To My Senses The Nicci Beauvoir Series Book 1 (26 page)

I headed down the steps and
did not turn back. I put the portrait in the trunk of my car,
trying all the while to shut out the memories of the man who had
painted it. All I wanted to do was go home and lock myself away in
my room. Never again did I want to venture out into the world of
pain and loss. I was done.

***

I was lugging the portrait
up the stairs when my father came out of his bedroom. It was well
after nine, but he was still lounging in his pajamas. Something he
never usually did, unless he was ill.

“
What’s that?”

“
All that is left of Mr.
Alexander,” I declared.

“
How do you
know?”

“
I went to his place. His
landlady let me in. She told me that he left last night and that
this was for me.” I held up the portrait for my father to see,
which was no easy task, considering the size of it.

“
That is magnificent!” He
took the portrait from me and set it against the wall. “He painted
that?” Dad paused again, staring wide-eyed into the painting. “A
man does not paint like this just to earn your confidence, Nicci.
There is much more here than just a painting. This is a work of
love.”

“
You’re exaggerating just a
bit, Dad.” I sat down on the floor of the landing, feeling
overwhelmed. “If he had such feelings for me, why hurt me like he
did? And then why run away?”

My father knelt down next
to me and put his arm around me. “Nicci, anyone who could paint
with such love will never be free of you. Don’t get me wrong. I
don’t approve of how he went about things either, but I can’t help
but wonder if his feelings for you weren’t genuine. Looking at this
portrait, I really have to believe the man loves you, perhaps more
than he knows.”

“
Why aren’t you pissed with
him? Why are you taking his side? The man tried to destroy you and
your company. He was the enemy.”

“
He wasn’t the enemy. This
did not start, nor will it end with David. It’s business. I go
through this every day. And I’m not taking his side. If he had
carried out Sammy’s plans, then I would be bitter. However, he
didn’t do that. He changed, and I think you were the reason he
changed.” He studied the portrait once more. “I can’t completely
hate someone that painted you like this.”

There’s a moment when you
can actually feel your heart break. A searing pain shot across my
chest and took my breath away. Then, an oppressive heaviness
engulfed me, making it hard to move or even breathe. I began to
lose all hope that there was a tomorrow, because the idea of going
on from that moment became unbearable.

I forced myself to stand
and I held my head up. I pushed all the emotions swirling around in
my stomach back into the blackness from which they had emerged. I
squared my shoulders and took in a deep breath.

“
Are you all right?” my
father probed, frowning at me.

“
I’m fine,” I coolly
answered.

“
What do you want to do
with this?” He motioned toward the portrait.

“
Burn it, for all I care.”
I strode along the landing to my room.

“
That won’t get rid of him,
you know,” my father called.

I stood in front of my
bedroom door with my hand on the knob. “No, but it’s a start.” I
went inside and shut the world away.

Chapter 15

It had been several weeks
since my realization about David. That is what I called it; a
realization. Everything I thought or felt about him had been a lie.
No one who loves you makes you feel so useless and used. I had
analyzed every word he had spoken, every movement, every touch,
looking for some hint about his intentions. There were no answers.
No revelations in the middle of the night. Each passing day, the
questions became fewer and the pain in my heart eased a
little.

Since the wedding, I spent
most of my time huddled in my room, staring out the window into the
garden. The rest of my hours were consumed with school and
studying. I barely made it through my fall semester exams. Now it
was Christmas, and my father was trying to persuade me that a
Christmas tree could cure all my cares.

“
Come on, Nicci. We have to
have a tree. Santa always knows exactly where to put the presents
when you have a tree,” he extolled. “After all, we have a lot to
celebrate this year.”

“
Like what? The almost
collapse of Beauvoir Scrap or the marriage of Colleen and Eddie?” I
commented, eyeing him in my bedroom doorway.

“
I think the revelation in
November was a godsend for the company. Lance has even started to
take an interest in the business, well…some interest. I’m looking
into diversifying into plastics. Next year could be even better for
us. You’re right about one thing, though. Eddie and Colleen are not
worth celebrating.” He chuckled, shaking his head.

“
And Sammy?” I asked, leery
of his reply.

“
Has been as docile as a
lamb. Which makes me wonder what she’s up to, but for the time
being Sammy the volcano is dormant.”

I smiled, relenting to his
childish excitement. “All right, Dad. I can’t argue with you
anymore. Let me get dressed.”

***

Three hours, and several
different tree lots later, we arrived home with the perfect tree.
It was the first time in weeks I had spent a few hours without
thinking of David. I had even laughed and was revived by the brisk,
cool wind on my skin. I was not cured, but I was
healing.

We hauled our prized tree
into the house and set it up in the living room. I thought my job
was over, but Dad had more work planned for me. Before we left to
go tree hunting, he had dashed up into the attic and pulled down
every crate of Christmas decorations we had collected over the
years. The boxes, about two dozen of them, were piled in the living
room next to the fireplace.

My father and I spent hours
going through each of the boxes. Many of them had not been opened
in years. The last time we had taken all the decorations out of the
attic, was for our last Christmas with my mother. She was dying of
cancer, and my father decided we needed to decorate the house with
every Christmas ornament we owned.

My mother died a few days
after New Year’s. I remember coming home from the hospital and
facing all the rooms, overflowing with Christmas decorations. My
father and I had worked all night long, packing up the ornaments
and putting them away in the attic. It had just been something to
do.

