Crazy Love (22 page)

I quickly wiped said smile from my face. “I have to go.”

“Of course you do.” He pursed his green lips, unceremoniously dumping my coffee into a travel cup.

“You’re a quick study.” The pharmacy manager grinned at me over her half-moon glasses, and I couldn’t help but smile back. I’d been assigned to a compound pharmacy for my practicals, and though the added pressure initially freaked me out, now that I was here, I was
loving
it. Such an assignment afforded me an opportunity beyond what most pharmacy students would ever get to explore in their careers, let alone while still in school. Most of my classmates would end up working at a chain drug store and maybe compound amoxicillin and add some flavoring. There I was, in the process of customizing fertility drugs. Being third in my class, I was one of three who got to intern at such an establishment.

This type of work had helped keep my anxious brain occupied. I’d always enjoyed the rigidity of chemistry. Basically, it was cooking. Read the recipe from beginning to end, follow it precisely, and you can’t go wrong. Common sense stuff, which apparently wasn’t so common in the era of Starbucks and Pop Tarts.

But no matter how hard I focused, I couldn’t get Sam out of my mind. I wondered if he’d confronted his mom. I wondered if he’d spoken to Mr. Wakefield. I wondered why the hell he hadn’t called me or shown up on my doorstep. It’s not like his brother didn’t have my fucking number, and he sure as hell knew where I lived.

To be fair, I’d ditched him the morning after my botched seduction attempt. I had a standing date with my booth at The Marketplace, so it was a great excuse to flee, but let’s face it—I was hiding. I’d wanted so badly to make him feel better and had thrown myself crotch first into the situation accordingly. I couldn’t help myself. It was a huge part of my pattern to use sex as an attempt to connect, but for whatever reason, Sam didn’t want any part of it. I was glad, though, since the second part of my pattern is to push away those who got close to me, but I was also disappointed. Sam was different. He meant something to me. So logically, I avoided him.

I began calling Trip before our sittings to verify Sam was nowhere near his studio. True to form, Trip didn’t press me for an explanation, and I didn’t volunteer one.

It had been two weeks since I’d mauled Sam in my bed when Trip turned to me, paint brush in hand, and asked, “You’re still coming to Tybee for the birthday party this weekend, aren’t you?”

“Ummmm…” I’d blocked out Sam’s birthday. Not his minty taste on my tongue, or the warm way his words felt against my throat, but his party at the beach house? Sure.

“Annie, Violet is bringing Maisie for a few hours on Saturday night. This is our last shot.” He wore sullen bags under his eyes and I couldn’t blame him. Violet’s engagement party had gone off without a hitch the weekend before at Black Keys. Martin had begged me to pick up that shift, even offering me a bonus. But I knew my limitations. There was no way I was serving drinks to Dashul Stein and keeping my job. Word in the club was that all went like clockwork, and all the most important people in Savannah showed up, with the exception of Imogen Moore Beaumont. One of the waitresses told me that she walked in on the future bride crying in the ladies room. I’d kept that little nugget to myself, afraid to give Trip any more hope.

He was right, of course. I had to go. Violet needed one final shove in Trip’s direction, and it was now or never. “Who’s all going?”

Trip spouted off a small guest list, which included a couple of Trip’s art world pals, Sam’s frat brothers, and Randall and his fiancé. “You’re bringing Jayse, right? Because I told Violet he’d be there.”

I tried to not show how annoying that was. Jayse was way too fascinated with Violet for my taste. They’d been to lunch twice, and I’d walked in on him making plans to shop with her just before her engagement party. It seemed childish, but it hurt me. Not that I couldn’t share a friend, but Jayse seemed incapable of splitting his attention and had a knack for making me feel excluded when it came to Violet. And I didn’t seem to be the only one who had a problem with Jayse’s behavior. He’d been blowing Dale off a lot lately, and Dale seemed to be getting pretty frustrated about it.

“Yes,” I replied, trying to keep all emotion out of my voice.

“Have him bring Dale.” Trip called from the other side of the painting.

