The Art of My Life

by Ann Lee Miller

  Her gaze moved around the screen, and he knew she was studying him. Humiliation burned under his orange jumpsuit. He was so hungry to see her, he forgot about how she would view him. He looked down at a chip in the Formica desk. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I—I had a reason.”

  The words poured into his gut like a pile of broken shell. Of course, she did. She wouldn’t come just because she missed him and wanted to see him. His gaze lifted to her image.

  “Your Mom won’t be able to come today. She— Henna—” Aly’s chin fell to her chest. Her shoulders shook.

  His stomach tightened. “Just say it, Al.”

  “Henna died. An hour ago at Bert Fish Medical Center. She had a heart attack last night at her house. I was there, and your Mom and Missy. I knew your parents would be tied up with funeral arrangements, stuff. I wanted you to hear it from someone… someone you knew.”

  He could almost hear her say, someone who loved you, someone you loved.

  Pictures of Henna flooded his mind—keeping Van Gogh for him when he brought him home to her as a puppy, the way she always said he was a good boy, her orange Jell-o with shredded carrots and marshmallows, the way she called his room at her house the studio. Gone? She wasn’t seventy yet.

  He shook his head. “She let them take her to the hospital?”

  “She didn’t have much choice. She was unconscious.”

  Reality slammed into him. His grandmother lying unconscious in an ambulance. Now dead. No one close to him had ever died. He dropped his head into his hands.

  “I’m sorry, Cal.” Aly’s voice broke.

  He looked up, his eyes still starved for her in spite of the shock. “Thanks for caring enough to come. It means a lot to me.”

  She stood. “I….”

  Don’t go. Please don’t go. I need you.

  “Good-bye, Cal.”

  “It was good to see you.” He flattened his lips into a straight line.

  Her eyes swam with emotions he couldn’t decipher.

  His breath sucked in, bracing for her ripping away from him.

  She turned from the camera and walked out the door.

  “I love you.” The sound of his voice hung in the dead air.

  Starr glanced back at the church doors for the fiftieth time looking for Cal. The judge had been hard-hearted not to let him out for his grandmother’s funeral twenty-one days before he was due for release. Flight risk, the judge had said, and he didn’t consider a grandparent a member of one’s immediate family.

  She should have asked the judge to let him out for her sake. This wasn’t about making Cal pay. This was punishing her. She shouldn’t be surprised. Whenever she stepped into the Volusia County Jail to visit Cal, she felt charged and found guilty herself—as if birthing a law-breaker were a crime.

  She leaned forward, past Jesse’s Irish Spring scent, and let her gaze travel down the pew over Kallie, her grandchildren, Aly, Missy, Fish. Jackson stood behind the podium. Everyone was here but Cal. Even Evie sat two pews behind them—estranged from Cal or not. Starr knew Evie came to be there for her, but she wasn’t Cal.

  Well, Leaf was MIA, but he’d always been emotionally MIA. She didn’t miss him. Even though her parents had been more or less a couple all her life, she didn’t know how Leaf would react to Henna’s death.

  But Cal belonged here. She needed him. Cal, more than anyone in the family, loved and understood Henna.

  Jackson said words, sweet words, about Henna. Jackson, who always saw the best in people, was probably the only person on the planet who could know all the facts of Henna’s life and how she’d hurt Starr without holding it against her.

  Jackson had held Starr in bed last night so carefully and asked if she was glad she’d forgiven her mother. She was thankful Henna died with peace between them, but she felt guilty for her lack of sadness.

  Jackson had been so tender with her, rubbing her shoulders as though she were in the midst of some great agony. When she told Jackson she felt no grief, he seemed disappointed.

  Cal should be here. He would feel sad in Starr’s stead. She swiveled her face toward the doorway. Empty. There was her grief.

