Monday morning came and went while Trevor poured his heart into his music. His visit to the hospital the day before had inspired him in completely new ways, and he found himself tapping into emotions and ideas he didn’t even know he had.
By midday, he’d laid down tracks for two more new songs and over the course of the afternoon, he edited and mastered one of them. When he sat back and listened to what he’d worked on, he nodded in time to the tempo, pleased with the near-finished production. The lyrics spoke of the longing he was experiencing, not for a baby, but for a connection that mattered. A deep intimacy between a man and his God, between a man and those around him. It was something he knew many people never experienced in their relationships.
As the last notes of the song faded out, his thoughts drifted to Renata and her new baby. They’d have been discharged from the hospital by now, according to what she’d said Sunday afternoon, and he sent up a quick prayer that all had gone smoothly, and that mother and child were safely home.
He selfishly wished he could pay them another visit, hold that baby again, but no matter how hard he wracked his brain, he simply couldn’t come up with a sound enough excuse to do so. Especially now that they were home. Tim Larsen had been perfectly polite at the hospital, in spite of the awkward moments, but Trevor had sensed the man sizing him up, and something about the way he did so made Trevor think Tim would find it especially odd if he showed up on their doorstep with anything less than a really, really good reason. As well as he knew Gia, Vic, and Juliette, he was still virtually a stranger to Renata and Tim. He’d simply have to wait until Sunday when, come hell or high water, he was going to be at the Gustafsons’ for the family meal. Surely, the Dixon-Larsen gang would all be there, Baby Charise included.
And surely, Phoebe Gustafson would be there, too, and he’d be able to talk to her about commissioning her to work on his album art.
The thought of Phoebe—the memory of her driving that topless jeep beside him, her skirt mocking him as it billowed around her long legs, the huge sunglasses that hid most of her face, those lips—he sat back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head, his eyes closed so he could focus on the mental images longer.
“She’s beautiful,” he murmured, his voice husky with appreciation. But he didn’t mean just on the outside. Yeah, she carried herself with the confidence of a woman who knows what she’s got and knows how to work it, but what drew his eyes to her memory again and again was the slight hesitance in her gaze, the fleeting flash of vulnerability that showed itself when he first came around the pump at the gas station. She’d been embarrassed at her circumstances, he could tell, and he’d done everything he could to put her at ease.
But he was glad he’d first met her that way; had he been introduced to her in her own element, he might not have caught the glimpse of that Phoebe, and he might not have felt the earth shift under his feet the way he had in that moment.
Trevor knew people. He studied them. He watched how emotion played across features and how human nature responded to circumstances and events. He spent much of his time evoking responses from people and then honing in on those responses and going deeper, deeper, until his audiences became their feelings, even if just for a moment. He knew how to use his voice, his eyes, his body language to push buttons, to touch those triggers, and he knew how to tap those places in himself, too, how to simply release himself in the moment, like he’d done when he held Charise and poured out his heart over the baby in his arms.
And he knew, just by spending those few minutes with her, that Phoebe knew the same things he did—how to elicit a certain response, how to manipulate with a look, a movement, that voice. But he’d caught a glimpse of something more, something deeper that she kept tucked away, clutched tightly to her where she didn’t think anyone could see. He didn’t know what it was she kept so close to her heart, or why she kept it hidden, but he was sure that whatever it was had the potential to destroy her…or make her even more beautiful.
More than that, though, he remembered her beauty. The more time he spent thinking about her—she’d not been far from his thoughts in over a week now—the more he knew it to be true. It was a visceral knowledge of her, like something about her had been stamped on his heart and mind long before he’d stepped around the gas pump to offer her his help. Sure, Juliette talked about her—quite often, in fact—and so it was possible he just felt like he knew her already. But that wasn’t it, he was certain.
He’d known her…in another time, another place, another life. Try as he might, though, he could not conjure up the memory that would tell him how.
He leaned forward and shoved his rolling chair backward as he stood, not caring that it careened off the wall behind him. He had to figure this out before it consumed him. With an urgency that matched the one he’d felt yesterday about meeting the new baby, he needed to know. He would just come right out and ask her when he saw her again. When? When? Sunday dinner was still almost a week away.
“I can’t wait that long,” he growled to himself as he paced in a tight circle in front of his desk. “Why didn’t I get her number from Gia yesterday?” And now, if he asked her for it, the girl and his cousin would turn it into something it wasn’t…. But then, who was he trying to kid? The draw to her was far more than just the desire to have her create his album art.
