Patience.
Right.
“Okay,” Bella said for the third time. Third time’s a charm and her thoughts slowly veered to another kind of rush. She smiled into those tortured eyes. “Then let’s do something simple.”
“Like?”
“Collaborate.”
Chapter Sixteen
“I know you’re not big on drawing castles and unicorns and fairy godmothers and the like,” Bella said as Savage settled on the sofa, “but maybe you’ll feel different after you read one of my stories. Starting with the one inspired by the fairy you sketched for Melody.”
Pulse zipping, Bella pulled one page from her folder, the tale she’d typed last night and printed this morning. She passed it to Savage. “It’s just one page. A short story. Melody and I have this thing we do sometimes. She draws a picture. I make up a little story. Usually on the spot and on the fly, so…” She cleared her throat. “I’m rambling.”
Gaze on the page, he smiled a little while reading:
Freda the Fairy and the Magical Man.
Bella crossed her arms and rocked back and forth on her bare feet.
“It’s cute. And there’s a moral. Nice.”
Now Bella smiled. “See what we can do together?”
He passed her back the page. “That fairy was a one-time deal. A fluke.”
“I disagree. It’s just a part of yourself that you haven’t explored. You haven’t had the proper inspiration. Until Melody. She sparked it and I can make it burn brighter. In turn, you’ll make my stories shine.”
“Bella—”
“Just give me a chance. This isn’t easy. Sharing my stories. The last time I… Never mind.” Carson was history. “Anyway, you freed my paralyzed creativity. Now I’m hoping to inspire you. I have eight stories in this folder. Only four are complete. I’m not a literary genius or anything, but I do think I’m a decent storyteller. I certainly have a lot of ideas and loads experience if you factor in the bazillion fairy tales I’ve read over the years. I—”
“Bella.”
“What?”
Leaning forward, Savage held out his hand. “Give me the file.”
The file, she realized, was clutched to her chest as she paced the length of his living room…rambling.
Hot faced, Bella stopped at Savage’s propped feet. “Okay. Here they are,” she said as she held out the expandable and exploding purple folder. “Hard copies of all eight stories. What there is of them anyway. Like I said, only four are complete. Please don’t feel like you have to read them all or even one in its entirety—even though they’re pretty short. You can skim. See if anything catches your eye or interest or—”
“Bella.”
“What?”
“Let go of the file.”
Oh, geez
. She had a death grip on the stories of her heart. She let go and resumed her pacing. “Take your time.”
“Take a seat. Relax.”
“I can’t.”
“Then take a walk. If you want me to read—”
“Fine.” She dropped into the super-padded, oversized club chair. Supple leather like the sofa. Cool to the back of her thighs and her bare arms—offsetting the sweat trickling along her hairline. The room was air conditioned. She should have been comfortable, but she was anxious. Other than Carson and the publishers who’d rejected her, no one had ever read her tales except the Inseparables and they’d only read the four completed manuscripts. She’d never been brave enough to share her works-in-progress. She wasn’t feeling all that brave now, but this moment required derring-do. She wanted to inspire Savage, to snag his interest as an artist. She figured she needed all the chances she could get.
Time dragged and with each passing slow-as-a-slug minute Savage’s silence wore on Bella’s nerves. “What do you think?” she finally prompted.
“Still reading.”
“I know but…” Her heart sank as he met her gaze. “You’re not inspired.”
“I’m not connecting.”
She gripped the arms of the chair so as not to spring up and pace. “I know they’re lacking somehow. Something’s missing. A certain zing. I’m fully invested as I’m writing, but when I reread them…I want more. I want visuals. The four on top, the completed stories, they’re intended for young children. At the library we call them picture books. Except, as you can see, there are no pictures. That’s where you come in.”
He set the pages aside and dragged a hand through his hair.
“There you go again, looking miserable.”
“There are hundreds of talented illustrators out there. Artists who specialize in children’s books.”
“Yes, but they’re not you.”
