Love Arrives in Pieces

by Betsy St. Amant

  “I’ve always been sort of go-go-go.” The words slipped out easier than he thought they would. “Trying to keep up with my brother. Keep up at school. But after . . .” His throat closed, and he swallowed, unsure how much to reveal and unsure how much Stella really wanted to know. “Something happened in Texas. I realized I didn’t want to live in slow motion. Regrets are, well . . . my biggest fear.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to waste any time. Or miss anything.”

  Stella nodded, and he wondered if she really got it.

  “That’s why I’m back. In Bayou Bend.” He picked up another fry but didn’t eat it. “I missed so much time already with my family, my nephews. I’m not going to waste anything else.”

  “That makes sense.” Then her eyes narrowed at him thoughtfully. “But isn’t rushing only robbing you of the moment?”

  Yep. She got it.

  “You didn’t see half of the art here because you were so determined to get through each exhibit. You never lingered and just . . . looked.”

  The disappointment in her eyes ran a lot deeper than her point merited.

  And then he got it.

  She was afraid he wouldn’t see her.

  “I’m not into art as much as you are, Stella. I don’t see it the way you do.” He reached across for her hand, brushing his thumb across her knuckles before he could change his mind. “When I walked into this museum, though, I noticed a bunch of things you probably never even thought of.”

  “What do you mean?” She looked at their joined hands, her expression a blank canvas. He wished he could choose what to paint on it.

  “The ceiling joists. The wiring of the lights above each framed piece of art. The pattern in the tile floor.” He grinned. “I was here about twenty minutes before I noticed three things I’d have done differently if I’d built this place, and two things that could have saved them money.”

  She shook her head, rolled her eyes, grinned.

  “I can’t help it. I do that to every building I walk inside. And you probably redecorate every lobby and doctor’s office you go into.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “So yeah, sometimes I rush and I don’t see things the way you do . . . but that doesn’t mean that I don’t see.” He held her gaze until he was sure she caught his double meaning.

  “I gotcha.” A slow rush of red crawled up her neck, and he didn’t let go of her hand until she tugged gently away and reached for her drink. “Just . . . be careful not to rush too fast.” Her piercing eyes landed on his.

  And her double meaning didn’t go unnoticed, either.

  The truck ride back felt a hundred miles longer than it had on the way there. Maybe because she was tired. Maybe because of all the walking they’d done and the junk food they’d consumed after.

  Or maybe because of the random longing in her stomach to slide across the bench seat and buckle in next to Chase. Prop her feet on the dash and turn the last half hour of drive time into the lyrics of a country song.

  Their conversations, so heavy, didn’t weigh on her as she’d expected. In fact, she felt lighter, having shared even a portion of her hurt with Chase. It’d been in abstract form, no details, but he’d seemed to get it. Get her. And it made her brave.

  Courageous enough to tell him the next piece.

  “I’m not whole.”

  She didn’t mean to blurt it out quite like that, but the sun dappling warm pockets of gold on the legs of her jeans and flickering through the passing tree limbs coaxed her out of her hiding place.

  To Chase’s credit, he didn’t even flinch. Just changed hands on the steering wheel and cast her a sincere look. An interested look. He wanted to know what she had to say. “You mean, you’re broken. Like the mosaic tile portrait.”

  Stella nodded, fingers clasped around the strap of her seatbelt, her fingers zipping back and forth over the slightly frayed edge. The material scratching into her flesh gave her comfort, kept her grounded. Gave her something to hold on to.

  Because she was about to leap into midair.

  “I’m divorced, Chase.”

  The truck veered slightly to the left, but he recovered quickly. Shook his head fast. “What?”

  “I know. I never thought that’d be the case either, trust me.”

  “You were . . . married?”

  He was definitely slower to catch on here. Unless he was truly just that shocked. She nodded. “For a few years.”

  “A few years?” His voice rose an octave, and he gripped the wheel with both hands. “What—what happened?”

