Page 15 of Edge of Ruin (The Edge Trilogy #3)

Chapter Eleven

Vivi

“ O oh! Your own store, hmm? Lovely idea, honey. Jewelry, pottery, art objects, gift items? Pebble River is just right for a place like that, now that the windsurfers have found it. Tourism has arrived. And windsurfers have money, you see.” Margaret poured me another cup of tea out of a rose-spattered teapot and nudged the plate of pecan puffs toward me.

“Come on and indulge yourself! Heaven knows you can afford the calories!”

“Margaret, I’ve eaten five already, and they’re not small.” I gazed appreciatively at the heap of powdered-sugar-glazed, melt-in-your-mouth cookies. To die for.

“I could help you find a place, you know,” Margaret offered. “I ran a cross-stitch shop in Pebble River for thirty-five years. We can get started right away. Why wait?”

“I would, but my van’s still stuck,” I explained. “Dwayne keeps putting me off because of the rain, but it’s been sunny for days, so?—”

“Well, now, speak of the devil. Look what’s coming up the road!”

I leaned over to peer through the floral print swags of Margaret’s window and saw a tractor chugging up the road. A big, round man with a cowboy hat was behind the wheel. “Is that Dwayne?” I asked.

Margaret hobbled to the window and lifted her spectacles. “It is indeed,” she said, in tones of satisfaction. “I told him all about you. Dwayne runs the gas station at the exit for Pebble River, you see. Lovely man. Put some cookies in a napkin for him, would you, dear?”

I soon found herself out on the road, reaching up to shake the hand of a youngish bald guy with several chins and a baseball cap.

“So you’re the artist?” he said. “Good to meet you, Ms. D’Onofrio.”

“Same here. And call me Vivi.” I handed him the cookies with a smile.

“I thought you might be coming by, Dwayne, so I baked your favorite,” Margaret said archly. “Vivi, let me know when you want to go to Pebble River. Maybe we should all go together.”

“All? All meaning who?” I asked.

“You, me, and Jack,” Margaret said, as if it should be obvious. “I’m sure Jack will have some wonderful ideas. He’s a very creative young man.”

“Oh, no. I don’t want to bother Jack,” I said hastily.

“Bother me about what?”

My heart jumped up into my throat as I turned around, and ... oh, boy. My reaction to him was as powerful, inappropriate and unwelcome as it ever was. Worse, even.

I’d managed to mostly avoid him since our fight, and I’d been fondly imagining that my feelings and hormones were back under control. Hah. Vivid images of the hot springs incident blazed through my body.

My face turned pink. No, I think that my entire body was turning pink.

“Hi.” Jack nodded to Dwayne and Margaret. “Heard the tractor.”

“I figured it was dry enough by now,” Dwayne said.

“I’ll walk down there with you,” Jack said.

Oh, God, no. That was all I needed. I swallowed my dismay. “Um. Okay.”

Fortunately, the rumble of the tractor chugging ahead of us made our silence less embarrassing on the walk.

I’d been using the long, quiet days while the weather dried up to hang up my pictures, write down my goals, make shopping wish lists for some future when I had some money to spend.

I’d set up my portable studio on the floor, and I had made several trips back and forth to the van to haul back my work supplies.

It was a new artistic era for me. It was time to beef up my stock, dream up some fresh new designs.

Scrounge for new sources of unusual, pretty rubbish.

I liked incorporating what most people thought of as garbage into my work.

It was part of my artistic philosophy, and my mission.

Making garbage beautiful. Using found objects.

Because life was like that. All in the attitude.

My first investment would be a big worktable.

Then, I needed to get my hands on some some metalworking equipment.

I wanted to get some big pieces of stained glass to play with.

I was desperate to spread out. Everything in my life for the past six years had been miniature; from my income to my camper-van home, all the way to my artistic ambitions.

But I was sick of being miniature. I wanted to sprawl.

I wanted to take up space. Breathe big, greedy breaths.

Use up all the oxygen I damn well wanted.

Not that I regretted the choices I’d made. I was proud of what I had accomplished. The traveling jewelry business had been good to me. My jewelry sideline had started one day when Nancy admired a sculpture I was making out of beads, wire, and glass.

“This is beautiful,” Nancy had said. “If it were jewelry, I would wear it.”

The comment had given me an idea, and for each of my sisters’ and Lucia’s next birthdays, I had made personalized earrings. Then I made some necklaces to match. Then I had tried a couple of big brooches.

It was fun. Ideas for designs flowed easily.