“Why does it have to be me?”
Because you’re my Dream Partner. Or at least the prime candidate. A matchmaking company told me so
.
Yeah, that was a logical argument.
“Because we’d make a great team,” she said.
“Not in this regard.” He studied her as if weighing his words carefully. “Purple dragons, sparkly pixies, and bad things going away just because you believe with all your heart or wish hard enough… That’s your world, not mine.”
“It’s not as if I think purple dragons actually exist.”
“But you do believe in the best of the worst beings and situations. I’m not comfortable with perpetuating illusions, Bella.”
Her back went up. “Since when is faith, hope, and resourcefulness illusion? Fairy tales not only stimulate children’s imaginations, they usually teach a moral or cultural lesson.”
“Kids would be better off if…”
“If what?”
He held her gaze and she swore the room’s temperature spiked to the sun. She clasped her hands so as not to wring them and cursed the sweat trickling down her spine. When his phone chimed, all she could think was “saved by the bell” because, yeah, he looked that relieved for the interruption.
He glanced at the screen. “Text from your dad. He’s out front. I need—”
“—to unlock the gate. I know. What do you have against fairy tales?”
He worked his jaw as he rose to his feet. “They don’t prepare children for the truth.”
“Which is?”
“The world is a fucking minefield, people are evil, and, more often than not, there is no happy ending.”
He walked past her without out another word. Without a glance. Without a touch. But she could see and feel his rage. Simmering within. Threatening to blow. She nearly choked on the cynicism lingering in the air. And now, instead of sweating, Bella shivered.
“What happened to you?” she whispered as Savage walked out the door.
* * *
“Dammit.”
Bella’s disappointment followed Joe out the door and kicked him in the ass. Frustration kept him walking. There would be no riding off this monster mood. Archie waited at the gate. Bella stewed inside.
Joe paused on the porch step, breathed the hot fragrant air. Lavender wafted on the breeze.
Wasn’t lavender known as a calming scent? Where the hell was serenity?
Resentment and anger clawed at his being. Every muscle bunched. Every nerve twitched. He shouldn’t have read Bella’s stories. They’d taunted his inner beast. Not because of what he’d seen in the past, but because of what it meant for his future.
Fanciful notions had long been beaten out of him. He’d hoped to spare Bella the worst of his personal brand of ugly and yet he’d bitch-slapped her creative muse the first time she’d shared the fruits of her imagination. As an artist he understood the perils of indifference and rejection. He should have praised what he’d liked instead of damning her utopian ideals.
He wouldn’t be surprised if she was on the phone right now with one of her friends, bemoaning her new living arrangements. First he’d rejected her in bed. Then he’d crushed her attempt to collaborate.
Just when he’d gotten a glimpse of sunshine, the beast dragged Joe back into his personal pit of gloom.
Killer yowled and Joe shook off his self-disgust long enough to give the guy a head scratch. “At least you don’t hate me. Yet.”
Putting his ass in gear, he strode to the gate where Archie Mooney waited. The man sat on his idling red mower—ball cap, sunglasses, short plaid sleeves rolled to his pits.
“You knew I was coming,” he said. “Why didn’t you leave the gate unlocked?”
“Old habits die hard.”
“This is Nowhere, Nebraska, son, not some overcrowded, crime-ridden Metropolis. Most folks never even lock the doors to their house.”
“It only takes one time,” Joe said. “One intruder with malicious intent.”
Archie’s grey brows rose above the rims of his dark-rimmed shades. “Sucks to be you.”
“Cynical?”
“Haunted.”
Joe said nothing. His demons were his own.
Archie gestured toward the house. “Guess my girl’s inside, settling in.”
“Surprised you don’t have a problem with that.”
“Who says I’m good with it?”
“Bella.”
“I didn’t give her any grief so I s’pose that was as good as giving my approval.”
“So you don’t approve.”