  She didn’t know what he meant. What happened, as in, after he moved and she clearly met someone else? Or what happened as in why the divorce came about?

  She didn’t have solid answers for either scenario, really.

  “A lot.” She inhaled and exhaled deeply, watching the dimple in his cheek twitch. He was holding back. Way back. But holding back what? Sympathy? Anger? Judgment?

  She suddenly didn’t feel nearly as brave.

  “It didn’t work out.” This conversation wasn’t going the way she’d hoped. She was making it sound so flippant, so distant, so vague. Like it hadn’t literally ruined her life and scraped her soul raw and left her bleeding to die.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” His voice, now strained, pitched as if he wanted to say more. Or maybe as if he wished he’d heard less.

  Stella gripped the seatbelt tighter. “It happens.” No, it didn’t. Or shouldn’t, anyway. Why wasn’t this conversation flowing the way she’d imagined?

  Without another word, Chase pulled the truck to the side of the road, flipped on the hazard lights, and twisted in the seat to face her. “Stella. What happened?”

  And the whole story erupted. Dillon. Meeting her at a pageant one night. Their first date. His fast proposal. Their whirlwind marriage. The other women. The pressure. The expectations. The betrayal.

  He’d left. Cheated and left, which was a double whammy. She’d been willing to try, to keep her side of the vows regardless—but apparently she wasn’t even worth winning second place.

  Marriage was supposed to be a lifetime.

  They’d made it less than two years.

  By the time the story was out, she was tearstained, unbuckled, and sitting in the middle bench seat neat to Chase, his arm around her as he rubbed a comforting pattern with his thumb on her shoulder.

  “Can I kill him?”

  His first response, through all of that, and it was a death threat. She snorted back a strangled laugh. “There’s a waiting line for that, I think. My dad’s at the front. I think Lucas is a close second.”

  “Nah.” Chase shook his head. “Your dad is a man of the cloth. And Lucas . . . he might have the brother-in-law protective streak, but I can handle this better.” His grip around her arm tightened. “I can definitely handle this.”

  His desire to defend her, to avenge her, warmed a part of her heart long frozen. She reached up to his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “I’m not mad anymore. It’s been official for a year, and the resentment and bitterness are gone.” She wrinkled her nose. “Mostly.” She hesitated. “Now, it’s just this lingering sensation that things aren’t as they should be. Or what they seem.”

  “Unfamiliar. Unknown.” Chase nodded.

  “Exactly. It’s . . . Alice in Wonderland. I fell down this rabbit hole, and now nothing quite makes sense. It’s all upside down and too small and too big, all at once.” She swallowed. “I’m not me.”

  “Exactly.” He cleared his throat. “ ‘You were much more muchier. You’ve lost your muchness.’ ”

  Now she’d heard everything—Chase Taylor, quoting Alice in Wonderland. “You’ve seen that movie?” She reeled back in surprise, twisting her neck to meet his gaze. Then wished she hadn’t. The proximity of his face, his dimple, his stubble, was too much. Too familiar.

  Too wonderful.

  “My nephew Aaron loves that movie, because of Tweedledee and Tweedledum. I’ve watched it twice with him
just since I’ve moved back.” Chase shrugged, his hand once again rubbing comfort into her shoulder.

  Muchier. Yes, that was it. She’d lost her muchness. She closed her eyes, reveling in the light touch on her arm, in Chase’s nearness, in the fact that a man was sitting with her, enjoying her, listening to her—seeing her.

  And she was safe.

  “It’s why I get anxiety attacks.” She let the admission slip from her lips. It was embarrassing, but the desire to let Chase know the truth—to know her—pushed her forward.

  “That’s understandable. You’ve seen a doctor about them?”

  “Yeah. It’s just stress. When something happens to throw me off balance, the memories recur, and even though I know better in my head, my body reacts as if it’s happening all over again. I let my mind get overwhelmed and it takes me away.” She drew a deep breath. “They’re actually getting better, believe it or not. Used to be more frequent.”

