Love Hurts

LOVE HURTS

by

Brenda Grate

From the Author

There is an actual town in British Columbia called Hope, and it’s nestled in the beautiful Cascade Mountains. The town in the story is loosely based on the real one, since I had to use artistic license in order to make it all fit within the story. There is a real café called The Blue Moose Café, which was one of the things that first inspired me to use this town, after the name, of course. I’ve always loved the little town of Hope, having been through it countless times on trips to BC’s lower mainland. The name first struck me. Wouldn’t it draw someone who was looking for hope in their life? It’s small, like so many communities in BC, which would give a big city girl a feeling of community. It also has gorgeous scenery, which would appeal to someone with an artistic eye.

The art gallery in the real Hope is quite small, probably not big enough to host a gala of the size I’ve described, but again, it was necessary to change the dimensions, although I left it in the same place on Wallace Street. The real building is a quaint one that fits in aesthetically with its surroundings.

I hope the people of Hope will forgive me for making free with their town. I do it with the utmost respect. Any people, living or dead, with similarities to the characters in Love Hurts is purely coincidental, as I’ve never lived there, nor do I know anyone who lives there.

A lot of writers like to invent towns for their stories, but as I’d fallen in love with Hope, I wanted it to be the place my story takes place. If you ever get a chance to visit the small town, you should take it. The rivers and mountains are lovely. The nearby Coquihalla Canyon is famous as it’s the place they filmed the rock-climbing scene in the first Rambo movie with Sylvester Stallone.

Happy reading,

Brenda Grate

Dedication

To my beautiful sisters. We’ve gone through many trials together and even now struggle to make sense of it all. Regardless of what has been said or done, I will always love you.

To my children. Without you I would have never learned what it means to love with no restraint. I will always love you.

To my husband. Thank you for being beside me every step of this journey and helping me to be brave enough to take the first step. You are my world.

Acknowledgements

I want to give special thanks to my editor, Robb Grindstaff, for all his efforts in making this book the best it could be. I appreciate the work you put into it and how much I’ve learned from you.

I also want to thank my family and husband for all their love and support. You all believed in me and helped me to believe too. Thank you.

Prologue

The smell of the paint and turpentine would have been repugnant to any other nose but one who lived and breathed it, like the smell of roses to anyone else. Catarina took a deep breath and her jangled nerves smoothed out and stopped their frantic firing. She moved to the partially complete canvas. She didn’t have a name for it yet, but it was her most ambitious work to date. She hadn’t even decided if she would allow this particular work to see the light of day.

The watery early morning light streamed in the large windows of her studio. The light wasn’t yet right for painting, but it would be soon. In the meantime, Catarina wanted to look at the work in progress. She hoped she remembered it accurately. She finally turned toward it and let out her breath, slow and measured. It was even better than she remembered. The two small girls—one dark, one blonde—held hands. The tiny child hadn’t shown up yet to mar the mood, but Catarina was under no illusion that it would stay out of the painting. Soon enough it would show up just as it always did. She sighed, wishing she could leave the painting in its perfect, half-finished state. But to finish was a compulsion. It took hold of her like the jaws of a pit bull, refusing to let go until the final brush stroke. Even now she could feel it rising. This began when her father would never let her stop a painting before completion, even if she knew she would paint over it.

“Always complete the image you have in your head, Cara,” he would say. “For if you don’t, it will stay to haunt you.”

Catarina had shuddered at his words and been afraid of the “ghosts” she had in her mind, for even at ten years old, the images haunted her day and night until she had to paint, if only to release them.

She’d had a king’s ransom of images in her native Italy. The green hills of Umbria, that special light that existed nowhere else in the world. As her skill grew, she almost couldn’t paint fast enough. Her mother’s biggest complaint was the cost of all the canvases she and her father used.

Catarina pulled her painting smock off the hook on the wall, no longer desiring to think of the past. She slipped it over her head and it caught on her hair. She’d tied it up off her neck that morning. It reminded her of how her father would lift her long braid as she slipped on her tiny smock. He’d loved her long dark hair and made her promise never to cut it off.

“A woman is not a real woman with short hair, Cara,” he’d say.

And with that, her Papà was back. Catarina smiled to herself. It had been many uncountable years since she’d seen her beloved Papà, and yet his voice rang as clear to her as when she had been a small girl watching in awe as his brush would produce images from nothing. Catarina loved her father as much as any little girl ever loved a father. He had been her everything. She left half her heart in Italy and probably took half of his. But there had been no other way.

Catarina again pushed the past away like clearing cobwebs from a room. She needed to see clearly in order to paint, and the past just clouded her vision.

She picked up her brush and closed her lips tight. The older she got, the closer her past loomed.
Am I really getting that old?

She would be fifty-two soon. Yet she still felt like the tiny girl in her father’s studio. How could so many years have passed?

The light came stronger through the large windows now. Catarina took another deep breath, the smell of paint bringing her father closer, but it also pushed the past back where it belonged and brought Catarina right to where she stood. She studied the two girls, her girls. They were like a negative and its opposite, positive image. She could see herself in both of them. Why then did she find it nearly impossible to reach them?

