Scarred Read online

  To answer your question, yes, the woman I have feelings for is a good friend of mine. We spend a lot of time together and enjoy the same activities. I’ve been thinking about your advice and perhaps you’re right. If I told her how I feel and she rejected me or in any way showed repulsion, it would kill me. I hold her in such esteem; if she proved to be anything other than what I believe her to be, it would change everything for me. Not just about her, but about the world. I’ve been hurt before. Several women I trusted showed their true colors when tested. It’s left me thinking there is no one out there who would be able to look past my scars and love me.

  Your email made me wonder about the friend who suggested the 007 handle. Is there anything between you? I mean, of a romantic nature? Does he know about your scars? If he cares so deeply for you as a friend, might there be more? How do you feel about him? Strictly platonic?

  Tell me about your work. I see you’re a pharmacist. What’s that like? Why did you choose it as a profession? What about your family? Are you close with them? Siblings?

  Best,

  Art

  * * *

  She hit the reply button before she could think better of it.

  * * *

  Dear Art,

  I’m sorry the women in your past hurt you in that way. Similar things have happened on my end as well. Before I moved to this little beach town in California, I lived in Denver. I met a man through my physical therapist and fell for him pretty quickly. I kept him from the truth about my legs for as long as I could. When I finally told him, he said he didn’t care. I undressed before him. I’d never felt so vulnerable in my life. I had no idea what he thought. He didn’t say a word. I let him into my bed, but only after he asked me to shut off the lights. I pretended that it was for other reasons, not because he could only be with me if he couldn’t see me. But the next morning, he was gone without so much as a note on the bedside table. After that, he completely ghosted me. If it hadn’t been for my brother Stone, I might have curled into a ball and stayed that way.

  So, yes, I have brothers. As most things in my life, family is complicated. Kyle, my older brother, disappeared from our lives after he graduated from high school. He felt responsible for my accident, and the guilt drove him away. Stone and I were devastated to lose him because he was the only parental figure we had. My mother left when I was only four years old and never returned. Kyle basically raised us, even though he was only eight when she left. My father was harmless, albeit a drunk, and unable to keep a job for any length of time. The three of us were all we had. When Kyle left that way, it was like being abandoned all over again.

  Just two years ago, we found him and were able to reconcile. Now the three of us live in the same town and spend a lot of time together. Kyle and his wife have four little ones, whom I adore. They’ll probably be the closest thing to having children of my own, given everything.

  Last year, my mother showed up out of the blue. It’s a long story, but we’re slowly building a relationship. My brothers have had an easier time accepting her back into their lives than I have. This fact surprised me. I thought it would be Kyle, not me, who would hold on to the past. I can’t seem to unfreeze. Stone, who is in the middle between Kyle and me, is a big teddy bear. I knew he wouldn’t be able to stay angry with her, especially as she shows so much remorse and contrition. She suffers from depression, which is what caused her to leave us. Or so she says, anyway. I thought it was a man in a black car who offered her a way out of poverty that did it.

  Her life was bleak with my father. I’ll give her that. Imagine a leaky trailer on property next to a pig farm. The smell of pig excrement clung to everything, even after a good, hard rain, which happened frequently in Oregon. My father couldn’t keep a job, so our mother made ends meet by cleaning rich people’s houses. She’d come home at night and have to put supper together out of a can of beans and stale bread or whatever else she could find in the cupboard in back of my father’s cheap whiskey. I can understand how she must have wondered how to get through another day.

  All that said, I can’t understand how she could leave us. I love my nieces and nephews so much. I’d do anything for them, and they’re not even my own children. How could she leave three little children with him? Kyle had to become an adult at eight years old. Anyway, now she’s back and I’m trying to soften to her, but it’s not working. My resentments are thick and steadfast. Stone says to give it time, that there’s no pressure to forgive overnight. I just don’t understand why it’s so easy for Stone and Kyle to forgive and not me.

  Regarding my 007 friend—his name is Trey. He knows I have scars but has never seen them. No one has but my brothers and my best girlfriend, Sara. Trey’s my best friend, other than Sara. Like you, he’s an artist. He works as an interior designer, but his drawings and paintings are wonderful too. Talent oozes from him. I adore him, but it’s a strictly platonic relationship. I don’t think he would ever see me as anything more than Stone’s little sister, thus his sister by proxy. We have such a good time together that I would never want to muddy the waters with anything as fickle as romance. We’re great as best pals.

  You asked about my work. Of anything in my life, it’s the simplest to explain. I was drawn to it because I liked science, particularly chemistry, when I was young. After I was hurt and reliant upon painkillers and antibiotics for such a long period of time, I became fascinated with how drugs could change lives. It seemed like the obvious choice for me. Kyle, although absent physically in our lives, provided money for college tuition. I didn’t hesitate to make a better life for myself. I’ve never regretted the decision. I love my work, even though it requires long hours on my feet, which can be problematic. Over the years, I’ve learned how to pace myself, alternating between sitting and standing. I love the precision of the profession, the lack of guessing or subjectivity.