  “I’ve never been divorced.” Chase spoke slowly, as if he was choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know that kind of pain. But I do know pain.” His voice cracked. “I know what it’s like to have all your dreams and plans shattered at your feet.”

  She twisted again to face him, his arm sliding halfway down her back as she turned. Her heart thudded. How had Chase been hurt? No wonder he understood how she felt so well. Deep spoke to deep.

  And some wounds could only be identified by someone bearing a similar scar.

  “What happened?”

  “I was engaged.” He started to say more, then paused, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. The contact of his palm against her face made her forget the question hanging between them, and on instinct, she closed her eyes.

  It only took a moment. His lips were just the way she’d remembered, but so much more. The last time she’d kissed Chase Taylor, he’d been a guy with an agenda, just like the others. Respectful and appropriate enough, but subconsciously intentional toward a goal.

  This Chase had no agenda, no intention of taking. His lips moved over hers in a gift, generous. Offering. Giving.

  She reached up as his kiss deepened, and her fingers found the hair at the back of his neck. Her other hand gripped the front of his shirt as ancient history and the present collided into a single moment.

  Chase’s phone rang from the dashboard, and they jumped apart, Stella’s breath releasing in a quick gasp.

  What. Had. Just. Happened.

  She started to slide away, but Chase caught her arm, eyes imploring her to stay as he grabbed his phone. “Hello?”

  Engaged. He’d been saying he’d been engaged.

  Surely he wasn’t still. She shook her head. No, that was crazy. She pressed a hand against her racing heart, trying to look casual as she watched Chase from the corner of her eye.

  He listened, the male voice on the other end of the call garbled and distant. He pushed his free hands against his ear, frowning as he concentrated. “Tim? Slow down. What about Jack?” He listened again, then his eyes widened. “The hospital?”

  Stella reached up and touched her fingers against her lips, unsure if the kiss had jump–started her heart or if the source of her adrenaline was the emergency that was apparently happening right now.

  Chase jabbed off his hazards and turned on his blinker as he checked his side mirror. “All right. If you’re sure he’s okay.” He shot Stella a glance, then checked his mirror again before pulling out onto the main road. “I’ll be there in an hour, max. Call me if anything changes.”

  Stella buckled her seatbelt as Chase merged onto the highway. Something was changing, all right.

  It already had.

  thirteen

  So much for not rushing too fast.

  He’d just pushed the speed limit by about fifteen miles per hour. Jack had fallen off a ladder at the Cameo and was at the ER with a broken ankle.

  He had kissed Stella.

  That was probably pushing the limit by fifty.

  Chase pulled into a parking spot near the emergency room and cut the engine. He’d filled Stella in on the way there. Tim swore Jack was fine and would be going home soon, but he wanted to see for himself and make sure Jack had been taken care of. Make sure Jack wasn’t going to sue. Make sure no one was responsible for the injury and it was a true accident.

  Sort of like that kiss. Pure accident.

  One he’d gladly repeat.

  No. Had to stop that train of thought. Jack came first.

  But Stella . . . divorced . . .

  The conversation of the past hour wouldn’t filter through his mind. It clogged up his brain and consumed him as he opened Stella’s door and led the way to the sliding double doors of the hospital. Who would be so stupid as to divorce Stella?

  Then again, who would be so stupid as to kiss the woman he’d come back to Bayou Bend to avoid?

  He rushed up to the front desk, his mind still racing a mile a minute with concern for Jack and the unfinished business between him and Stella, and suddenly realized he couldn’t remember Jack’s last name.

  “Old guy?” He gestured with his hands, like that might help the confused, scrub-clad nurse behind the counter. “Um. He has a beard.” He gestured again at his chin.

  Stella neatly elbowed him aside. “Hi. We’re looking for a man named Jack. He was admitted about an hour and a half ago for a broken ankle.” She pointed at Chase. “Despite the fact that he sounds like a five-year-old playing charades right now, this is his boss.”

