned up at him, his trendy-long hair falling into his eyes. He shook it back and waited for an answer.

  “Well, yeah, dude. If you can’t deliver a promise on time, it’s as bad as breaking the promise in the first place.” Or worse. If his word was all a man had . . .

  The conversation with Stella in the fabric store jumped to the forefront of his mind, and he winced.

  You think that’s funny—the idea of me keeping my word?

  Not funny. More like amusing.

  Like a sucker punch to the stomach. Not funny at all.

  And she definitely hadn’t been laughing last night when he’d stumbled upon her art room. He still had no idea why she’d flipped out on him, shoving him out of her apartment while crying. No idea why it’d been such an unpardonable sin.

  No idea why she fainted two-thirds of the time she was caught in his presence.

  Memphis persisted, oblivious to the battle raging in Chase’s head. “But this is just a floor, Uncle Chase. It’s not a promise.”

  “Well, yes and no.” Chase squatted down beside his nephew, turned off the electric sander so they could hear each other. “I told the city I’d get this project done in a certain amount of time. So that’s like a promise. Any time you give your word it should be your guarantee as a man.”

  A throat cleared softly from stage right, and Chase looked up at Stella in the wings, her giant purse pulled around in front of her body but doing little to shield her beautiful, lithe frame, clad today in washed-out jeans and a black tank top.

  Last night’s debacle rose to the surface, and he stood up quickly. “Hi.” That was smooth. He tried again, motioning at Memphis. “This is my nephew, Memphis. He’s been helping me sand.”

  Memphis stood, held out his hand, and shook Stella’s firmly, all charm and manners. His grandma would have been ecstatic. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  “Likewise.” She grinned, shyly, and met Chase’s eyes before flitting her glance away. “Do you have the stains for me to choose from?”

  Business. Right. He wished he could bring up last night but knew he couldn’t in front of Memphis. Probably shouldn’t, even if he could. The in-your-face, tell-it-like-it-is Stella still seemed pretty dormant 99 percent of the time, but he knew better than to taunt a volcano.

  “Aaron’s guarding them pretty well over here.” He introduced Stella to his youngest nephew, who offered her an arm wrestle.

  Stella grinned and politely asked for a rain check.

  Aaron shrugged and went back to rubbing his sandpaper strips on the stage.

  Chase pointed to the stain samples he’d displayed on a large sheet of poster board. “These were the best options in the hardware store. They had others, but these are the most commonly used, according to the owner.” He shrugged. “I’ve never renovated a theater stage, so I can’t vouch for the validity of that, but he seemed to know what he was saying.”

  Stella ignored his rambling, knelt down next to the board, and pulled some of the gold and turquoise fabric from that giant purse of hers. She carefully held the pieces up next to the different options. “Too red.”

  She dismissed the first, which he’d secretly preferred until she’d said that, and he realized the stark truth in it. “Too yellow.”

  They finally agreed on the fourth option, a deep, rich brown that made Stella’s eyes light up when she held the turquoise next to it.

  Chase couldn’t help but smile. Too bad they couldn’t find the exact shade of her eyes for the fabric samples. Talk about a design hit if he’d ever seen one.

  He jerked back from that train of thought. Stella was beautiful, no doubt about it. But dwelling on that had only gotten him in trouble in the past, and from the way she’d been trying to hide her beauty lately, it appeared she felt the same.

  He wanted that story. Wanted to sand down the past and remove the blemishes and the scars and have a clean slate to work with, like the stage beneath their feet. Wanted them to have a foundation again . . . To build what? A relationship?

  Impossible.

  A friendship?

  Maybe.

  But they’d tried a truce before, and that had lasted about forty-five seconds before proving difficult. Should he bring it up? Would Stella even try again?

  He should probably figure out first why it mattered so much to him that she did.

  But if he discovered the real answer to that, he’d likely never ask.

  “Daddy’s back!” Aaron shot up between them so fast, Chase reeled backward. Stella grabbed his arm to balance him, probably on instinct and unplanned, judging from the way she dropped it. Aaron and Memphis jumped off the stage and rushed up the main aisle to Jimmy, who waved and hollered his thanks.

  Chase saluted him with a nod. “Anytime, bro.”

