Love Arrives in Pieces

by Betsy St. Amant

  Stella wrapped herself in Chase’s embrace next. “I am so sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be sorry. That was a victory.”

  She pulled back, stared into his eyes. “What do you mean? I just almost lost it over something I basically invented in my own head.” She shook her head, huffed out a sigh. “So ridiculous.”

  “You don’t see it, do you?” He used her favorite line on her, and grinned. “You went through everything this evening—your sister going into labor, losing your keys, the hospital visit, the fire, the misplaced guilt . . . everything—without a full-out panic attack.”

  She looked around, almost in awe, as if realizing for the first time he was right. “True.” She smirked. “I’m still conscious.”

  He pulled her into another hug—just as a portion of the shelter’s roof collapsed.

  She winced as fresh ash and soot rained down around them, but he didn’t loosen his grip. After a moment, she relaxed completely back into his embrace. “This wasn’t my fault.”

  “Good girl.” He held her tight, despite the memory of her family’s disapproval fresh in his mind from the waiting room just hours before. “You’re learning.”

  Unfortunately, he didn’t think he was.

  In all the excitement and horror of the fire the evening before, Stella never got a chance to tell Chase about her conversation with her sister and her mom at the hospital.

  Hopefully tonight would be a night to remember, in a way much more positive than last night’s version. At least the regulars from the shelter had agreed to come to the Cameo for the grand opening celebration that evening. They’d get free air conditioning and free food, which was a much better gig than sleeping on the streets. Maybe Chase would have found out by now about temporary housing at the theater.

  She needed to get going, needed to check on all those things before the party started. Needed to tell Chase her good news.

  Hopefully he’d agree with her on that. But if not, at least she knew she had done all she could. The investigators had found the cause of the fire—the ancient water heater in the back of the facility. If the heater could have just hung on a few more weeks, they’d have started construction and replaced the thing with a new one. It could have been avoided.

  But the timing was out of her control, and she was learning to let go of the things she couldn’t handle herself.

  And embrace the ones she could.

  That made her think of Chase, of the warmth of his hugs. If she hurried, she might have time to talk with him before the start of the show. At least that way she wouldn’t be a wreck all during the movie.

  She quickly opened her jewelry box for the first time in ages and removed a large pair of dangly silver hoop earrings. Then she tugged her favorite ring, her birthstone, onto her right ring finger. It felt so foreign. When was the last time she’d worn jewelry?

  On her divorce court date, maybe.

  She checked her reflection briefly in the mirror. Approached it slowly, like a beast. Touched her makeup bag. Snatched her hand back. Then touched it again.

  Maybe just a little. She was wearing a dress, after all. A sleeveless turquoise sheath the exact color of the fabric samples for the Ninth Cameo. And heels.

  She couldn’t wear heels without a touch of makeup.

  She dabbed on a bit of concealer, amazed at how her eyes immediately lit. Then a few brushes of a neutral powder, just enough to cover the slightly uneven tones around her nose, followed by several swipes of blush. Subtle. Glowing. Nothing too intense.

  But her eyes . . . they begged for a bit of attention.

  She studied her eye shadow palette. A smoky gray, maybe? It was nighttime, after all, and a big event. She’d worked hard for this.

  She’d earned it.

  She created a subtle smoky eye with two different shadows and a nearly-black eyeliner, followed with a few strokes of the mascara brush. Her favorite lip-balm and lip-gloss combo was still in her purse. She pulled it out of the side pocket and dabbed the peachy shade over her lips.

  She stared at the mirror in shock—and happiness. It was . . . Stella. The old Stella.

  But not exactly. Not the made-up plastic Barbie doll she had once seen in the three-way pageant mirror. Not the one whose life centered around dresses and pageants and tiaras. This was someone else. Not the old Stella, but a new one.

  She felt beautiful.

  She felt safe.

  And she couldn’t wait to see Chase. Then she grinned.

  Scratch that.

