“Yes.” The words seemed to validate her once again. “Yes, I am.”
“Are you participating in this weekend’s exhibit?”
“I . . . I didn’t know about it. I’m from out of town.”
“Oh, well . . . perhaps another time.”
Before the woman dismissed her, Tayte remembered the forgotten seascape she had brought as a gift for her grandmother. She quickly blurted, “I have a piece in my car.”
“Bring it in. I enjoy seeing the work of anyone who breathes in her craft.”
Tyler was still sitting on the bench, legs crossed, glued to his phone when Tayte asked for the keys, retrieved the piece from the car, and returned to the gallery.
“That was quick,” said the woman, waving a perfectly manicured hand at the painting as she descended the stairs. She offered her critique as she came. “It’s very nice. Engaging. Where did you say you’re from?” She continued to study the piece. “By the way, I’m Katherine.”
“Hello.” Tayte extended her hand and introduced herself. “Tayte Donnelly, from Miami. I’m visiting . . . family in the area.” The last phrase caught in her throat and she quickly changed the subject. “I have pieces in the Oswald Gallery in Miami, and I’ve done commissioned work.”
“Impressive. Well, Mr. Delacourte has the final say on what we accept for consignment, but I like your work, Tayte Donnelly. I’ll give your piece an initial acceptance pending his final approval. Come with me.” She led the way to a back room where a flustered older man sat organizing a stack of papers. “Uh-oh. Carl appears to be too busy to frame your piece right now.”
Tayte saw the opportunity slipping away. “I can do it myself.”
“Good,” replied Katherine. “The framing room is the third door on the right. Frame your piece while Carl clears a spot for it and enters you into the system. The local art exhibit has the entire place in chaos, but Mr. Delacourte will be sure to see your painting if we place it in the front window. There are no guarantees, but you have talent, so perhaps this is your lucky day.”
Katherine exited as Tayte’s phone rang. It was Tyler checking in.
“They have a table for us.”
“Eat without me. The gallery across the street may take my seascape on consignment, but I need to frame it first.” The silence on the other end of the phone unnerved her. “What? Why can’t you be happy for me?”
“Why are you doing this, Tayte? You’re launching your career in Miami. Why start one here?”
“I just . . . needed . . . I don’t know . . . to not feel like a failure today.”
“You’re not a failure. You’re pragmatic. Your life and career are in Miami. All you have here is a blood relative who doesn’t even know you, Tayte. That’s not enough reason to uproot your entire life.”
He said the things she hoped he’d say, but it only slightly lessened her guilt. Plenty still remained. “I still want to do this, Tyler. Maybe I’ll come back to visit Grandma when things settle down. This will give me a stake here.”
“Okay. How long will it take you to finish up there?”
“Another hour or so.”
“All right. I’ll go in and eat, and I’ll order something to go for you. In an hour, we head south for home, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
An hour later Tayte was registered with Delacourte Gallery and standing outside on the sidewalk. She was examining her piece through the showcase window when an engine roared to a stop behind her and a tall, ponytailed biker in black chaps leaned forward to admire her painting.
* * *
Earlier that day, the closer Noah had drawn to his uncle’s Adamstown, Maryland farm, the sweatier his palms had become. Noah wished he were anywhere but here. The bike’s engine idled at the bottom of the Andersons’ lane while he debated heading back to South Carolina. He pulled the note the officer delivered from his pocket, but there was no need to read it. It was now committed to memory.
Your Uncle John has been trying to find you. Please contact him. And hurry.
Noah couldn’t recall that many specific memories of Uncle John himself—his mother’s brother—during his early years, but he could recall the feelings his name would conjure. He wasn’t an overtly affectionate man by nature, but he had been steady, and he made Noah feel safe—two things he desperately wanted from his own father. Noah also realized that nearly every special childhood memory centered on visits to Uncle John’s idyllic farm.