  “Anytime? What about tomorrow at four?” His brother winked. “Kidding. Holler if you need more coffee.” They paraded up the aisle toward the theater doors, and Jimmy called out over his shoulder. “It’s looking great, by the way.”

  It wasn’t. Not yet. Still looked like a giant mess, but Jimmy had always been able to envision the final outcome of things before Chase could.

  Was that why he’d warned Chase about Leah the one time they’d met?

  She’s not the one, dude. He’d said it so casually, the equivalent of picking out a suit or a fantasy football roster. He couldn’t explain why. Just seemed so sure.

  But Chase didn’t operate by instincts like the rest of his family. He needed facts. Evidence. When he chose to have faith, he had it in spades. He had faith in God. And had faith that his relationship with Leah would be just fine.

  Death had other plans.

  “Well, I guess I’ll head home too.” Stella gathered the fabric samples she’d used and deposited them carefully back into her purse. “I’ve got a few more things to plug into my design program and figure out for the restrooms.” She hesitated, her blue eyes seeking his with questions beyond interior design. “I guess I’ll run the final plans for that by you in the next few days.”

  “I can’t imagine having a conflicting opinion about a bathroom.” He grinned, attempting to take the edge off, but it fell flat.

  “I can.” She smiled back, but it faded faster than he’d have preferred.

  “Stella, I—”

  “Chase, about—”

  There they went again. He held up both hands. “I’d say ladies first, but I need to apologize. I still don’t really know what happened last night but apparently I offended you and I’m sorry. Whatever I did by going in that art room was an accident, Stella. Totally unintentional.”

  “I know.” Stella rubbed her hands over her face, leaving temporary pink marks on her cheekbones. “You had no idea, and I overreacted. It’s just . . . that’s—”

  “That’s your space.”

  “Yes.” Relief flooded her eyes, and he wished he actually understood as much as he apparently gave the impression that he did. “No one knows about that room, Chase. Not my mom. Not even Kat.”

  She didn’t flinch this time at the mention of her sister. Progress. Maybe they were ready for this truce after all. A real one.

  But looking into her hopeful eyes, he knew it couldn’t be a mere truce. It’d have to be a full-on friendship, or nothing at all. A truce in itself wasn’t nearly enough. It’d be a tease.

  He wanted Stella back in his life.

  As a friend, of course. Anything more than that was asking for regrets.

  And he was done with those.

  “Your secret is safe.” He took a chance—a big one�
��and reached for her hand. “What I was telling my nephew about a man’s word . . . I believe that.”

  Something uncertain flickered in her eyes, and he wished she’d say it. But he knew better than to push. “I hope you believe me.”

  She hesitated, then nodded. She didn’t pull her hand away. More progress. “I do.”

  Huge progress. He released her hand, reluctantly. Contact was dangerous, the current between them still strong. He shoved his hands in his pockets instead. “Since I already know about the room, I’d really like to hear why it’s a secret.”

  She opened her mouth, then shut it. Opened it again.

  “I meant it when I told you that you were good, Stella. Your art . . .”

  She held up one hand, her expression gentle, but firm. “Later.”

  Yes, ma’am. He nodded, accepting her terms. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  She inhaled an unsteady breath, nodded back, and offered a half smile, tucking the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder. “Ready is debatable. But one day.” Her smile wobbled. “This time I promise.”

  She made her way offstage before he could comment. Probably for the best.

  And probably for the best she didn’t turn and notice how he watched her the entire time she walked out of the theater.

  eleven

  Claire Varland was the epitome of southern charm and hospitality. Full of honey-coated, coaxing words that brought to mind images of sweet tea and homemade pie and all things charming west of the Mississippi.

  Until crossed. Then she could intimidate the green off a grass blade.

  “I can’t believe that man has been in Bayou Bend for weeks and you didn’t even tell me.”

  From her vantage point on the couch, Stella watched her mom pace the width of her apartment, which didn’t take a lot of steps, and alternate wringing her hands with glaring. Sometimes accomplishing both at once. “You’re the one who got me the job at the Cameo, remember?”

  “I didn’t know Chase Taylor was the contractor, or I’d have never arranged that with Bob!” Those perfectly manicured hands flung high in the air so fast they caught the long chain of pearls around her neck and tossed them in her face. Stella bit back a snort. Dealing with Chase had grown more complicated than she’d have preferred, but watching her oh-so-proper mother freak out almost made it worth it.