  Fish stood at Henna’s graveside with Missy’s family, looking at the glossy purple coffin—so appropriate for Henna—poised to be swallowed by brown earth. Missy clung to his hand, but he doubted she even realized it. A sixty-seven degree breeze ruffled her hair. People shuffled behind them. Someone snuffled loudly, probably one of Henna’s friends, Theodosia or Cissy, who had sobbed through the whole funeral.

  Missy had barely let go of him all day. Not that he was complaining. A one-day reprieve from his hands-off vow slaked what he starved for.

  Since Valentine’s Day a couple of months ago, they’d taken to meeting at Flagler Avenue Coffee Shop. At first they talked about forgiveness, then the conversations moved into free-flow about life—his, hers, life in general. Safe. Public. Worthy of a parental stamp of approval if her parents gave a rip. Okay, so they cared, but they trusted him way too much.

  And Fish would sit on his hands all evening, get in his truck, and drive to the marina as though a celebrity non-sex tape of their time together was being shot to further his political career. They got back the friendship they’d shared as kids and a whole lot more, but not touching her was killing him. He couldn’t stay here forever, especially after being physically connected to her all day. He had to make a decision.

  Missy leaned more weight on Fish as her father read from the Bible. She was wilting as the day dragged on.

  Jackson prayed, and Fish dropped his chin and closed his eyes.

  He felt Missy’s free hand grip his arm through his suit coat, and her head came to rest lightly against his chest—over his Barry College Law School acceptance letter in his breast pocket that arrived this morning.

  His eyes popped open to a straight shot down her navy blue dress. He’d seen the swell of her breasts and the pink lace trim of her bra before he clamped his eyes shut again. He kept his eyes closed well after the prayer had ended forcing himself to picture Henna dead in her green and yellow muumuu the way he’d seen her at the viewing.

  Missy straightened and stared trance-like at the casket lowering into the hole.

  Starr dropped the first handful of dirt onto the casket.

  Missy shuddered.

  Jesse and Jackson each took a turn.

  All eyes turned on Missy.

  “I can’t do it.”

  In Missy’s stead, Fish tossed a fist-full of dirt that broke apart on the foot of the casket.

  People offered quiet condolences and hugs Missy received with vacant eyes.

  Fish stayed at her elbow, wondering how she would make it through the funeral dinner.

  As the family gathered to leave the cemetery, Jackson glanced at Missy who stared into the open grave. “Come on, honey, time to go.”

  “A few more minutes, Dad.”

  “I’ll bring her when she’s ready,” Fish said.

  As her parents climbed into their mini-van Missy turned her back on the grave and fell into his arms before the first sob slipped out. She cried against his chest, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her. He found a napkin in his jacket pocket left over from the last wedding he’d attended and handed it to her.

  There was nowhere he’d rather be, nothing he’d rather be doing.

  After the dinner, he pulled up in front of Henna’s dark house.

  Missy’s eyes had been closed during the trip from the church and she didn’t open them now.

  “Are you sure you want to stay here? I can take you to your folks’.”

  “I’m staying here,” she said without opening her eyes. “I’ll feel Henna’s presence.”

  He hopped out of the truck and went around to open her door.

  Missy sighed and slid out of the truck. “Thanks for everything today. You’ve been a rock.” She lifted her arms to hug him in the glow from the porch light.

  He gathered her gent
ly against his heart and let her go a second later when she stepped away. “You’re welcome.”

  Missy gave him a tired smile. “I mean it. I don’t know how I would have gotten through today without you.”

  He turned her around and gave her a push toward the front steps. “Go get ready for bed. When you’re under the covers, text me. I want to make sure you’re okay before I leave.”

  Something knotted in his chest. Missy’s needing him fed something inside him. He wanted to take care of her for a long, long time. He leaned against the truck missing her already.

  His phone lit with a text alert. Good night.

  He’d check to make sure she locked the front door. As exhausted as she was, she might not have remembered.

  The knob turned in his hand. He pushed the door open and crossed the living room. The scent of cleaning solutions hung in the air as he rapped a knuckle on Cal’s old bedroom door.

  The door pushed open from the pressure of his knock.

