Anywhere You Are (4 page)

No.

“
…
the light of my life…”

This isn't happening.

“Mr. Pipplepotts.”

Wren pressed a call button on the interoffice phone and moments later, the door to the conference room opened and a man entered holding a long leash, attached to which was the most enormous Great Dane Marc had ever seen.

Standing almost three and a half feet high at the shoulder, the dog seemed to dwarf his handler from his massive head to his giant paws. He had light black fur, so light it was almost blue and brushed to a glossy sheen, along with deep-set blue eyes.

He was a gorgeous creature. A gorgeous, destructive, terrible creature…who was also the last living thing to have seen his beloved aunt alive.

Wren signaled to the man, and with no ceremony whatsoever, he crossed the room and handed the leash to Marc.

Marc was so shocked, he took it. The man disappeared, and Marc simply stared at the beast, who was practically dripping slobber from the maw that passed as his mouth. His jaws were huge, filled with plenty of sharp teeth. Teeth that Marc had no doubt Mr. Pipplepotts would love to sink into his favorite leather shoes. And his tweed jackets. And anything else he cared to gnaw on.

But Wren wasn't done reading. “You need him and he needs you,” he continued. “I also leave you any additional monies as may be required for the care of the animal throughout his natural life, to be drawn from my estate.”

No one spoke, and in the silence, Mr. Pipplepotts barked, an earth-shattering, ear-splitting bark that rattled the blinds and shook the table.

Bethamy let out a little scream, while everyone else simply stared at him. Wren sat there, completely impassive.

“She left you the
dog
?” Alexa said, incredulous.

Marc finally got his wits about him. “I can't accept him,” he said, standing. “Last year, my co-op board turned down an eight-year-old for wanting to keep a turtle in a terrarium. There's no way they'll agree to allow this animal in my building.”

He led the dog—who to his relief followed him—to Wren, who vigorously shook his head and held up his hands.

“Oh, no. I'm afraid I can't take him back.”

“You have to,” Marc insisted. “I can't take care of him. I'm booked on a red-eye to India tomorrow night.” He thrust the leash at Wren, who again shook his head no.

“I'm sorry,” Wren said, sounding sorry not a bit. “You've already taken possession and he is no longer under my control as a part of the estate.”

“What am I supposed to do with him?” he said, at a loss for words for the first time since dropping Grace off.

“We-ell,” Wren said. “I think we could come to some arrangement regarding housing. Your aunt's house, for example. It'll be free for the rest of the summer while we get it ready for sale. You could live there.”

“Her house is in Eastbridge,” Marc gritted out. “I live and work in Manhattan.”

Wren shrugged, as if the matter was completely out of his hands.

Fuck.

Marc blindly cast his gaze around and landed on his oldest sister. Alexa shook her head. “No way,” she said. “I already have a full house.”

He turned to Whitney. “Help me.”

Her eyes widened. “I can't,” she said. “I'm allergic, remember?” Then she sneezed, loudly.

“Mom?”

“Darling,” she said, her voice sad. “I'm not strong enough to handle him.” This was absolutely true, given that she looked like a strong breeze might blow her away.

His dad was no help. He sat there, arms crossed over his chest, smirking.

The room seemed to close in on him, pressing at him from every side. There was a tightness in his chest as a sense of impotence filled him. He'd thought being tricked by Grace Davingham had been his most recent low point, but this was worse. For the second time in a week, things were going straight south, and he hated it.

In a shocking surge of clarity, he knew exactly why.

Because he wasn't in command. In control, the way he always was.

Oh, Aunt Sarah had gotten him, but good. He could no more give up the dog than he could cut off his arm. The dog was his aunt's, his aunt entrusted him with it, and now it was his. It was his duty, his honor, to take what his aunt had so highly valued and care for it. Except he didn't have the lifestyle to do so.

Before his eyes, his orderly, tidy existence, the one he filled with work and schedules and meetings and carefully composed relationships, was slipping through his fingers.

He looked down at the leash in his hands, at the end of which was Aunt Sarah's dog. No,
his
dog. His huge, unwieldy dog, who let out another ear-splitting bark and tugged him toward the door.