  She couldn’t wait for Chase to see her.

  The Downtown Development Committee had chosen Breakfast at Tiffany’s as the theater’s debut film. Nothing said “vintage” or “classic” better than Audrey Hepburn.

  Stella hesitated outside the double doors of the Cameo, held open by two men in tuxedos. Tuxedos? Wow. The Downtown Development Committee had gone all out to make the evening special.

  She took a deep breath, smiled at the men, and strode into the brightly lit lobby.

  Straight into a bygone Hollywood era. People in ball gowns and cocktail dresses and skinny jeans, sipping champagne from crystal flutes and carrying around red-and-white striped cartons of popcorn. Milling about, pointing out the decorations, the ceiling tiles, the new floor. Noticing the very details she and Chase spent hours perfecting.

  Amazing.

  She just hoped the shelter’s residents didn’t feel out of place in the middle of all this unexpected glamour.

  “Surprise!” Cowboy Bob was at her side immediately, looking nice in a dark navy suit. He still wore his trademark boots, and she remembered too late she’d wanted to try to convince Chase to wear some too. But that was when she thought the night would be much more casual, much less . . . magical. Hollywood magical.

  “What is all this?” She took the flute glass a server handed her, but turned down the popcorn. Not yet. Not until she talked to Chase.

  “We figured you guys worked so hard, we’d fancy up the event a little.” Bob grinned, obviously proud of himself, then did a double take. “Wow, Miss Stella, you’re looking really lovely tonight.”

  She brushed off the compliment. It wasn’t the one she wanted. “Thank you.”

  Bob turned back to the crowd, waving at someone he knew across the room. “I knew you’d appreciate the extravagance, and well, Chase didn’t mind. I told him about it last week, but he said to let it be a surprise to you.”

  And what a surprise it was. There was even a string quartet in the far corner of the lobby, filling the place with peaceful classical music.

  Chase so owed her a dance after all this was done.

  “He asked me about putting some cots in here temporarily, to let the residents of the shelter have somewhere to sleep for a bit.”

  Stella nodded, turning hopeful eyes up at Bob. “And?” He had to say yes. If he didn’t . . .

  “I don’t see any harm in it, if you don’t think they’ll mess up the place.”

  “Of course not. They’re very careful. We’d have the same rules here as we do at the shelter. And I bet Nancy would come stay with them.” In fact, she’d even be willing to come stay herself. Those residents—Dixie, Howard, and the whole gang—had sneaked into her heart. One crazy story at a time, one cupcake at a time.

  “That’s what Chase said you’d say.” Bob chuckled. “Sounds like a plan, then.”

  She suddenly wanted to see Chase so badly it hurt. “Where is he? Has he gotten here yet?”

  And then there he was, halfway across the room, wearing a sharp black suit with a turquoise tie, popping bright against the white of his dress shirt.

  Had he matched the Cameo’s color scheme on purpose, as she had? Or was it just another case of great minds thinking alike? Her heartbeat accelerated as he strode toward her, his eyes reflecting the same emotions roiling through her stomach. Fear. Joy. Hope. Anxiety.

  He reached her side, slipped his arm around her in a hug. His eyes looked her up and down in wonder. “Wow
. You look . . . amazing.”

  His compliment warmed her, all the way to the tip of her toes peeking out from her silver heeled sandals.

  Warmed her. But didn’t complete her.

  She smiled with relief. Mission accomplished.

  She was free.

  She looked him in the eye. “So do you.”

  “Thank you.” He was still hugging her. She didn’t mind in the least. “I have a surprise for you.”

  “More than all of this?” How could there be more? This was amazing. Already, it was the perfect night, and the movie hadn’t even started yet.

  “Yep, more than all of this. Just one more thing, actually.” Chase’s grin was contagious. He held out his hand, and she slipped hers into his palm. “Follow me, please.”

  Gladly. Anywhere, if he asked.

  “I have to talk to you too. Before the movie, if we can.” He was walking fast, and she struggled to keep the pace in her heels.