  “Hmm.” Missy lay on her side in the middle of a queen-sized bed beyond the dim circle of light from a bedside lamp. Her dark curls splayed across a white pillow. An arm covered in a long-sleeve T-shirt laid on top of the quilt.

  Missy turned tired eyes on him. “I’m fine. Going to sleep.” Her eyes drifted shut.

  The sadness that had cloaked her all day still clung to her. He sunk to the edge of the bed. His hand reached out and stroked her hair.

  Missy’s eyes barely cracked open, then shut again. “Peachy cream…”

  He tried to imagine what Missy felt. His grandparents lived in Colorado and Ohio. He didn’t know what it was like to have them nearby. But he’d sure ached enough over his family moving to Peru to understand a little of what she felt.

  He combed his fingers through her hair, memorizing the orange blossom scent, the contrast between its mahogany color and the pale fuzz on the back of his wrist.

  He stretched a curl out to its full length and let it spring back. Another.

  Missy’s breathing evened out. She slept.

  He eased off the bed and stood. Weariness he hadn’t noticed rounded his shoulders… and something else he couldn’t avoid facing any longer. Love. He’d always felt protective of Missy, but this was different, deeper.

  And he didn’t want to love her. Didn’t want to love anyone. Okay, he’d admit it, he was too chicken-livered to sign up for more pain.

  He shut off the lamp and stared down at her until his eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight in the room.

  Missy sighed in her sleep.

  He shut the bedroom door firmly between them, and locked and exited the front door.

  He slumped in the front seat of his truck in the dark. He thumped his forehead against the steering wheel.

  It burned him that she was after a wedding ring. He wished she was like other twenty-year-olds who wanted to party, or at most, snag a boyfriend.

  He’d never thought about marriage, never dated anyone he remotely considered marrying. He’d walked the perimeter of Killman Jewelry Store when he bought Missy’s Christmas gift, just so he didn’t get anywhere near the engagement rings—a disease he didn’t want to catch.

  Only looking at one girl the rest of his life didn’t bother him. A mortgage and a mini-van didn’t bother him. Becoming the man you should be instead of the one you were was daunting, but not insurmountable.

  Kids were a sticking point. Had Dad woken up one day with four kids wreaking mayhem around him and realized he’d never get his dream if he didn’t careen after it right that instant? Well, Fish would chase his dream now before it could screw up his kids.

  Missy wanted marriage and children now. He still had law school to get through before he could even start chasing his dream.

  He had to go cold turkey from Missy to keep his sanity. No more meeting at Flagler Avenue Coffee Shop. And for her sake, too. He didn’t want to hurt her. She had been trying to detach from him, and he was only making things harder on her by hanging out.

  Good-bye, Mis. I lo— He wrenched the key in the ignition and threw the truck into reverse. No, he wouldn’t even think it.

  Cal took another lap around the rec yard. He’d never been much of a runner, but he had to do something to keep sane. He swiped the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his arm. His thoughts see-sawed between the finality of Henna’s death and Aly’s visit as they had all month.

  Henna had been gone three weeks. She’d always been there for him. Always. He dreaded going to Henna’s and finding Missy living in her house.

  He’d done nothing but think these three months in jail. Whether he existed inside society or outside wasn’t as important as the people in his life. When he got out, he’d work at keeping the people he loved in his life—family, friends, Aly.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence that Aly showed up immediately after a cry for her had wrenched from his gut. He felt almost like a spectator and instead of the one who’d uttered the plea. Even on his bleakest day, he couldn’t give up on her.

  How could he read Aly and not believe she still cared for him? She’d driven to Daytona Beach minutes after Henna died to give him the news.

  Thinking about Aly made him pick up his pace. He couldn’t tamp down the hope now.

  Weed had affected his mood, his ability to think, even when he wasn’t smoking every day. Four months sober showed him the difference. His thoughts were clear—focused on his resurrected plan to win Aly.

  And tomorrow he’d see her.