She prepared her paints and picked up her brush. She’d painted the girls holding hands, the darker girl’s hand up and finger pointing. Catarina never knew why she painted her subject as she did while the image formed. Her father had taught her to close down her analytical mind and allow the subconscious free rein when painting. She went with her instincts until the work was complete.

She continued work for several hours, until exhausted and hungry. She put down her brush and cleaned up. Catarina stepped back and froze, her gaze riveted on the canvas. She’d painted a lemon tree. The finger pointed toward the tree where the little face with sad eyes hovered.

Catarina stepped away, tears coursing down her cheeks. She couldn’t show this painting. All these years later and still she couldn’t forget the hate that burned like an eternal fire. Why hadn’t it burned clear out of her chest? Catarina’s shoulders slumped. She leaned against the back of the studio sofa. Her bones ached. What had the hate gotten her but loss?

She wouldn’t grow any younger and she didn’t even have the most important things in her life. Her Papà, maybe he still lived. She hadn’t contacted him in all these years because it would mean coming into contact with the person she hated most in the world. She’d lost her two lovely daughters because she couldn’t let go of the hate. Now it just seemed so pointless. All the hate had ever done was hurt her and the ones she most loved. As far as she knew, it hadn’t even affected
that
person. That person probably didn’t even care, hadn’t thought of Catarina in years.

The painting showed her the way. Her daughter’s little hand finally pointed her in the right direction. What had been done couldn’t be undone. She would live with it for the rest of her life. But she had hurt too many other people because of her own pain.

Catarina picked up the phone and dialed the operator.

“Please give me the number for the art gallery in Hope, British Columbia.”

Chapter 1

The evening Anna dreaded was a few short hours away. The art exhibition at the local gallery would begin at nine o’clock, as the curator wanted the guests to arrive after dark. Anna’s invitation sat in her purse where it had been tormenting her for more than two weeks. Since her best friend, Mel, was the curator, she couldn’t escape the event.

Normally Anna would be excited to attend an art show. She only dreaded this one because of the main exhibit. One painting with the power to send her back in time to a place she’d tried to escape. A painting by the great Catarina di Rossi.

As Anna dried off from her bath, she tried for the hundredth time to think of a way to avoid the gala. Mel had worked on the event for months and couldn’t wait for this night. She talked about it constantly. The Toronto gallery had loaned a special painting to the Hope gallery, which was the main reason for the exhibition, Mel had told Anna. The artist was the incredible Ms. di Rossi—her words.

Mel didn’t have a clue about Anna’s relationship to Ms. di Rossi. For weeks, Anna had wanted to tell her. She knew exactly how Mel would react: astounded, amazed, and over the moon—also her words. Anna would love to thrill Mel with the information, but she couldn’t open Pandora’s Box, not even for the sake of her friend. She’d worked long and hard to forget her lineage.

Catarina di Rossi. Anna’s mother.

The house was quiet; Rob had left after dinner, saying he had an evening house showing. He would be home soon to get ready. Anna moved from the en suite into her bedroom and grabbed her robe from the bed. She should call her sister. Jilly probably planned on going to the gala too. She and Mel weren’t particular friends—Jilly said Mel gave her nervous twitches. Anna didn’t mind Mel’s enthusiasm so much. She knew Jilly had gotten an invitation only because she didn’t know any adult in their small town who hadn’t, except maybe the town drunk. Hope didn’t have many events like this one, so Anna expected the gallery would be crowded that evening. She felt ashamed that she hadn’t yet found the courage to tell her sister about the main attraction.
 

Anna was the only one aware of the painting. Mel had told her because she couldn’t keep the news from her best friend. She planned a surprise unveiling at the exhibition which she had titled, The Faces Within. She told Anna she’d come up with the name in part because of the special nature of Ms. di Rossi’s painting, but also because she’d chosen paintings and sculptures with hidden meanings. The Toronto art gallery had loaned the painting as a special gift from the artist who seldom let her paintings leave the city unless they were purchased.

Mamma is up to something.

The gown Anna had purchased for the gala hung in her closet. It reminded her of Mamma. How many times had she seen her wear an almost exact replica at one of her exhibitions or parties? Anna couldn’t explain the fear that rose up in her, other than she abhorred being anything like her mother. That fear had chased her all the way across the country.

Anna slid her hand across the fabric. The red silk shimmered as the light struck it, the type of fabric that clings to a woman’s figure, both revealing and concealing her femininity.

Mel had goaded her into the purchase. They had gone to Abbotsford to shop for the perfect dress for the event of the decade, as Mel kept calling it. Hope didn’t have any dress shops of the type they needed.

“Let’s make a day of it!” Mel had said. “It’s time to show this town how gorgeous you really are. And that husband of yours. He’s a lucky man. You’re the most beautiful woman in this backwater town and I think he needs a reminder of that.”

Anna looked at the floor and smiled, her cheeks warm. “You think so, but you’re my best friend, so of course you would.”

Mel took Anna’s arms and gave her a little shake, forcing Anna to look at her. “I’m not the only one who thinks so, silly. If you weren’t married, you’d have to fight them off with a stick. I’ve seen how the men in town watch you walk by.”