Page 81 of Shelter
“Oh my God, Cole,” she gushed when I opened the front door onto the family room. “It’s adorable.” The movers had transported most of our stuff from the apartment, but I’d had Bette order a new living room set, one that fit the warmth and comfort of the house, not the modern, minimalist lines of our apartment. A café au lait sectional welcomed us in front of a fireplace we could light next fall. Beyond that, the space opened into the buttercream kitchen, complete with breakfast counter and bar stools. The house seemed to rise up to meet us instead of turning up its nose. I was glad she liked it.
A relieved chuckle shook from me as I realized how much her comfort and approval meant. “Yeah, it is.”
She brought her eyes to mine, something like innocent wonder shining in hers. “We’ve never lived anywhere like this.”
I bit my lip to keep my smile in check. A real home was a good start, but I couldn’t pin all my hopes on it. I knew the statistics on heroin addiction and recovery. Some studies claimed the relapse rate was as high as eighty percent.
A comfy couch and buttercream walls couldn’t stand up to that.
I nodded, telling my hope to keep quiet. “Let me show you your room.”
An hour later, I watched Ava climb into the back of an Uber, glad that I’d agreed to head out myself. If I sat at home, I’d only obsess about her four-to-one odds.
Chapter 18
ELISE
I was running late, and Alberta was going to kill me.
I’d asked Ed if I could leave at four thirty, and I really, really meant to do it, but I’d set up the 3D printer to render my latest design, and it had finished that morning. I had painted the band during my lunchbreak, and it was completely dry at four o’clock.
Okay, so I didn’thave toopen up the acrylic paints and start mixing the perfect blue for the aquamarine inlay, but I thought I could get it done before I left so it would be ready to show Ed on Monday when we opened.
But I was wrong. I’d been so meticulous with each round-cut gem, that when I finally got to the last one, I looked up and saw it was already five-thirty. Unfortunately, I still needed to dash home, shower, and change.
I was supposed to be at the gallery at six sharp, right when the doors opened so Alberta could have rock solid support by her side. And I knew it wasn’t just for the exhibit. She needed me there to settle her nerves over her first date with Ross.
Alberta had always been beautiful. She was stunning. She was regal. Her bottle-blue eyes and cocoa-powder skin could settle a hush over any room she entered. But I thought it was her uniqueness that left her so ill at ease. Alberta joked about it most of the time, but being a person of mixed race for her meant she never quite felt like she belonged squarely in either camp, her mother’s white world or her father’s black one. She said it was like walking on the deck of a boat, unsteady footing wherever she went.
Grounding her was supposed to be my job tonight, so when I rushed into The Green Door Gallery a half hour late, it was with a boulder of guilt in the pit of my stomach. I found her standing along the south wall of the gallery — a wall that held six of her canvases — talking to a beautiful woman with long, dark hair and hazel eyes.
I scurried toward her, and Alberta greeted me with a steely glare. “Hello, Elise.” She smiled through gritted teeth. “So glad you could make it.”
I clutched her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m the worst best friend ever. I’ll make it up to you,” I spluttered, willing to promise anything. “I’ll do all the cooking for a week. I’ll take the trash out for two. I’ll wash your car with my toothbrush.”
The woman beside her tipped her head back with laughter.
Alberta rolled her eyes. “Corinne, this is my best friend and roommate, Elise Cormier.” She brought her unamused gaze to mine. “Elise, this is Corinne Granger-Clarkson. She manages the gallery and—”
I offered the woman my hand. “And you’re a legend,” I gushed. “I’ve seen your portraits in the Hilliard, and I saw that feature about you inThe Independent.When was that? Like last summer?”
Corinne Granger-Clarkson flashed a wide smile. “Yes, last June. Right before I had my son, Michael.”
I felt my breath stutter. The article had been about her stunning artistic comeback after suffering a deep depression. She’d lost her boyfriend, Michael, a few years ago in a car accident. But the story had featured a picture of her and her sexy-as-hell personal-trainer husband whom she credited with saving her life. In the picture, her husband stood behind her, his arms around her, his hands splayed over her very pregnant belly. He’d looked both adoring and protective, his eyes locked on hers. I remembered the story because it had been so romantic. Her husband had been best friends with the man she’d lost, and he’d made it his mission to look after her. Obviously, they’d fallen in love along the way.
The article had brought tears to my eyes because… well, it was so hopeful. If she could overcome such a heartbreaking loss, maybe anyone could.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” I said, more than a little awed, and finally released her hand.
“Welcome to The Green Door,” she said graciously, and then her gaze lifted over my shoulder, and her expression transformed. Her eyes blazed and her lips parted. “There’s Wes. Please excuse me.”
And with that, she left us. I turned to watch her make her way to the gallery’s entrance where the man I easily recognized from the article stood. His short, dark hair, sun-warmed skin, and sculpted muscles had the eyes of every woman — and a few of the men — pegged on him, but he clearly saw only his wife.
Hope. There she was again, that bitch.
“Wow…” Alberta said on a dreamy sigh.
“Yeah…” I echoed with my own sigh as the hunky husband took his wife in his arms and kissed her warmly on the cheek. I shook myself out my fantasy fugue and focused on Alberta. “So, yeah, I’m sorry. What can I do? Is Ross here yet?”