  I hope this isn’t overstepping, but how did your face become scarred? What drew you to art? And please share how you discovered such a niche in portrait painting. I love dogs as much as the next person, but I don’t think I’d have a painting done of a pet and me.

  Best,

  007

  By the time she’d showered and dressed, there was an email waiting from Art.

  Dear 007,

  The dog thing came about because of my parents. I grew up wealthy, with people who have the luxury of designer everything, including dogs. One of my mother’s friends asked me to paint her and Muffy together and it kind of went from there. The niche makes a good living, and I enjoy meeting the people and learning about their lives and their dogs. I suppose it sounds weird, but do you know how often a mistress or master and their dog look alike? I mean, there should be some kind of scientific experiment to try to figure out why this happens. I read once that people often choose best friends who are similar to them in height, weight, and level of attractiveness. Perhaps this happens with dogs as well?

  Regarding your friend Trey. The relationship you two have sounds similar to the one I have with my friend Michelle. As I said before, I’m secretly in love with her. Has it ever occurred to you that Trey might be in love with you? Are you sure he sees you only as a little sister? If so, I’d be greatly surprised. Here’s a dirty little secret about men. We’re not really interested in having women friends unless we want the relationship to develop into something else.

  My scars were caused by my ex-wife. She threw acid on me after I discovered her affair.

  I should close for now. Countess Malinda and her dog Priscilla await.

  Best,

  Art

  * * *

  She stared at the screen, sick to her stomach. Acid on his face? How horrid. It was worse than what happened to her. The Miller brothers, who caused the accident, were not people she loved. But a wife? That kind of betrayal wounded both the inside and the outside.

  She shut the laptop before the urge to write back made her late for Trey. He’d said nine, and he was always on time. For once, she wanted to be read
y and not make him wait.

  3

  Trey

  * * *

  Trey drove his Mini Cooper with caution around the turns as they headed north toward Stowaway. Autumn had been her usual serene self, commenting occasionally on the scenery before falling asleep with her chin tucked into her neck. As the highway turned inland to loop around a high, impassable peak, she let out a faint squeak before settling back into position.

  This wasn’t unusual. Like a happy kitten in a splash of sunlight, she often fell asleep in the car. She had explained once that the warmth combined with sitting in one place relaxed her. He’d often wondered about her propensity to fall asleep when she rode with him, given her past. It would seem that she’d be frightened to ride in a car after almost dying in a car accident. She never mentioned it to him, though, and always seemed quite calm during their trips together.

  He had to physically keep himself from reaching for her hand as she twitched in her sleep. Keep your hands on the wheel and off the girl.

  They traveled through a heavily forested area before the road led them west once more. When they reached the sign for Stowaway, he turned left onto the two-lane road that would take them to the heart of the seaside town. The highway ran through flat land with strawberry fields on either side. Several farms had signs that read Self-Pick. Dozens of people knelt over the neat rows, plucking the juicy red fruit that grew close to the ground.

  Another mile down the road, a large red barn right before the sign for Stowaway hosted a local farmers’ market. If Autumn hadn’t been asleep, he would have suggested they stop for fresh vegetables to make for dinner.

  Soon, he spotted the city limit sign of Stowaway, population 13,691.

  Stowaway, like Cliffside Bay, was also a tourist destination, but bigger and busier. There were antiques shops on either side of one of his favorite furniture stores, Sayer’s. Started by Henry Sayer back in the forties, it was now run by the grandson, who created pristine wood pieces like father and grandfather before him. Trey had bought many pieces from him over the years, including Autumn’s sleigh bed.

  He found a parking spot in front of the building, backing into it with ease in his short car. Since they’d started the business, Trey often borrowed Stone’s big truck when he went shopping for furniture for their clients. Today, however, he’d have any big pieces delivered to Sara’s directly.

  Autumn woke when he turned off the engine. She blinked, then smiled. “Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I didn’t snore, did I?” she asked. “Or drool?”

  “You did neither,” he said. “Thankfully. Or you’d be looking for a ride home.”

  “Very funny.” She smacked his arm.

  “Hang on. I’ll get your door.” He sprinted around the front to help her out of his low car. If he’d known Autumn would so often be his passenger, he would have gotten a car that was easier to get in and out of. “Do you want your cane from the back?” he asked.

  “No, not yet.”

  As he did whenever they strolled or shopped together, he offered his arm for support. She took it, and they ambled down the sidewalk. They’d been to Stowaway together at least a dozen times and knew it well. Although once a modest town, it was now slick and rich with high-end stores, restaurants, and art galleries. They passed by the kitchen shop, a gallery that featured blown glasswork, then their favorite bistro.

  “They opened the outdoor seating,” he said, pointing toward the bistro.

  “Last time we were here, it was pouring rain, remember?”

  He did. They’d gotten soaked running from the bistro to the car. Autumn had looked completely adorable with wet hair. Her clothes had stuck to her breasts and hips, leaving little to his imagination. All the way home he’d cursed the car heater for working so well.

