Page 104 of Breaking All The Rules
When their meals arrived and she looked down at her plate, at the healthy lump of plain, congealed egg white with three drops of truffle oil and a sprig of alfalfa. All the things that she disliked about her life in LA—which had only been amplified by Austin’s visit—were suddenly represented on this plate that would have had any LA food critic in absolute rhapsodies.
Tears more than pricked her eyes this time—they spilled out as, in one pure moment of clarity, she realized she’d made a huge mistake. She’d made the wrong choice. Because the omelet wasn’t a piece of pie, and her fancy decaf soy latte—the foam made into a freaking swan—wasn’t a beer.
And because…she loved Austin Cooper, too.
She’d let her humiliation and rage at Charlie Hammersmith and her pride override everything else. She’d let that prick of a man goad her into something she’d given up months ago because her need to prove to him that she could make it had superseded everything else.
Why in God’s name was she proving anything to that man?
She must have sniffled a little then, because Kim and Nozo stopped talking and stared at her. “Bea?” Kim frowned. “Are you…crying? Are you okay?”
Hastily wiping at a tear that had slid beyond the rim of her sunglasses, Bea gave a half laugh, half sob. “No.”
“Oh my God,” Kim said as both women reached their hands across the table and placed them on Bea’s forearms. “What’s the matter?”
“I want pie.” And she did sob then as her composure really started to slide.
The women looked at each other. “Okay?” Nozo said gently. “I’m sure the kitchen could rustle you up a piece.”
Yeah, but it wouldn’t be Annie’s, would it? “I’m sorry, but…do you think you guys could handle this meeting without me? I need to… I need to think awhile.”
Bea felt guilty because they were taking this meeting at her insistence. But both the competent women opposite had been part of her strategy to bring Leilani into the fold and were completely on board. They could easily handle it without her.
“Of course,” Kim said, patting her arm. “Go and think.”
…
Bea had no plan or clue, really, where she was going after she left the restaurant on foot. She just walked. Aimlessly. The pavements beneath her feet unfamiliar and yet an intricate part of her DNA. Thoughts churned around in her head. About Austin. And love. And Credence. And how badly she’d screwed up. About Greet Cute and her future.
About her mom and her dad.
Shards of memories from her childhood—good and bad—flitted through her head like sunbeams she couldn’t quite catch.
At one point, it started to rain, and Bea ducked into the nearest store for shelter, one of those places crammed full of knickknacks and trinkets from a mishmash of art to furniture and ornaments. Wicker baskets, linen, pretty glass, and old china shared shelves and wall space with fake moose heads and gawdy, waving cats. She wandered aimlessly here, too, waiting out the storm, her brain deciding its best way to cope with this morning’s whammy was just to check out for a while.
Which was how she found herself standing in front of a large, gilt-framed painting of wildflowers, the style as distinct and individual as a fingerprint.
A style she knew as intimately as she knew her own heartbeat.
Bea’s breath stopped in her throat. Her pulse throbbed through her ears. A hot rush of moisture pricked at her tear ducts and overflowed, spilling down her face. She hadn’t seen this piece for almost thirty years, but she remembered it as if it was yesterday. Sitting with her mother as she’d put the finishing touches on it. Feeling the sheer breathtaking beauty of the bloom as viscerally as if she had been there.
Just as she was right now.
It had lost none of its vibrancy, the kaleidoscope of color as vivid as it had been back when it was first painted. It had obviously been well cared for.
A guy wearing a name badge pulled up beside her. “Art can get you like that sometimes, can’t it?” he said gently, like he was used to random customers crying in front of paintings.
Bea nodded, not bothering to wipe away the tears. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s called Wildflower Blooms on Carrizo.”
Yeah. Bea remembered. She didn’t look at him—she couldn’t move—she just asked, “How much?” her voice raspy and foreign to her ears.
“For you, seven hundred dollars.”
Without thinking twice, Bea dug in her handbag for her credit card. “I’ll buy it,” she said, passing it over.
She’d have bought it no matter the cost.