“Got it.” I’m pretty sure he heard the hard edge in my voice anyhow, because he sat down his pallet and walked around the canvas, wiping off his hands on this flannel shirt.

“I don’t get it, Angel. You and Sam seemed pretty cozy.” He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. His jaw was set, and I knew he wouldn’t let up without some sort of explanation.

“Nothing happened. He’s overwhelmed with all your family drama and besides, I have finals, and I don’t have time for anything anyway.” My mind spun as I thought about seeing him again. I had to get a gift for Sam, and I was as clueless about what to buy him now as I was a few weeks before.

“Listen, Annie. Sam has always been a bit of a loner. I’m not saying he doesn’t like other people, but he’s more at home with a punching bag or a book than in a crowd.” Trip tossed me a bottle of water and we both popped the lids off and drank. He peered out the window thoughtfully for a long moment, and then finally looked me in the eye again. “My brother is definitely a solitary man, at least compared to me. I think he’s in his element when he’s alone. It’ll take him some time to get used to a relationship.”

I chuckled. “I don’t want a relationship, Trip. I have shit to do.”

“Even better. Casual is something Sam is very comfortable with. You two should hit it off even better than I thought.” His crooked grin dissipated when he saw my surprise.

“But…he said…he said he wanted to ‘slow down’. Who does that?”

Trip raised both eyebrows and blinked at me in surprise. He opened his mouth then snapped it shut.

“What?” I demanded. Now I crossed
my
arms over my chest expectantly.

“As far as I know, there’s only one other girl he’s ever liked for more than one night, Angel. And that was Violet. You must have made a hell of an impression on him.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me!” I blurted, unable to contain myself. Sam and Violet! “Before or after you married her?”

He smiled and shrugged. “Before. Yes, I’m a scoundrel. It was kind of a thing for a while.”

“I bet it was,” I said, annoyed at the image of Sam and Violet together. It made her invading my territory with Jayse sting even more.

He didn’t pause to acknowledge my loaded remark. “My point is, you obviously mean a lot to him. More than he can probably verbalize, knowing Sam. Take my word for it. So if you seriously don’t want anything to do with him, you probably shouldn’t come to Tybee. But I really wish you would.”

I reflected on Trip’s words as I ate my lunch at the coffee shop next to the pharmacy. I knew in my heart he was right. Sam wanted more. I also knew I wouldn’t be able to stay away from him for much longer. But I was damaged goods, a fucking walking tornado of well-earned issues and insecurities. Sam had his hands full with his own chaos; he didn’t need mine to complete the set.

I thought about Sam calling me courageous in the bar. I sure as hell wasn’t acting courageous now. Sam’s world was upside down. To think that the circumstances of his birth led to his father’s suicide and his brother’s disintegration was a heavy burden to bear. And instead of being the friend I’d presented myself to be, I’d simply disappeared. The least I could be was a decent listener. At that moment, over homemade chicken noodle soup and a café mocha, I made up my mind to go to the party.

My phone rang. It was a number I didn’t recognize, but it was local.

“Hello?”

“May I speak to Annabelle, please?”

“This is Annabelle.”

“Well, hello. This is Lola Andresen. I’m the manager at Imogene’s Gallery. We’ve sold out of your tombstone rubbings, and I have your commission check. I don’t suppose you have any more inventories you’d like to unload.”

I blinked stupidly at my bowl of soup. “I’m sorry? I don’t understand.”

“Trip Beaumont brought in your rubbings. Thirteen of them. We’ve sold all of them.” The woman replied. “Would you like us to mail you a check?”

“N…No, that’s quite alright, I can come pick it up.” Trip said nothing about reselling my stuff and I was flattered he thought it would sell in an actual gallery, but I was completely taken aback. The pharmacy wasn’t far from Imogene’s, and I was curious to see what kind of price they were charging. “Are you sure you want more?”

“Absolutely. They are very popular and easy to move. We’d love to have twenty more if you have them.”