My art school buddy Rafael had persuaded me to try selling some of them in his booth at the open-air market down on Sixth Avenue, and I had sold several, to my utter surprise, and Rafael’s triumphant glee. The profit had almost paid my rent that month.

Brian had been disdainful of my “craftsy little hobby,” and resentful of the time it took from the work he demanded from me.

But I had kept quietly on with my sideline.

And after things exploded with Brian, the jewelry gave me something to fall back on.

It wasn’t exactly what I’d dreamed of, but it was creative, and it paid for my gas, my car insurance, my food.

And it wasn’t waitressing or bartending.

Not that there was anything wrong with waitressing or bartending, but I was sick to death of them.

I’d been trying to use some of these long, silent days to churn out some more work, but I’d had no luck. I’d chalked it up to exhaustion, worry, and a blazing case of lust. And Haupt, and John the Fiend, of course. There was always that zesty little pinch of mortal dread to liven things up.

I hoped it wasn’t artist’s block. I’d experienced a very bad period of that, starting a while after I had signed the contract with Brian’s gallery.

Working with Brian had been awesome, at first. He had sold a whole bunch of my pieces, the wilder, angrier ones.

Money started coming in, and that had been oh, so sweet.

I had quit my cocktail-waitressing job and just basked in the thrill of being the hot new thing on the art scene.

I spent a lot of the money I had made on clothes, all vetted by Brian, of course.

Then I started experimenting with another style, and things changed. Brian didn’t like the new pieces. He demanded that I make more of the old series that sold so well.

“But I’m bored with them,” I protested. “That cycle is done. I’m into a new vibe now. They’re so angry and negative, and I’m not as pissed off now as I was a year ago.”

“I don’t care,” Brian said. “They sell, babe. The new ones aren’t right for our catalog, and they’re not right for our clients. I need more pieces like Scream and Howling Skeleton. You’re making your name. Ride the market trend.”

I had chosen my words carefully, already afraid of making him angry. “But that’s the thing, Brian. Inspiration doesn’t depend on market trends. It?—”

Slam. Brian’s hand slapped down into his desk. “Don’t even start with it,” he rapped out. “I’m already bored.”

I had jumped back, and an ebony goddess figurine on the desk had teetered and almost fallen upon her substantial behind. Brian stared at me, his cool gaze menacing. “Don’t be an idiot, Viv,” he said. “Fulfil your contractual obligations to me. Or else.”

I was shocked by his ugly tone. “But ... but I just?—”

“You signed that contract. Don’t forget that. Your future as an artist depends on it.”

My mouth worked helplessly as Brian leaned back in his chair and leafed casually through a big glossy catalog of Wilder Gallery artwork.

“But … but what do you mean by that?” I finally forced out.

His smile did not reach his eyes. “We discussed this, remember? Before you signed. You agreed not to play the diva. Not to jerk me around with high-minded bullshit.”

“Yes, but I didn’t mean that I would be a?—”

“I need more pieces like the old series. End of discussion.” He slapped the catalog shut. “Oh, and another thing. Our date tonight. I can’t make it. Something’s come up. Since you now have the evening free, I suggest you get to work. I have clients asking for your work, and I mean to satisfy them.”

He got up and stood in front of his desk, hands twitching in the pockets of his tailored suit. He sighed and tilted my face up to his. His cold, hard lips brushed mine.

I flinched from his touch.

Brian sighed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be that way, Viv. I know you’re upset, but it’ll have to wait,” he said, sounding bored. “I’m busy today. Get busy, okay? Chop chop.”

I had done as I was told. Tried to, anyway. I had trotted to my studio like a good girl. I had tried to make pieces that would please him. It made me cringe to think of how hard I had tried to satisfy his demands. How pointless all my efforts had been in the end.

Because it hadn’t worked. I had run dry immediately. I cranked out a few things, but they were obviously bad, flat, boring. My output ground to a total halt.

Brian had been furious. Convinced that I was doing it on purpose just to spite him. And that was when the sex with him had started to go from tense and problematic to outright scary. Brian used sex to punish. It was subtle, but I felt it.

The only thing I had still been able to work on during that period was the jewelry. It was the one thing that Brian had never tried to control, so I just went with it. I threw myself into it, heart and soul. I had to, since Brian burned all my bridges out of spite.

I cast a covert sideways glance at Jack, walking silently beside me, trying not to envision how he looked naked, and soaking wet. How he tasted. The solidity of his shoulders when I sank my fingernails into them.