He inserted the key in the lock, twisted, and turned. The door released and he eased it partway open. “Stella?” He knocked again, called louder. Opened it halfway.
Then the constant rush of noise registered. Running water. Was she in the shower?
He suddenly felt foolish. He’d all but broken into her apartment, and she was simply getting ready for bed.
He started to ease back out the door, then stopped. The water had been running the entire time he’d been outside knocking. And there was no breaking up of the rushing sound, the way water beat an interrupted, sporadic pattern when a person typically moved about in a shower.
Something was wrong.
He rushed to the bathroom door, knocked hard, called out, and then knocked again. If he went in and she was in the shower . . . he couldn’t even fathom that level of embarrassment for both of them.
But the water wasn’t changing, and there was no other noise inside. No humming. No splashing. No clank of shampoo bottles or snaps of soap container lids.
He covered his eyes with one hand and opened the door. A rush of steam billowed out. “Stella?”
Silence. Just the constant rush of running water.
He risked a glance between his fingers.
And saw her crumpled form on the floor of the tub.
Unmoving.
Adrenaline shot a headache straight into his temples, and he sucked in a hard breath. He quickly shut off the water. It had grown lukewarm, almost cold. She wasn’t moving, though her position was more sitting and slumped than sprawled. It didn’t look like she had fallen.
Still.
Towel. She needed a towel. He flung open the nearest cabinet door and grabbed the first one he saw. Why had she taken a shower in her underwear? He was grateful for the detail, for both of their sakes, but why?
Something was definitely wrong.
He leaned over the tub and draped the towel over her still form. “Stella?” He patted her cheek, moved her dripping hair off her forehead. She stirred, and the knot in his heart loosened. Please, God. He quickly checked her temples, felt the crown of her head for knots. Nothing. No bruises or lumps forming. She didn’t seem to have hit her head.
He shook her arm, gently, then squeezed her hand.
She squeezed back, stirring again, until her head lifted slowly and she squinted at him. “Chase.”
Her weak, weary voice sparked a flame inside him that made him want to climb a mountain. Fight a war. Wrestle a bear. She didn’t even sound surprised to see him.
That fact almost scared him more than finding her passed out in the bathtub.
He adjusted the towel to cover her wet form more fully, then stepped back, close enough to help if needed but far enough away to give her some privacy. “I’m here.”
She still looked out of it, not fully comprehending where she was or why he was here. “Do you see me?” She squinted again, blinking hard, and his heart tripped and stumbled.
“I see you, Tiara. I see you.”
He always had.
twelve
Fifteen hours ago, Stella had been having a panic attack in her bathtub. Now, somehow, she was buckled into the front seat of Chase’s truck and heading west.
To an art museum, of all places.
She had argued at first—a lot.
We have work to do at the Cameo, Chase.
Aren’t you worried about Tim working unsupervised?
I’m behind on the bathroom design.
No excuse had been good enough. He’d been adamant.
Get in the truck, Stella. I’m taking you to see some art. You need to get inspired again.
Hours earlier he had rescued her from an anxiety attack, not to mention potential drowning and hypothermia, so she’d quit arguing. She was tired of debates. Fights. Conflicts.
Sometimes it was just easier to get in the truck.
She shot Chase a sidelong glance, noting the way the muscles bunched in his forearm as he gripped the steering wheel with one hand, the way he twisted and cracked tension out of his neck, nervously fiddled with the dials on the radio.
He was worried about her.
She was sort of worried about herself.
He wanted to call 911 last night. Take her to the ER. See a doctor.
But she was already seeing a doctor. The panic attacks were getting fewer and farther between—not that she could have told it lately. Counseling was helping. The flashbacks to Dillon’s betrayal were lessening, the fear was subsiding. Gradually, gradually.
She didn’t tell Chase any of this, of course. Not about the unfaithfulness, the divorce, the therapy. Not about throwing herself into art, even amid the abject terror of failure. Not about any of it.
All she had said was, “Trust me. I’ll be all right.”
And he hadn’t asked another question. Not a single one. Not about why she’d been unconscious in her underwear in the bathtub. Not about why she kept fainting on him. He had simply saved her, covered her. Waited outside while she’d changed into dry clothes and then sat on the couch with her while she towel dried her hair, never saying another word.
He’d only asked one thing of her—that he could pick her up the next morning for a field trip. It was work-related, he said, and she’d agreed, partly to get him out of the apartment before he caved and started asking real questions, and partly because if he didn’t leave soon, she’d collapse into his arms and never let go.
Now she adjusted her seatbelt, crossed her arms over her chest, and turned to watch the white stripes on the road zip past.
Here they were. Driving. Not asking questions.
Which just made her want to answer them all the more.
If she had any answers to give, that is.
He hadn’t said more than two words the entire drive out of the city limits. Bayou Bend wasn’t a big enough town to have a real art museum, so they were going to the larger city of Hollis.
At last he turned into a parking lot, mostly empty, and cut the engine. Looked at her. “Ready?”
Not even a little. “Yes.”
The lies were starting to feel familiar on her tongue at this point. But were they lies, if they were what she hoped to be? She wanted to be brave. Be adventurous again. Be ready.