This year, after a lengthy
discussion, we finally agreed on a theme for our tree: everything
old is new again. We used the oldest, most faded, and most
unrecognizable ornaments we could find to make our tree appear as
if it came straight out of a junkyard. Afterwards, Dad made eggnog
and scrambled eggs to celebrate our artistic
achievement.

I went up to bed well after midnight. For
the first time in a month, I felt like I could sleep peacefully.
There were no more questions about David in my head, just the warm
feeling of brandy coursing through my veins.

***

The next morning, I got out
of bed feeling revitalized. I had discovered that I could have a
few uninterrupted hours without thinking of David. I knew at that
moment I would survive. I made a promise to myself, as watched the
morning sun stream in through my windows. From now on, I would
fight love.

Love was a weakness and a
foe to be conquered, not to be conquered by. It was not the
mysterious and all encompassing drug that poets throughout the
centuries had praised. Love was an evil, misguided mistress that
would torture and maim without leaving any visible scars. When love
left town, it was on the back of a garbage truck, stinking of
broken souls. Love was a mistake, and I vowed never to make that
mistake with anyone ever again.

I dressed and began
planning my day. I had to go on. Christmas was coming and I had not
begun to shop for presents. I sat down at my desk and started to
make my list. As I wrote, my eyes fell on one of the notebooks I
had used for my journal, before my realization. I hadn’t written
anything since the night of the wedding. I pulled the notebook out
and started reading a few select passages.

It was the melodramatic
fluff of a woman whose thoughts were not on writing, but on love. I
shook my head, wondering how I had gone so far overboard. Droning
on and on about lovers, midnight rendezvous, and moonlit skies. I
closed the notebook and put it away in the bottom drawer of the
desk. Writing was another habit I decided to eliminate from my
life. It had only been an opportunity to vent my feelings on to
paper, more therapeutic than artistic. I could never be a writer.
Writing was for dreamers. I was a realist, who would soon face the
world of taxes and retirement planning. Nevertheless, whatever was
creative and artistic would remind me of David. He had wanted me to
write. Reason enough for me to give it up.

I greeted my father
downstairs with a warm “Good morning.”

“
You look good. Feeling
better?” he asked, reaching into the refrigerator for the orange
juice.

“
Yes, much better.” I
dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. “I think I’m going to
go shopping. Christmas is coming, you know.”

“
Well, I’m amazed. A few
days ago I was about to give up all hope, and now…you’re sure
you’re okay?” He eyed me suspiciously.

“
I’m better and better
every day. I just think it’s time to get back to the land of the
living. Put all the rest behind me.”

“
Behind you? I don’t like
the sound of that. Last time you talked like this you were five and
the cat had run away. You said you would never love another
pet.”

I took the carton of orange
juice from him. “Love is no longer in my vocabulary.”

My father’s face grew grim
and he shook his head. “Shutting out feelings is not the way to
come to grips with them, Nicci. Eventually, everything comes back
to haunt you, whether it is feelings or bad Chinese
food.”

I put the carton down on
the countertop and pulled a glass out of the cabinet over the sink.
“I would prefer bad Chinese food to what I have gone through for
the past month.”

When the toast popped up, I
decided I didn’t feel like toast, after all. Taking the slices from
the toaster, I dumped them in the garbage. This talk about love had
ruined my appetite.

“
All right, Nicci. Do
whatever you need to do to get over this. I just don’t want to see
you hurt anymore.”

I poured some orange juice
into my glass. “Okay, so I can go out and spend absurd amounts of
money to make myself feel better?”

Dad chuckled. “Now you’re
starting to sound like a normal woman again.”

***

At the mall, it took almost
twenty minutes to find a parking spot. Once inside, I saw scores of
people wandering in front of the heavily decorated shops. I stopped
just inside the entrance and rummaged in my purse for my list. I
never went anywhere without a list. My father called it my security
blanket, because without it I would probably buy out the whole
store.

I was still looking through
my purse when I was jostled from the side. I turned to look at the
offender and immediately wished I hadn’t.

“
Well, Nicci Beauvoir!”
Michael Fagles was sporting a huge grin.

“
Dr. Fagles, what a
pleasant surprise. Not off curing the terminally
insane?”

He giggled. “No, I’m out of
the office for a few hours. Here to do the same thing you probably
are.”

“
Buying a push-up
bra?”

“
Well, you’re feeling very
whimsical today, aren’t you?”

I tried to think of a cute
reply, but I decided just to smile and leave him
guessing.

He ventured to salvage our
awkward conversation. “You look good. Better than when I saw you at
the wedding. I wanted to call and see how you were,
but—”

“
Thanks you for all of your
help,” I cut in. “It was rude of me not to call you and thank you
for everything you did. I’m sorry.”

“
That’s all right. You’re
forgiven.”

We stood there, feeling
embarrassed by our lack of conversation. I glanced down to see my
list hiding in a pocket of my purse, and yanked it out.

I held up my list to him.
“It was good to see you again. Merry Christmas.”

I was about to walk off when he stopped
me.

“
Actually, I was
wondering.” He sheepishly smiled. “Would you mind helping me find a
present for my mother? You know how inept we males can be at buying
appropriate female gifts.”

“
Yes, I know all too well.”
I cringed at the friendly tone in my voice.

I had not meant to encourage him. Still, I
felt his pain. In the past, I had received many awkward gifts from
boyfriends, my uncle, and even my father.

Heaving an internal sigh, I
asked, “What does your mother like?”

Michael Fagles dragged me
through at least a dozen little gift shops. We went from small
trinkets to hats and handbags, but none of them seemed to be just
right. The way he spoke of his mother, I was beginning to wonder
when the woman was going to be canonized.