He stopped and braced his hands on the edge of his desk, his eyes on the huge monitor that still displayed the digital audio tracks he’d been editing. Pulling the keyboard forward, he minimized ProTools, opened up the Internet, and typed Phoebe’s name into the search engine. He hadn’t done this before because he’d disciplined himself to be so careful about going on random searches online when he was alone, and part of him worried what he might find under her name. From what Vic had told him about her, from what he’d seen of her himself, from the flamboyant artwork displayed in Juliette’s home, he could tell Phoebe lived passionately…which wasn’t a bad thing. So did he. But he lived passionately for Christ, and Phoebe, well, Phoebe appeared to live passionately for herself.
And that meant it was possible he might see more of her than he wanted to if he searched her name online. He wasn’t being judgmental or self-righteous. He just knew his own weaknesses, and now that he was acknowledging the draw to her was more than just professional, he knew he had to tread carefully, respectfully. For her sake, as well as his.
The first page of the search engine flooded with site after site attached to Phoebe’s name, the majority of them art related. When he clicked on the images tab—he narrowed his eyes and prayed for protection—image after image of dazzling artwork filled the screen, interspersed with pictures of Phoebe, close-ups of her startlingly beautiful face that took his breath away, snapshots of her in evening attire, pretty little dresses at fancy events, a few family pictures of her and her sisters that looked like they’d been pulled from one of the social network sites, candid shots of her out on the town with varying groups of people, often with an arm around some smiling man—who wouldn’t be smiling with Phoebe Gustafson pressed up against you?—and page after page of stunning photographs obviously taken during professional photo shoots. Not of Phoebe herself, but of other people, all attributed to her.
Mixed into the bunch were images of several bodice-ripper type romance novels from a publishing house called Vineland Press, but Trevor assumed the connection to Phoebe was through her photography. Several of her male models, especially, looked like they also graced the covers of the Vineland novels, and the company’s address had it based out of Monrovia, not more than an hour’s drive away.
If Phoebe designed book covers, surely she’d be open to working with him on his album.
He clicked on a link to Gossamer Magazine because Phoebe’s name was listed as a contributing artist. He closed it quickly when he saw the content warning stating that it was for adults only.
But other than the candid images of the beautiful woman in her sometimes really racy clothes out on the town, and the curious connection she had to Gossamer—”Which is none of my business anyway,”—he was thrilled to see how renowned she was in the industry as an artist. He was also pleased to see that she didn’t seem to be attached to one particular man…at least not that he could tell by the pictures or headlines. He reached for his chair and pulled it up to the desk, a nervous flutter behind his sternum.
“Okay, God,” he said as he lowered himself into the black leather seat. “I should have started this with a conversation with you. Sorry. So tell me. What do I do now?” He moved the mouse so it hovered over the link to Phoebe’s professional website. It wasn’t that he was afraid of what he’d find there. It was just that opening it meant he was pursuing her of his own free will. It wasn’t a blind date like he’d had with Juliette last year. It wasn’t Gia trying to hook him up with another one of her sisters. It wasn’t a chance meeting on the side of the road.
If he opened Phoebe’s website in the state he was in, he’d be intentionally pursuing her, both professionally…and personally.
“Is this what I’m supposed to do, God?”
Pray for her.
“I will. But what about contacting her?”
Pray for her.
“Fine. Then can we talk about contacting her?”
Pray for her.
Trevor sighed. He rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand, his other lingering on the mouse. Phoebe’s China doll features studied him, her thoughts indiscernible behind her eyes in the portrait next to her website link. He let go of the mouse and scrubbed both hands through his hair. He grabbed the mouse again and moved the cursor to the upper right hand corner of the screen. It hovered there…close out altogether or just minimize until later? After he’d prayed for her.
Once again he rose and paced, his eyes going back to hers again and again.
Pray for her.
With a growl, Trevor shut down the Internet and walked away from the desk to stand at his west-facing kitchen window. The sun was making its way toward the rick-rack line of mountains, and the sky was catching fire. Southern California sunsets in autumn were almost always glorious, and he stood there watching the shifting colors for a few moments longer, willing his thoughts of Phoebe into prayers. Then he snatched up his keys, his helmet, and his padded denim jacket.
“Better than a cold shower, any day,” he declared as he swung a leg over his Harley and knocked the kickstand up. Nothing like a twilight bike ride to clear the head. “Pray, I will. Fine. But I’m going to have a good time doing it,” he grouched, sounding like a petulant child. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince God or himself of the fact.
And running through the back of his mind was the memory of what had happened the last time he’d taken the bike out…was that only a little over a week ago?