  Chapter 26

  April 27

  Do you ever feel like you’re facing a day that could change the course of your life forever? How do you prepare for a day like that? Eat Wheaties, floss, pray, clean house?

  Aly at www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com

  Aly yawned and stared at the glowing red numbers on the clock. Nine p.m. She should have asked Missy what time Cal was getting out of jail. She’d never been more than two inches from her phone all day, but it never rang.

  She’d prayed, laundered the musty boat smell from Cal’s sheets and clothes, scrubbed the cabin from top to bottom, and a dozen other things last night but didn’t attempt sleeping. She didn’t even know if Cal planned on living here, but at least his stuff would be ready to pack.

  Every cell in her body and mind needed to see Cal today. If he came through the hatch, she should just throw herself into his arms, commit emotional suicide and be done with it. He’d reject her a final time—probably not tonight, but sometime. He’d already left her for another woman, marijuana, running, jail. He’d hurt her worse than Daddy had. She’d never had good years with Daddy, not really. With Cal she had.

  Maybe Cal had already hurt her as much as she could be hurt—like if your arms and legs were already broken, would a broken neck bring more pain? Yeah, it would. A voice sing-songed in her head, Once burned, shame on Cal; twice burned shame on you. She’d have to be certifiable to put herself out there for Cal to destroy.

  Cal wasn’t going to show.

  Just as well. She was beyond exhausted. She could climb into her bunk with her disappointment and escape into sleep’s oblivion.

  There were so many reasons to get over Cal. She needed a man who didn’t run to weed whenever he couldn’t handle life. A guy who had a full-time job—any job. Someone who would be there for her, not one who abandoned her—like Dad had done to Mom.

  But Cal had a spiritual component her father lacked. Cal’s man-standing-in-the-light painting had seared to her mind. Somehow she knew this painting depicted the real Cal, the one now drenched in light. Cal had turned some corner the night of the pot bonfire, even if his anger the day he turned himself in had camouflaged it.

  She got ready for bed, fed Van Gogh, and took one last look at Cal’s cabin.

  He’d have to at least come get his stuff. But he probably crashed at his folks’ or Henna’s house with Missy.

  She turned away from Cal’s empty bunk and walked the length of the boat to her bed. Exhaustion pulled her down
, and she crawled between the sheets. Her head sunk into the pillow, and her mind floated into blessed numbness.

  Cal unlocked the hatch.

  Van Gogh gave three short barks.

  “Shh, Van Gogh, it’s just me.”

  The dog silenced and thumped his tail against the galley cupboards, nearly as loud as his barking.

  Cal flipped on the light and came down the ladder to his dog’s frenzied adoration. He squatted and scratched Van Gogh’s coat. “You smell good. Somebody gave you a bath.” The dog flipped onto his back to have his stomach rubbed.

  Cal looked up and froze.

  Aly held onto the fore bulkhead half-asleep. Her hair was mussed. An orange and blue Florida Gators jersey hung almost to her knees.

  Before conscious thought, he crossed the cabin and wrapped her in his arms. “Oh, God, Aly, I’ve missed you so much.” All his resolutions to wait until he’d proven himself were crushed between her softness and his ribs. He inhaled her forest and mint scent, pressed his lips to her hair, held on while his brain catalogued on autopilot exactly what items of clothing she wore.

  Her silence registered and the fact that she wasn’t hugging him back.

  He released her.

  Aly folded her arms, shielding her breasts. “Where were you?” The words sounded like she was a little miffed as if he were a half-hour late for dinner.

  He dropped into the dining nook. “I applied for jobs all afternoon, dinner with the family, Narcotics Anonymous, talked Stoney into re-hiring me this evening. I’m going to prove to you that I’ve changed.”

  Aly stared at him. “Where are you staying?”

  “Here?”

  Some emotion he couldn’t read flitted through her eyes.

  An oversized conch shell splashed into the bottom of his stomach. “I can stay at my folks’, no problem.”