September 30
Life is good. Anybody in Central Florida, stop by Aly’s Gallery in New Smyrna Beach at 7 p.m. for Cal Koomer’s one-man show.
Aly at www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com
Cal’s eyes followed Jesse and Kallie as they exited the gallery. Kallie’s smile, so like Aly’s, lingered. Maybe Kallie had finally decided he wasn’t Satan who would bury her children in the back yard. He loosened his tie and drained his Dixie cup of Scragg Groves’ orange juice.
Jesse said something to Kallie in the front seat of their car, leaned over, and kissed her. Seconds stretched out.
Cal cocked his head back to the gallery and his official one-man show. Maybe he and Aly should babysit for their niece and nephew—little abstinence sentries—a whole lot more often.
His eye caught on the painting of Henna’s house. Leaf’s hot dog stand listed over a flat tire in the front yard of the picture. Had he lost both of them? Grief knifed through him. Henna’s words swept into his head as though she were in the room. “I told you your ship would come in, and you’d be sitting on easy street, pretty as a picture.”
Jackson shook his hand. “You’ve got some serious skills.”
Cal cracked a smile. Dad trying to be “cool” was always a treat. “Thanks, Dad.”
Starr hugged him. “I couldn’t be prouder of you, sweetie.”
Cal breathed in the scent of love and acceptance that had always eluded him.
Mom ran a knuckle under her mascara. “The Mayor shook my hand and told me how pleased he was that I grew up to be happy.”
“And he bought another painting!” Aly slid an arm around Cal’s waist. “Linda Reader, Katie Jessup and six other people bought pictures, too.”
Starr’s smile crowned him, a pontifical blessing.
Jackson pushed the glass door open for Starr. “See you guys later.”
Aly flitted from his side, and Cal’s eyes galvanized to his father’s hand sliding over his mother’s black dress into territory that might warp Cal for life. Geez. What was with his family tonight?
He coughed and jerked away. His gaze smacked into Fish and Missy who had walked around like the two-headed amoeba all evening. No way was he going to get his brain around his best friend and his kid sister having sex. At least not anytime soon.
“I can’t believe you proposed to Missy the night I thought you were going to ask Aly—and invited the family to your elopement a week later. I’m still in shock.”
Fish laughed. “You’ll get over it. I did.”
“Yeah, you look like you did. Nice of you two to come up for air for my show.”
Missy narrowed her eyes at him. “We’ve only been married five weeks. Your turn’s coming.”
“December thirtieth.” He wished it was tonight. “Eighty-nine days.”
Missy rolled her eyes. “Who ever heard of picking your wedding day before you get engaged? You are so weird.” She hugged him. “But I’m proud of you, especially for having the sense to love my BFF.”
Fish threw his lanky arms around him and smacked his back. “I don’t think I could be any happier if I’d just won a senate seat. Good job.” Fish let go and looked him in the eye. “I love you, man.”
Cal swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah, me, too.”
Fish and Missy said their good-byes, and Cal snagged Aly’s hand.
They circled the gallery turning off lights, and for an eye blink he was back at his folks’ turning off the lights Thanksgiving night.
Aly dropped a handful of paper plates and cups into the garbage.
He stopped Aly in the moonlit room and turned her toward him. “Thanks for giving me self-respect.”
Aly scooted onto her desk. “I always thought it was only a matter of time until people saw your talent.”
“No, I mean, you gave me a reason to succeed. A reason to get sober and stay that way. A reason to be the man, make choices I feel good about. Thanks for loving me.” The wonder of Aly’s loving him felt like it would never wear off.
He ran his hands over her hair, silver in the moonlight, and the silky fabric of her russet dress, needing to see her with his tactile sense. His hands traveled down her bare arms, raising goose bumps, and closed around her fingers. “You’re so beautiful.” He brushed his lips against hers. “I love you.”
“I love you.” Aly’s voice was breathless.
He groaned, pulled her to the edge of the desk, claimed her mouth. His hand dropped to her bare leg, guided by an inner GPS. Heat flowed into his body. He should bail—get into his car, talk to Aly on his phone as he drove to the apartment in Mom’s studio.
Aly’s fingers dug into the hair at the back of his neck.
He’d gone so many years, starving for her touch....
She pressed in tight against him.
Who would know?
She would. He would. Aly was… worth… waiting for. He broke the kiss.
Her chest rose and fell with quick breaths, riveting his attention.
“We’re only ever going to be with each other….” Her voice was barely a whisper in the dimness.
He took one small, impossible step away from the heat of her body, the desire in her voice, the extra inches of leg he hadn’t seen in a very long time, her knees still slightly parted. Mysteries he would spend a lifetime uncovering. He wanted to start tonight.
O, God. He ripped himself away from her and paced the width of the gallery.
Aly’s whispered words stuck in his ears and filled up the room, warring with a voice inside.
He paced, stopped, paced some more until rational thoughts kick-started in his brain.
He planted his palms on Aly’s desk on either side of her, careful not to touch skin. “Let me do this one thing for you, Al. I’m not going to be much of a prize as a husband—”
“If you get around to proposing.”
“I’ll propose on October twenty-eighth. You know the plan.”
Aly huffed her impatience.
“I’m moody, uneducated, insecure. I have a spotty job history and a record. But I can make sure I’ve been sober a year before we get married so you have reason to hope I can stay that way.”
Aly sighed. “I wasn’t worried about your sobriety at the moment.”
“I can’t undo sleeping with Evie or running, but I can help you believe I’ll be faithful to you for the rest of our lives—if I can show self-control until we’re married. I’ve waited nine years to have you. I can wait three more months. It just feels right.”
Aly slid off the desk and her dress dropped over the bonus inches of leg. Her hands settled on his shoulders. She leaned her forehead against his. “You’re wrong about a lot of things. You have an incredible work ethic—what do you think five hundred pieces of art at age twenty-six says about you? You went to jail for your grandparents—”
“But I have a problem with weed—”
“Which you are beating. And I’m proud of you.”
His chest swelled with something that would make him a millionaire if he could capture it in paint.
“You’ve made me feel… cherished. And worthy—to you and in my own head.”
Doing the right thing tonight felt a thousand times better than every wrong choice he’d ever made.
He’d escaped, not for the length of a buzz, but for good, the self-disgust that had hung on him, loose and misshapen for so long. He stepped into a life where he was passionately loved—the one that had been there all along.
Tim and Jan Solomon, owner-operators of Key Sailing in Sarasota, Florida, have tirelessly answered thousands of charter sailing questions and taken me sailing. The Key Breeze, their 41-foot Catalina, appears in The Art of My Life as the Escape. To see pictures of the boat, visit http://keysailingsarasota.com/. I owe the Solomons my undying gratitude, a guest room, and a tour of all my favorite Arizona hikes.
The Art of My Life would never have been written if it weren’t for Judy Mikalonis at Andrea Hurst Literary convincing me I had a deeper book in me. Susan Meissner’s superb editing has made the difference between my writing a novel and my writing the best novel I’m capable of writing.
Chuck Jessup dusted off Coast Guard expertise, contributed Fish and Missy’s Manzano’s subs, and drew me a floor plan of the New Smyrna Beach PNC Bank—going above and beyond being drafted as a research assistant by his wife’s high school BFF.
Thank you to my family who have lived and loved each other through many of the experiences depicted in this book.
I’m grateful for my husband, Jim, who has loved me with the depth and tenacity my characters illustrate.
Thank you to God who answered 43,838 words of desperate pleas for help while I plotted, wrote, and edited The Art of My Life.