  “Sure. Whatever you want.” He grinned at her as he led the way to the back corner of the lobby, where a small crowd gathered around a portion of the wall. She couldn’t remember what usually hung in that spot, and she craned her head to see around the cluster of heads in front of it. “What is that?”

  Chase waited, still smiling, squeezing her hand. “You’ll see.”

  She waited, not as patiently as Chase, and then the crowd parted as several people slowly moved away from the object of interest. She heard murmurs as they passed.

  So interesting.

  I wonder what the story is behind that piece.

  It’s so beautiful.

  Why couldn’t she remember what was hung in that spot? A mirror, maybe? No. Surely not.

  And then she saw it.

  An upside-down umbrella.

  Broken bits made into a whole.

  Her umbrella.

  Her breath caught in her throat. The room thickened, tightened. She clutched Chase’s arm. “How did—why is—”

  “Surprise!” Chase said, as if her world wasn’t spiraling down around her. “It’s your mosaic tile project.”

  “I know.” Her voice came out in a rasp, and she cleared her throat, then shoved back a sip of the champagne she suddenly remembered she was holding. “Why—how?”

  “You said you’d already had it framed, so I thought it the perfect place to debut. The grand opening of the Cameo.” Chase pulled her toward the picture, and she struggled, attempting to walk backward away from it as he tugged her forward. “Look, I even put a plaque under it, explaining where all the pieces came from.”

  He had named it too. PUDDLE STOMPER by Stella Varland.

  She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

  His eyes grew more concerned the longer her silence lasted. He cleared his throat. “I know it’s a shock. I hope you’re not mad.”

  Mad? She couldn’t even breathe enough air to get to mad. Mad was so far out of reach. Mad would be a calming relief. She clenched and unclenched her fists as more people passed by, commenting about the design.

  That’s different.

  Pretty cool, I guess.

  Kind of random.

  Isn’t all art random, though?

  They were already criticizing. Already judging.

  The room dipped. Spun.

  “You broke into my house?” She asked the first question she could grab, the biggest one that made any sense at all. The worst betrayal.

  “No!” Chase frowned, casting a quick look around to see if anyone had heard as he pulled her farther from the throng of people, right up against the frame. “Don’t be crazy. I used your extra key.”

  “My key!” Her voice rose louder than she meant for it to. “I never told you where my extra key was.”

  “Sorry, I forgot to tell you. You have a key on top—”

  “I know where my spare key is.” She was downright hissing now, like a snake. Like a poisonous snake, out of control, unable to predict where it might strike next. “How dare you? I trusted you.”

  He had betrayed her. Had gone into her home without her permission and taken the most private of her accomplishments. The best part of her.

  And bared it for all to see.

  Chase’s face fell. “Stella, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I mean, I didn’t intend—”

  No. He was lying. “How could you not mean this? You knew that project was a secret. My secret.” It was like her divorce all over again. The lack of trust. The betrayal of what was sacred. The invasion of her privacy and her home.

  She pressed her fingers against her eyes, trying to stop the pounding in her head, the voices in her heart.

  Her hands came away smeared with makeup.

  She stared at the stain. At the umbrella portrait. At her heels.

  What was she doing? She wasn’t safe. Who was she kidding?

  Puddle Stomper. What an illusion.

  She grabbed for the frame, but he’d hung it well. It wouldn’t budge. “Stella, be careful. Don’t—” Chase tried to pull her away, pull her into a hug, but she pushed him away.

  “Let go of me.” She wrenched her arm free, even though he’d barely even touched her. “Don’t even try to fix this. You can’t.” She felt the tears coming, knew her embarrassment level was about to jump from a three to about a twelve on a scale of ten.

  “I’ve got to go.” Yes. She had to go. Now. Before she heard what anyone else said about her work. Before the panic took over.

  Before she fainted in Chase’s arms for the fourth time.

  twenty

  He was an idiot.