But the largest part of her still felt like hiding in the bathtub.
Inside, the rush of air conditioning offered a welcome respite from the midmorning sun already heating up. Chase pulled a credit card from his wallet for their admission, and Stella tried to remind herself this was business. This was inspiration for the Cameo, nothing more. Not a date.
Definitely not a date.
They received their museum maps, nodded at the brief instructions from the door attendant about not touching any of the exhibits, and then set off. Chase to the left. Stella to the right.
“Hey, wait. This way.” She motioned him toward her just as he said and did the exact same thing.
They laughed, the ice not exactly breaking between them but cracking, at least. Stella held up her map, unable to hide her smile at his mock exasperation, and pointed to the creased paper. “Watercolor art is this way.”
He nodded. “And western sculptures are this way.”
She really wished she could arch one eyebrow like her sister did. “How are statues of horses and boots going to inspire me for the Cameo?”
“They won’t. They’re just cool.” Chase grinned, dimples flashing, and Stella rolled her eyes. “We can get the useless stuff out of the way first.”
His words rang deep. Maybe they could.
Maybe that’s what this whole trip was about.
She followed, one step behind, into the Old West exhibit. The bronze and metal figurines, some inches tall, some as large as four and a half feet, shone under the carefully placed spotlights. She paused in front of a cowboy on a horse, the stallion’s front legs pawing the air as the rider held on with one hand, the other swinging a wire rope high above his head. “Looks dangerous.”
“Looks
amazing. What an adrenaline rush.” Chase started to touch the statue, then must have remembered the attendant’s warning because he quickly withdrew his hand. “I’d do that in a heartbeat.”
“Ride a bucking bronco?” Crazy. Absolutely crazy.
Chase shrugged. “Yeah. But that horse is rearing, not bucking.”
“Same difference.”
“Actually, no. Rearing is when a horse rises up on his back legs; bucking is when he puts his weight on the front and kicks his back legs up.”
Stella settled for raising both eyebrows. “I had no idea you were such a cowboy.” She edged closer and nudged him with her elbow. “Should I call Bob? See if he needs to borrow any spurs?”
“Very funny.” He nudged her back. “I’m not a cowboy. But I like . . . that.”
“What? Near-death experiences?” She snorted.
“No.” He quieted then, something flickering across his gaze she couldn’t place. “Living on purpose. Living out loud.”
She watched him, the way his eyes darted over the statue, as if he was memorizing it. Memorizing the feeling. Living vicariously. And she grew convinced. He really would ride that horse, right here, right now, if it came to life and gave him the chance.
When had Chase become such a daredevil? He’d never been like that while he was dating Kat.
Or her.
She tugged him away from the statue, uneasy over his fascination and equally uneasy over how simple it was getting to read him. “Come on. There’s a bronze sombrero over here that looks fascinating.”
They wandered through the remainder of the exhibit, but the restlessness never left Chase’s eyes. He finally led the way out of the room and toward the watercolor exhibit. “Your turn.”
She followed, not as eager as before, a little afraid of the transformation between them. The closeness that suddenly seemed to reveal how far apart they still were.
She gazed at the portraits on the walls, the still lifes, the landscapes, and felt empty. Hazy, foggy flowers painted on hillsides, smeared bowls offering muted bananas and shadowed grapes.
This didn’t speak to her. It wasn’t alive. It wasn’t vibrant.
It wasn’t who she used to be.
Wasn’t who she feared to be again.
And then it hit her. She loved art because it could be everything she wasn’t, with no fear. No expectation. No threat.
It could just be beautiful.
She pressed her fingers against her forehead, closing her eyes and breathing in the revelation. No wonder.
“This is depressing.” Chase’s hushed voice in the stillness jerked her out of her reverie. “Do you like any of these?”
Stella opened her eyes, turned a slow circle, and took in the room. She didn’t like a single piece in the space.
She shook her head, unable and unwilling to voice her thoughts. “Let’s try the next room.” The description on the map was vague, but it should be some sort of eclectic mix of art. Statues, sketches, clay. Surely she’d appreciate something in there. She hated for Chase to spend his money on her—on them—and it be a total waste of inspiration and time.
Unless that single revelation was the reason she had come . . .
She led the way, already exhausted, Chase’s steps shuffling a few feet behind. The next room was cooler, so she unwrapped the thin hoodie she’d tied around her waist and slipped her arms through the sleeves. She looked to the left, to the right, noting the clay formations, the abstract art on the walls, and then froze. A giant framed piece took up a huge portion of the wall in front of her, lit by a single canned light above.
She moved toward it, eyes soaking in the details. Mosaic tiles. Broken pieces of stained glass, carefully pieced and coordinated into a profile portrait of a beautiful woman. Long flowing hair, the color of daffodils. Electric blue eyes. An off-the-shoulder white toga draped over her form. Her face was raised slightly. Toward heaven? Her expression peaceful. Serene.
The background behind the woman was a deep, rich red, almost burgundy, setting off the yellow and blue and white from the rest of the portrait like a beacon.