Memories of hayrides and cloth-covered sawhorse-and-plywood tables laden with all the sweets and fresh fruit a boy could eat. He recalled the happiness of bottle-feeding baby calves, and—despite his normally humiliating club foot—limping joyfully to the car as he helped his mother carry plates piled high with leftovers headed for home. Opening his lunchbox was a delight the next week.
Recollections of fishing and watching kids dangle from the rope swing that hung over the pond passed over his mind, but mostly he recalled the occasions when he spent the night. Once was when his mother cared for Aunt Sarah after a surgery. Another was one snowy New Year’s Eve after another miserable Christmas at home.
Unbeknownst to mother and son, Duey Carter’s annual holiday binge had begun early that year, the instant his father touched his Christmas bonus check. Not one gift lay under the tree when six-year-old Noah went to bed Christmas Eve, but Mama had told him not to worry. Even if his father was late coming home, Santa would come.
Noah lay there, listening to her feet pacing back and forth in front of the window, and the sound of their faded green curtain being drawn back each time a car drove past their Baltimore row house. Finally he snuck out of bed, studying his mother from his hiding place on the third step. She’d surrendered to a chair by then, her purse and coat by her side, biting her nails and crying, praying aloud that the check would arrive before the last store closed.
One package sat under the tree the next morning. The box was so large, Noah dared believe it could be a toy truck or a train. His anticipation created such a stir that he awakened his sleeping father, who’d made it only as far as the sofa the night before. The more Noah’s heart pounded with excitement, the sadder his mother grew. The “present” was new braces for his clubfeet. It was all she had to wrap.
Noah made the mistake of showing his disappointment, which caused his mother to cry, earning him a backhanded slap from his father, splitting his lip open. His mother hurried him to the bathroom, begging him not to cry.
Shut up, Noah. Please, just shut up or Daddy will hit you again.
Then December thirty-first dawned with snow, and Noah had dared again to hope for a good day, asking if he could go sledding at Patterson Park. He and his mother dressed and headed outdoors, leaving a stack of pancakes behind to greet his sleeping father. When his father awoke, the pancakes were cold and the house was empty, as was the refrigerator, and Noah had not shoveled the walk.
When he and his mother returned home, his father pulled his belt from his pants and laid it across Noah’s bottom until his mother voiced concerns that the blows might draw blood. That meager defense made her Duey Carter’s new target. He exhausted his waning strength smacking her, and then he stumbled out the door.
His mother swallowed her pride and called her brother, Noah’s Uncle John, who came for them immediately. When he arrived two hours later and saw how battered they were, he offered to beat Duey Carter to a pulp. Noah had secretly cheered for such retribution, but his mother wouldn’t allow it. Instead, Uncle John drove them to his grand white farmhouse which was still brightly lit with Christmas lights along the rooflines and on every gate, post, and tree. The decorations were so beautiful, Noah had wondered if Santa himself might have remained there for the New Year.
Aunt Sarah snuggled him and fed him a steaming bowl of stew, with a side of hot biscuits dripping with honey butter, and a mug of warm cider. He ate pie until he thought he would burst, and then he and his mother slept in the sweetest smelling bed he had ever known. Uncle John’s promise of
a surprise in the morning filled Noah’s dreams with joyous expectation that pushed away the previous ugliness. After breakfast, Uncle John plowed a football field-length sled trail for Noah, and later, they shared a campfire supper. The day proved to be as unforgettable as he prayed.
When the magical day ended and Noah was again tucked into the bed that smelled like flowers, he stared out the bedside window at the twinkle lights until tears rolled down his cheeks. He wondered why some little boys had this life and why others didn’t. He heard his mother’s sniffles in the bed beside him and placed his arm around her neck to comfort her, thinking she wished for this life too. And then he heard the reason for her crying, a reason he would not have believed possible, and one that left him feeling utterly betrayed. She missed his father.
Noah tensed at the memory, focusing instead on his current dilemma—the farm before him. It had not changed in ten years. Had the man who owned it? Would he notice the changes in Noah? That was really what Noah had come seeking.
The words of the note ran through his mind again:
Your Uncle John has been trying to find you. Please contact him. And hurry.