  For someone who panicked regularly, Stella sure remained calm in an emergency. Chase smiled sheepishly at the nurse, who raised two perfectly arched brows in obvious doubt. “She’s right. Sorry. We were out of town, and one of my employees called to tell me there was an accident. But I didn’t get all the details—”

  “Mr. Taylor! Over here!” Tim’s voice rang through the crowded waiting room. He stood from a seat under a TV in the back corner, and waved with both arms, as if he was flagging down a friend at a football game.

  Not that Chase had been a whole lot more professional. Relief flooded through him. Finally, someone who could tell him the truth.

  Someone who could distract him from the whirlwind of the last two hours.

  He put one hand on Stella’s back to guide her through the crowded lobby toward Tim, narrowly avoiding a teenager on crutches. “Tim, is he okay? What happened?”

  Tim shoved his hair back with his hand, then replaced his ball cap and shrugged. “I don’t know, Boss. He was on the ladder, then all of a sudden he wasn’t.”

  Chase had been in construction long enough to know that might just be the whole story after all.

  “Where is he?” Chase looked away, but the curtained off areas of the emergency room were all tightly drawn. “And where’s Lyle?”

  “Lyle was with the plumber when it happened, so he asked me to drive Jack to the hospital.” Tim’s shoulders squared by an inch, his chest raising with pride. “We got here quick. I even ran two red lights.”

  “Why didn’t you just call an ambulance?”

  Stella’s innocent question threw Tim off guard, and he looked at her fully for the first time in all the excitement. His composure flustered considerably. He glanced back and forth between Stella and Chase, unsure. “Jack said not to. He didn’t want to pay for it.”

  Chase shook his head. Sounded like the old man.

  “I’m fine. The lot of you worrying about me is going to make me crazier than this blasted ankle.” Jack’s gruff voice echoed behind them, and they all turned at the same time. Jack sat in a wheelchair, one foot propped up and surrounded by a white cast. He held crutches length-wise across his lap. “They won’t even let me walk out of here on crutches.”

  “Hospital policy, sir.” The straight-faced nurse behind the chair said it as if she repeated the same sentiment a thousand times a day to grouchy patients. She probably did.

  “So you’re fine.”

  “Fine as I can be. Won’t be doing much work at the Cameo f
or a while.” Jack shifted in his chair. “Just a few fractures, but they won’t let me put weight on it for six weeks.”

  “At least six weeks,” the nurse corrected.

  Jack crossed his arms and grunted, the crutches slipping halfway off his lap.

  “It’s no problem, man, don’t worry about us.” Chase took the crutches for him as they began a processional toward the automatic front doors. “Tim said you fell off a ladder?”

  “Didn’t fall. Just stepped off.”

  “And that broke your ankle? What’d you land on, a spike?” Tim asked, incredulous.

  Jack glared as the nurse snorted. They wheeled outside into the late afternoon sunshine. “I stepped on the ground as I intended.” He paused. “Just didn’t realize I had an extra rung beneath me. Ankle rolled.”

  Ouch. Chase winced. “Let me drive you home, at least.” He was glad Jack was okay, but they’d have to hire someone to replace him on the crew or their production schedule would get thrown way off.

  “No, you’ve got company already.” Jack gestured at Stella, who looked away and pretended not to hear.

  “You know Stella is our designer for the Cameo,” Chase corrected him, hoping to put Stella at ease. Though his own heart pounded a rhythm far from easy. “Tim can drive Stella home.”

  “Yeah!” The boy lit up so bright he shone like a Christmas tree, and Chase immediately regretted his words. Especially at the way Stella’s head snapped back around to give him a pointed stare.

  “No need to mix it up. Tim can take me.”

  Tim deflated as the hope of being alone with Stella was rudely snatched away.

  “He drove just fine over here,” Jack continued, and the compliment puffed Tim back up a little. But behind Tim’s back, Jack made the universal signal for crazy, whirling a finger by his head and then pretending to clutch a steering wheel. Stella snorted and Chase bit back a laugh as he handed the crutches off to Tim.