  He should have known Stella would react that way. She’d made such progress over the last several weeks, but she wasn’t completely healed. No one was. He should have known she’d feel violated.

  And then he realized—here he was judging Stella’s progress, while his own had grown more than a little stagnant. Wasn’t he supposed to be working on him? On not rushing ahead and moving too fast and missing the important things along the way? Important things like details about the woman he loved.

  Details that weren’t even secret.

  He had betrayed her. She wasn’t ready for her art to go public, might not ever be, and that wasn’t his choice. It was hers.

  He’d rushed and overstepped. Ruined it.

  Again.

  He stood in front of the umbrella and hated himself.

  “Is she okay?” Dixie strolled up to him, an unfamiliar man in a suit and one of those fancy French hats—a beret—at her side.

  He was too worked up to even care why her date had a beret. It was Dixie. Anything was normal, while at the same time, nothing was normal. “No. And it’s my fault.”

  “I told her she needed an umbrella.”

  “Yes, you did.” Chase smiled despite himself. “She heard you.”

  “She heard Him.” Dixie pointed to the ceiling and Chase nodded.

  “No argument here.”

  “But where is she now?”

  “Upset.”

  Dixie frowned. “Ladies’ room upset, or parking lot to get a cab upset?”

  More like, flee her small town and move to another city upset. But Chase had no idea what she’d actually do. “I’m really not sure, Dixie.”

  Dixie frowned harder.

  He pulled out his phone, started typing Stella a text. “I’ll ask her but I doubt she’ll respond to me.”

  “She won’t. She’s too upset.”

  Well if Dixie knew that, why had she asked?

  “I wanted her to meet my friend.” She pointed to the man in the beret, who extended his hand to Chase. “Jonas Prince.”

  He shook it warily. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You too. I’m an art broker in California. And I’m really interested in this umbrella piece.” His eyes roamed the umbrella with appreciation, studying it intently as if searching for hidden meaning. “Do you happen to know if it’s for sale?”

  Dixie beamed with pride. “My friend.”

  Chase’s jaw dropped.
“Um . . .” Why was an art broker at a theater grand opening in Bayou Bend?

  “I invited him. My friend.” Dixie winked, as if that cleared up everything.

  And for her, it might.

  “I’d really like to meet the artist, if she’s around tonight.” Jonas scrawled a figure on a business card and handed it to Chase. “That’s the amount I’m willing to offer. Please, text or call me after the movie if you can find her.”

  Chase’s eyes registered on the monetary figure in black ink, and he swallowed.

  Oh, he’d find her all right.

  He shot off another desperate text message as Dixie and Jonas filed into the theater with the rest of the crowd, then realized he’d have to do this the old-fashioned way.

  On foot.

  He tucked the business card safely in his jacket pocket, and made his way to the infamous ladies’ room. He asked a teenager coming out if she could verify if Stella was inside. She wasn’t.

  Well, he knew she wasn’t in the men’s room.

  He poked his head inside the back of the theater, but she wouldn’t have gone there to hide or cry if she knew the crowd would be filing in any minute.

  He headed for the front doors, slipped outside into the warm evening air.

  Saw a flash of turquoise sitting on the curb.

  “You’re going to wrinkle your dress.” He sank down onto the sidewalk beside her. She had driven here. Why hadn’t she left?

  Maybe she wanted to be found.

  He touched the business card in his pocket, then waited. Not yet. “What were you going to talk to me about before the show, Stella?”

  Her voice was as listless as her form, her legs stretched in front of her. Shoes off and resting beside her on the concrete. “Doesn’t matter now.”

  “Why not? What changed?”

  She snapped her head around to stare at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding me?”

  There was the spark he’d been trying to ignite. He sat back, waiting for Stella to do her thing. To vent, to process. To come back to the same fact that he kept coming back to.

  It was time. Their time.

  “You betrayed me.”

  “But only with good intentions.”

  She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. “What does that even mean?”