That was it except for the contact information. No assurance of forgiveness for Noah. No apology for the hurt Uncle John had caused. What would it require to leave things with Uncle John better than he found them? Too much? Have I really changed? Has he? As Noah stared at the house, his sweet childhood memories blurred, overshadowed by the sting of that final, agonizing encounter with his uncle. His mind opened to dark thoughts. What if the ten years apart had changed nothing? Could he recover from another rejection by the man he once revered?
Unable to dispel the doubts, Noah fastened his helmet and turned his bike, but as he sped away, the burning commenced in his gut—the need for closure, to leave things better, and the right to say his piece. But not here. Not on another man’s terms. He needed to think.
At the next intersection, Noah had taken the fork that led to Frederick. Most of his previous visits to downtown Frederick had been at night, and then only to a few select and nefarious places—the bar on East Street, a tavern on Howard, a few street corners where pot and pills could be quickly scored. However, ten years had changed the landscape of the upwardly mobile city. He hoped the changes in him were equally apparent.
He’d turned his motorcycle left at Carroll and parked it at the curb, then begun loosening the straps on his helmet as he scanned the block for a hamburger shop—only to discover that it and several of its neighbors had been leveled to make way for an art gallery. Now, disappointed, he was backing out to leave when a painting in the window caught his eye. He leaned forward to study the thick, intricately detailed frame that surrounded the delicate seascape, and then heard a voice beside him.
“Do you think it’s centered?”
When he turned, he found an attractive, dark-haired woman wearing a blue dress. She was tall, maybe only six inches shorter than he was, and she leaned away from him as she also scrutinized the piece. Feeling instantly awkward, he dropped his gaze to the concrete before replying. “Its position isn’t the problem.”
The woman put a hand to her hip and raised one eyebrow in evident incredulity. “Really? And do you mind if I ask what is?”
The first word’s drawn-out delivery underscored the woman’s displeasure. He regretted having answered her at all. “Never mind. It’s just my opinion.”
She huffed and took a long-legged step back away from him, as if assessing him. “Are you an artist?”
He responded to the accusation in her voice by shifting his feet and moving his helmet to the crook of the other arm. “I’m just saying that the frame is too dark and heavy. It’s beautiful, but it doesn’t complement the piece. I’d prefer to see a gentle seascape surrounded by something lighter and more natural.”
She didn’t respond, but a quick glance revealed wrinkles in her brow line, as if she were considering his words.
He shifted again. “Anyway, I’m not an artist, it’s just my opinion.”
She folded her arms across her body. “So, if you’re not an artist, what are you? A critic?”
Noah brought his bike’s engine to life, pulling out and away from the brutish beauty, feeling her glare burning holes in his back as he rode off. When he glanced back, he was relieved that the young woman’s eyes were on the painting and not him.
He replayed her interrogation. What are you? The question made his arms and neck prickle. He thought about his tiny room in the back of the Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, Laundromat. His current situation seemed like a wise financial strategy—free rent was free rent . . . but. Noah doubted the snooty art lover would see it that way. Even his side business and the thousands of additional dollars he’d made suddenly seemed paltry and foolish. What was he going to do with the money? He had no goals for it. What are you? He heard the question ring in his head again. Nothing, lady. I’m still nothing.
He began questioning everything he’d built the last ten years. Everything he had become. Then he stopped himself. He didn’t need this. Not today. Not with the errand that lay ahead of him. He needed a place to collect himself, so he turned his bike and headed for a local haunt he remembered—the Saber and Roses, a Civil War–themed bar and grill situated by the east gate of Fort Detrick Army Base.
It was eight thirty when he pulled into one of the three remaining parking spaces. The bartender seemed to know most of his customers by name. Many were soldiers in desert khakis, but just as many of the men were dressed in civilian attire. Noah hung up his leather jacket and pulled a folded baseball cap from a pocket. His other hand ran over the weeklong stubble covering his face and neck. Feeling conspicuously unkempt amongst the spit-and-polish military clientele, he chose a corner booth and slid in, trying to remain invisible as he tucked his dark, windblown curls and ponytail under the cap.