My mind and heart both raced. If Lola wanted my inventory on any sort of regular basis, I wouldn’t have my Sunday marketplace obligation anymore. That meant a lot more time to study.

And more time for other things.

I told Lola that I’d stop by later that day with more rubbings and to pick up the check. She informed me that they were pricing them for twice the amount I’d been charging and that Imogene’s only kept thirty percent of the sale. I could feel my face and chest flushing with excitement. As long as they continued to sell well, with that kind of profit, I’d definitely have my weekends free. Relief rolled over me like the tide. More free time. Time was my most prized possession, and I felt like I’d won the lottery.

After wrapping up my work day, I decided to call Trip to thank him for the vote of confidence. He laughed at me when I started jabbering excited thank-yous about the rubbings.

“Slow down there, Angel. I can’t take any of the credit.”

“Of course you can. She said you brought them in. It’s not like they saw me on the street and begged to showcase my work,” I cracked, guiding my car slowly around the square. An old man walking his dog waved to me. I waved back cheerfully.

“It was Sam’s idea, Annie. I kept my favorite and he paid me for the rest. He picked one out for himself and told me to deliver them to Lola. He had it all arranged. I’m just the delivery boy. You can tip me if you like.” My stomach did a flip as I parked in front of Imogene’s. Sam again. My mouth felt dry at the thought that he would do something so thoughtful for me, and I felt my pulse quicken to a dangerous pace.

“I guess I’ll thank him at the party,” I murmured as I ran my hands over my pencil skirt in a lame attempt to smooth out any wrinkles.

“You do that.” Trip’s lazy drawl made me smile. I hung up and peeked at my upswept hair to make sure it still looked presentable after my busy day at the pharmacy. Noticing several loose strands, I pulled out a hairbrush and reassembled my up-do and as an afterthought, pulled some deodorant from my purse. If I was going to be doing business with Imogene’s, I didn’t want to start that relationship smelling like armpit.

I pulled out the four framed rubbings I had in the back seat and entered the gallery. I practically went into a diabetic coma from the eye candy that they showcased on every surface, nook, and cranny in the converted warehouse. There was one wall on the end that featured Trip Beaumont’s work exclusively. Two dark, haunting paintings hung at the bottom, but the rest of his brilliant work practically jumped off the wall at me from under the crafty lighting. An older couple stood holding hands as they admired one of my favorites, which featured the fountain in Lafayette Square. The colors Trip used reminded me of the chalk drawings in the movie Mary Poppins, which had been one of my favorites as a little girl. His painting style had a way of showcasing the world with childlike optimism and exuberance.

Most of the time.

I wondered if the dark paintings, which were arguably stunning and the kind of art that Jayse would love to buy, were done at the height of his drinking days. Not that they lacked the bold and crisp detail that was signature Trip, but the mood was morose and full of longing and desperation that was absent from the paintings that I skirted through every time I went to his studio.

I saw that there were stairs leading up to another floor and was itching to explore further, but I knew they were closing soon and didn’t want to keep them. The frames in my hands were getting heavy, and I hurried to the counter just as a curvy middle-aged woman with striking green eyes came out of a back office. Her name tag said ‘Lola.’

“I’m Annabelle Clarke,” I offered, sparing her the customer service spiel. She smiled broadly and pulled open a drawer, removing an envelope.

“You’ve got great technique. And your framing skills are top notch. I have one of your rubbings in my office at home.” Lola smiled, and I felt giddy imagining her hanging one of my hobby projects in her home.

I bit my lip. “Really? Which one?”

She raised a dark eyebrow. “Jonathan Kessler. 1897”

“The one I did in terra cotta. I love that one.” A genuine smile overtook me. She stared at me with wide eyes.

“You remember mine?”

“I remember all of them.”

“How?”

We chatted for a couple more minutes about my photographic memory and a couple of small local cemeteries I had yet to visit. When I turned to leave, I practically smacked face first into Imogene Moore Beaumont herself. Her face contorted in surprise and distaste. I tried to maintain my cool, but I wonder if mine did as well.