  Today, however, round tables with red-and-white-checkered cloths were arranged under blue umbrellas. Servers in crisp white aprons scurried among the tables, laying silverware down for an anticipated lunch crowd.

  All along the street, overhead sprinklers soaked the potted flower containers that hung from the awnings of every business. Water spilled onto the sidewalks, creating a patchwork of light and dark gray cement.

  When they reached the antique shop, the owner, Frankie, greeted them like old friends as they entered. Trey was in at least twice a month. He liked to think his stunning personality caused Frankie’s affection. However, it was more likely the thousands of dollars he spent a month on his clients’ behalf. Frankie joked he had Trey on speed dial.

  Frankie got up from his desk, where he’d been working on the computer. He was wide-shouldered with a broad face and a nose that looked as if it had been broken several times. Other than his peach suit jacket paired with cropped white jeans, he looked like a character from a Mafia movie. The outfit told a different story, as did the photograph of his wedding day with his husband, George.

  Frankie swept up beside them, planting air kisses on both sides of Autumn’s face, then did the same to Trey. “What are you two kids up to?” He had the male version of a voice like Marilyn Monroe’s, all breathy and innocent.

  “I’m looking for a few more pieces for Sara’s formal living room,” Trey said. “It needs an armoire and a few end tables.”

  Frankie made a heart using his index fingers and thumbs. “You’ve absolutely, one hundred percent made my day.” He motioned dramatically toward the back room. “I have a new piece not even cataloged or tagged yet. You’re going to die when you see it. I mean, totally and completely die.”

  They followed him back to the room behind the main floor where Frankie kept inventory coming in or going out. He whipped a blanket off a tall piece with the flair of a magician sweeping a tablecloth out from under a set of dishes. “Ta-da.”

  “What a beauty.” Autumn let out a breath and clapped her hands over her mouth. Frankie wasn’t the only dramatic one.

  The armoire was made of walnut, probably in the latter part of the 1800’s.

  “George stripped it and then put a stain on it to capture the beauty of the original wood,” Frankie said.

  Not overly adorned with etchings or carvings, the refinished wood had a timeless feel. Frankie explained that it had been in storage somewhere, wrapped in plastic and kept dry. “For God only knows how long. George sanded and refinished the wood into the texture of a silk handkerchief. You know how he is.”

  Trey didn’t, actually, having never met the elusive George. Frankie said he preferred to work away from people, content to bring antiques back to life in the workshop out back.

  Trey spent the next few minutes examining the piece more closely, including opening and closing drawers and doors. The finish was indeed as smooth as silk. “It’s a gem,” Trey said.

  “I want it,” Autumn said, still staring at it with the eyes of the besotted. If only she looked at him that way. “I mean, if I had room.”

  They talked about a few more details, including price and delivery options. Trey took a few photos to text to Sara for her approval. “I think she’ll want it,” Trey said to Frankie. “We’ll come back later and let you know.”

  After Frankie agreed and they looked at a few other items, he led Autumn out to the bright morning. The sun hung high and shot blinding rays of light onto the sidewalk and streets. He put his sunglasses on, as did Autumn, and they continued their stroll, turning right into a side street where another antiques shop was tucked into one of the older buildings.

  “One more and then lunch,” he said.

  She smiled up at him. “You had me at lunch.”

  An hour later, they sat at an outside table just inside the gate. Perfect for people watching, they’d agreed.

  “We can pretend we’re in Paris,” she said.

  “Paris? What made you think of that?”

  She smiled. “I’ll tell you later.”

  The server took their drink orders and delivered a basket of warm bread. Trey and Aut
umn watched people as they passed by in various states of summer attire. Like their own town, Stowaway was crawling with vacationers and tourists here to enjoy the beach, quaint businesses, and eating establishments.

  “I have an idea,” Trey said as he tore a piece of bread from the loaf.

  She squinted at him and took the basket of bread from his outstretched hand. “An idea? Should I be worried?”

  “Yes. Did you know tonight is a full moon?”

  “I didn’t, no.”

  “I called Kara this morning about something else and she reminded me they’re leaving for a short trip up north before Ruby Sloan comes. She offered up the pool to the guys and me to use while they’re away.”

  Autumn dipped a piece of bread into the olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette. “That’s nice of her.”

  “It was. I’m wondering if you might like to go swimming tonight?”

  “I don’t swim.” A flush climbed up the side of her neck and settled in her cheeks. He’d angered her with his suggestion. No going back now. He’d decided the minute he read her sad email to Art that he was going to get her in the swimming pool. The ocean would be next.

  “You don’t swim because you’re self-conscious of your legs, right?” he asked.

  She nodded and took a bite of her bread, then chewed as she watched him with big green eyes. Wary eyes. He shoved aside the hurt it caused to see her look at him like that and focused on his goal. She yearned to feel the water against her skin when she was a kid. He would give it to her.

  “What if no one was there but me and it was dark?” he asked.

  “Trey, no.”

  “What if I promise not to look? You could slip into the pool without me looking. It’ll be dark. I’ll turn around.”

  Her mouth twitched. Was it caused by irritation or humor? He couldn’t be sure.