He saw a toothy waitress in a tight t-shirt and vermillion-colored hair heading his way, carrying a menu and a basket of pretzels. In a final effort to complete his camouflage, Noah tugged on his sleeves, instinctively needing to cover his heavily tattooed arms. He adjusted his signature cuff next, hiding his shame just as she reached his table.
“Hellooo handsome,” the pretty waitress began, setting the menu and a basket of pretzels on the table. “My name’s Jeannie and it’ll be my pleasure to be your server today.” She leaned too close and smiled excessively. “You’re new here.” She scanned him from his head, past his white long-sleeved T-shirt to his leather chaps. Tall, dark, good lookin’ and a biker too? Yes, I’d sure remember you. How tall are you, darlin’? Six four or five? And look at those shoulders. My, my, my . . .”
Noah didn’t have a ready response. He felt his neck flush red, so he picked up the menu without returning the attention. There had been no shortage of social opportunities over the past ten years. That wasn’t his problem with women.
“You’re a shy one. Well, you can’t blame a girl for making a play.”
Emotionally trapped by the attention, he instinctively assumed a defensive posture. His shoulders rounded and he took cover behind the menu, pretending to be interested in the list of daily specials. After a moment, he folded the menu and shoved it her way.
“I’ll have a burger, a bowl of chili, and a coke.”
The waitress took the hint that she had been summarily dismissed. She shot him a disappointed shrug, turned on her heel, and left him alone.
Noah wiped at the sheen of sweat forming on his brow. He felt the eyes of other, less reclusive men on him, wondering why he had rebuffed the pretty server . . . wondering why he was so odd. Diverting his eyes, he glanced in the direction of the pool table where a couple laughed and chatted casually. He also caught the flirtatious passes a young, lanky soldier at the bar made towards Jeannie every time she walked by. Noah marveled at all of them, longing for the ability to maintain such simple human contact. He thought about the awkward exchange with the woman at the gallery window. Despite all his efforts, and all the
work he’d done, he was still broken. Today proved it.
He was therefore grateful for the diversion his phone provided, giving him a place to park his eyes so he could avoid further interactions while he considered a plan for his meeting with Uncle John.
When Jeannie brought his food, she leaned down close to Noah and whispered, “Would you mind helping me out?”
Her eyes registered alarm, causing the hair to rise on Noah’s arms.
“That young GI at the bar is making me uncomfortable. He’s a regular, a nice enough guy most of the time, but he and his buddies have tossed a few too many back today. If he makes another pass at me, could I tell him you’re my boyfriend?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. You’re a nice guy, but you’re also big and intimidating. I’d just slide into your booth and maybe you could hold my hand for a minute, just until he gets the message, okay?”
Noah couldn’t imagine a less desirable situation, but her eyes begged him for support. He glanced at the soldier, who stood up, watching the ensuing conversation. “Slide in,” said Noah, nodding toward the other bench. When Jeannie was seated, Noah moved to the edge of his bench, turned to make eye contact with the young corporal, and stared him down. After a brief standoff, the soldier raised his hands forward in conciliation, and strode out of the bar with his friends close behind.
Judging by the slump of her shoulders, the victory afforded Jeannie no pleasure. “Are you all right?” Noah asked.
Her gaze hit the table and she nodded. “Thanks. Most of the guys that come in here appreciate a little friendly flirting. It’s good for business, but liquor changes some of them. It blurs the lines.”
Noah knew that all too well.
Jeannie slid out of the booth and stood up. “You’re my hero. You saved that soldier as much as you saved me. The officers come down hard on these enlisted men if their behavior gets them reported, so I guess you’re really a hero to both of us.”
No one had ever said that to Noah before, but it started a chain reaction of thought in him, diluting his earlier self-doubts. By the time Jeannie arrived with the bill, he had collected himself once again, and in an effort to apologize for his earlier aloofness, Noah handed Jeannie a ten-dollar tip.
A SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE BOXED SET Page 5