“Not sure where I stand on Bella moving into your home, but I fully support her moving out of mine.” He knocked back his brim, palmed sweat from his brow. “Bella gave up her apartment, her independence, to take care of me these last months. Only the more she helped, the more I stumbled. If I’d paid her more mind, been more attuned to her feelings, I might have realized Carson was…well, providing her with a strong shoulder in a tough time. Unlike me. That night, the poker game…after. You shamed me into standing straight, Savage. Into giving Bella reason to believe I can make it on my own. I owe her and you, so I figure it’s worth seeing how this boarder thing works out.”
Joe glanced toward the house, cursed the demons that wouldn’t allow him to paint purple dragons. “At the rate I’m going, Bella will be looking for new digs come tomorrow. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m no ball of sunshine.”
“I wallowed in misery and booze for months and she didn’t bail on me.”
Joe had been to hell and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever break free. Bella, who lightened his being and touched his heart, gave him a reason to try. “I think I’m in love with your daughter, Archie.”
“I’m not surprised.” He tugged down the brim of his ball cap and put the mower into gear.
Joe cursed the ache in his chest as they both glanced toward Funland—blatant evidence of broken dreams and mangled illusions. “I don’t want to hurt her.”
Archie cast him one last glance. “Then don’t.”
Chapter Seventeen
Chrissy rarely indulged in “me” time. If she wasn’t working at Buzz-Bees, she was taking care of Melody. If Mel was under the watchful eye of family or a trusted professional then Chrissy devoted her free time to researching Mel’s options. Keeping abreast of the latest medical developments and educational programs pertaining to the hearing impaired was practically a full time job.
“Me” time was earmarked for knitting projects, video chats, and the occasional in-person hangs with the Inseparables. Their weekly dinner at Café Caboose was a cherished treat. Her friends kept her sane and grounded. Knitting—a hobby she’d picked up from her grandma—provided a creative outlet as well as extra income. Her time and money were precious. She rarely squandered either on professional pampering.
She’d been gifted with pale blond hair, silky and straight, and perfectly suited to one length. Easy Peasey. Every so often Angel would corner her and trim her ends, but other than that Chrissy was all about ponytails and twisty buns. Committing to an honest-to-God hair cut as in a new style was a huge deal. So huge that when Bella booted them out of Savage’s house early, Angel took advantage of Chrissy’s unexpected free time and turned it into “me” time.
After returning the borrowed moving transport to Zeke, Angel whisked Chrissy into town, opening Heavenly Hair on a Sunday just for her. She even uncorked a bottle of chilled white wine, which seemed decadent to Chrissy, but what the hell. Mellowing out while Angel lopped off her waist-length, low-maintenance hair was probably a good thing.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been aching to give you a makeover,” Angel said as she angled Chrissy’s chair away from the mirror and started snipping.
“Three years,” Chrissy said. “You bring it up every week.”
“I do?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, those days are over.”
“Thank God.”
“Now I’ll only nag you every six weeks. That’s how often you’ll need to see me for a trim.”
“What?”
“Otherwise the cut will lose its shape. Hey, you’re the one who picked this style. Great choice by the way.”
“Not if it means a trim every six weeks.”
“Shut up and drink your wine. Making magic here.”
“Is that why you turned me away from the mirror? So I wouldn’t witness any industry tricks?”
“No. I turned you away so you wouldn’t freak out when I cut off the first six inches. Shrieking tends to rattle my nerves. Don’t worry. You’ll be singing my praises when you see the end result.”
Chrissy figured it would take a miracle to replicate her chosen style. She’d been flipping through a needlework magazine, looking for a specific knitting pattern, when she’d spied a model with a bold haircut and a carefree aura. Captivated, she’d thumbed back to that photo three times before ripping it out and taping it to her fridge. Once upon a time she’d been carefree and bold. But then she’d grown up. Fast. She was only twenty-seven, yet she hadn’t done anything for the fun or thrill of it since the birth of Melody. That included dating. Not that she was thinking about dating any time soon. She wasn’t interested in anyone. But she was restless.