She couldn’t look away.
“Come on.” Chase nudged her, apparently oblivious to her fascination.
She held up one hand in a plea to wait.
“What? The girl?” Chase stood by her side, glancing at the portrait, then back at Stella. “I don’t get it.”
“Don’t you see it?” She kept her voice to a whisper, feeling as if a normal tone of voice would be completely irreverent. She couldn’t get past the woman’s expression, made up entirely of little fragments. Completely broken—and completely at peace.
“See what?”
He was right; he didn’t get it. She didn’t blame him. But he wasn’t really trying.
And she had to know something.
“You said you saw me.” She felt his gaze burning into her, but she refused to turn her face. Refused to look away from the peace that woman in the portrait held. Despite her brokenness. Despite being rendered into shards. “Last night. You said you saw me.”
Chase looked back and forth from the picture to Stella, as if trying in vain to connect what she was saying with the portrait before them. “You’re right. I did say that.”
“Did you mean it?” She held the woman in the frame’s gaze, fearing what would happen if she looked into Chase’s eyes while he answered. Fearing a positive answer. Fearing a negative one.
She was tired of being afraid.
With a shaky breath, she tore her gaze from the art and met Chase’s head-on. He blinked, took a step backward. Then regained the ground between them, reaching for her hand and squeezing it briefly before letting go. “Absolutely.”
The contact burned her hand like a brand. But she couldn’t focus on that right now. Not yet.
This was more important.
“But you don’t see her?” She pointed to the glass portrait, Chase’s head swiveling to follow her movement. “How is that possible?”
“What do you mean, how is that possible?”
She swallowed hard, reaching toward the portrait despite the rules. Her fingers brushed against the display, feather light. “We’re the same.”
How do you eat an elephant?
One bite at a time . . .
Chase knew the expression. But the idea of ever being able to consume the one that always lingered in the room between him and Stella overwhelmed him to the point of near depression.
There weren’t enough forks in the world.
He shoved his basket of fries across the table toward her. She plucked one and dragged it through a pile of ketchup, thanking him with a tired smile. They’d toured the majority of the museum already, and her growling stomach had convinced them both to stop by the snack bar for a junk-food lunch before heading back to Bayou Bend.
At this point, he needed the break. The relief. The opportunity to drown his confusion in nachos and make small talk about the weather and the progress of the Cameo.
The last half hour of their museum tour had been so heavy, he felt more exhausted than if he’d sanded the entire stage at the Cameo by himself. Or reroofed the entire theater, for that matter. Something had happened to Stella back there at that mosaic tile portrait, something he couldn’t quite grasp and something she couldn’t quite explain, despite trying.
They weren’t connecting over it.
And it bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
Stella ate quietly. Now and then she brushed her hair back, her deep blue eyes even more prominent against her beautiful bare face. The more he was around this new version of Stella, the prettier he thought she looked. Though pretty wasn’t near enough of a word. More like beautiful. Gorgeous. Stunning.
Able to rip his heart out with one glance.
The girl couldn’t help it.
God knew she was trying. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why. And he wished Stella—or God, for that matter—would tell him. He’d been praying for her.
For them both, every night when he lay sleepless on the uncomfortable bed in his cousin’s guest room, staring at the popcorn ceiling and wondering how it was Stella had found her way back to his nighttime thoughts instead of Leah.
Was he a horrible person?
He missed the woman he saw every day more than he missed his late fiancée.
So yes. Yes he was.
He shoved a fry in his mouth. They needed salt. Or maybe he just needed to get this bad taste out of his mouth. There was so much he wanted to say to Stella. Ask her. Tell her.
But the elephant just wouldn’t shrink.
And maybe it shouldn’t.
“Why do you go so fast?”
He looked up from the fries. “Go so fast where?” He didn’t remember speeding on their drive to the museum.
She gestured with her fry around them. “Here. Everywhere. You rushed past all the art. So much so that you lost me twice.”
It was true, he had. He had thought she was right behind him, but she had still been back in the exhibit room, gazing at the artwork as if she were listening to what it was saying. And maybe it did speak to her. Especially, that one—that woman in the mosaic tiles.
In fact, he was sure of it. So sure, he didn’t even fear his next question. “What did she say?”
Stella knew exactly what he meant. “That it won’t hurt forever.”
“What won’t?”
“Being broken.”
He nodded slowly, wishing he had a translator, wishing the dang portrait would say something to him to help him understand. He wanted to get it, so badly. Wanted to get Stella.
It mattered more than anything lately. More than his job. More than the Cameo.
What had broken her?
Had he?
That was so long ago . . . surely not. No, Stella had a secret, something else in her life that had robbed her of her life and color.
She took a sip from her soda, shaking the cup to rattle the ice inside. “Why do you rush, Chase?”
It was a fair enough question. He ran his finger around the rim of the paper basket between them, glancing up as a mother and son walked past their table to order. The boy’s navy backpack bumped his arm, and he smiled, remembering childhood days when his own mom would accompany him on a school field trip or randomly check him and Jimmy out of school for the day for an adventure.
Love Arrives in Pieces Page 15