As if he had no free will of his own, Marc let himself be dragged away, barely muttering an apology as he exited.

The rest of the reading of the will would have to wait.

Mr. Pipplepotts had to pee.

Leaning her crutches against the side of her kitchen table, Grace Davingham hobbled across the room. Her taped-up ankle and knee throbbed like crazy as she stepped out the side door and onto the gravel driveway, but her pride stung even more.

Last weekend's first mistake? Not breaking in her sneakers before the hike. The second? Bringing that thermos full of mimosas, which hadn't helped her balance in the least. And the worst mistake of all?

Lying to Marcus Colby.

Granted it was more like a lie of omission, but given the way things ended up, it seemed just as bad as lying outright.

She'd tried to forget about it…over and over again, but it was impossible. The image of his stern, handsome face kept flashing in her mind like a broken neon sign. For some reason, disappointing him made her feel just
awful.

Never mind that she barely knew him, she'd
liked
him, more than she had anyone in a long while. Not just because he hadn't known who she was, though admittedly, that was very nice, but because there'd been no artifice with him at all. He was who he was. No explanations. No apologies.

She wanted to ruffle him. Rile him up with that suit and those shoes and those eyes that seemed to see right through her. Crack that tightly wound control and unravel him.

Except men like him never went for women like her. She was messy, sloppy,
tainted.

It doesn't matter. You'll never see him again, anyway.

But of course, it did matter. What happened with Marc was endemic to her entire existence.

She couldn't go out in public because someone would eventually recognize her and out her. And though she was a homebody at heart, she couldn't stay home all the time, either.

It wasn't good. It wasn't normal.

But then again, neither was she.

Sighing, she breathed in the morning air—still a bit cool, though it would get warmer as the day wore on—and slowly made her way across the clearing toward the old farm building she used as a studio. Halfway there, just when she was cursing her stupid decision to abandon the crutches, her cellphone rang. She recognized the number immediately—Crystal Tomasetti, her model-slash-DJ-slash-best friend who'd moved out from L.A. around the same time as Grace and her family and now lived in New York City.

A California native, Crystal was as low-key as they came, despite her stunning good looks and high-profile life. She was real. And she was loyal, one of the few friends Grace still had since moving out of the limelight. Probably because they'd known each other forever—since way before either of them got famous.

Or infamous.

As usual, Crystal didn't even bother with a greeting. “I have bad news, babe,” she said.

Grace's heart leapt into her throat. “Jimmy?”

“God, no. He's been clean for months. Claims he's straight edge now.”

Grace let out the breath she hadn't known she been holding, but Crystal went on. “I'm actually talking about TMZ. As in, you're on it, splashed all over their front page. And you know that when your mom finds out your picture's all up on the Internet again, she'll be coming for you.”

Crap.

She'd known this was coming. The only surprise was that it had taken two days for her anonymity to be shot. In times past, pics of her had surfaced online within the hour.

“You there?” Crystal prodded, when she was quiet for a moment too long.

She shifted more weight onto her good leg. “Yeah, I'm here. This is not good, Crys.”

“Tell me about it. I thought you moved to Eastbridge to get away from everything.”

“I did.” Grace sighed. “I was.”

“But let me guess. You wanted to have a little adventure and things got out of hand?”

“Something like that,” she admitted. Going hiking with Jane and Carolyn had been the most fun she'd had in a while. It had gotten her out, allowed her to explore new terrain, and even given her more creative fodder. But she hadn't counted on dragging Marc into it.

“Who's the suit?” Crystal asked, as if reading her mind.

“Just a guy.”

“Uh-huh,” Crystal said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just so you know, he's wearing Brioni from their spring collection. Very nice. Very expensive.”

“You got that he's wearing a Brioni suit from a grainy picture?” Grace was incredulous.

“Babe,” Crystal started, “I'm in fashion. And thanks to the wonders of modern cellphones, the pic wasn't grainy at all.”

Grace groaned.

“I never thought of you as being into the whole MOTU thing, though
mmmph,
that square jaw. Love it.”

“What's a MOTU?”

“Master of the Universe,” Crystal said, her tone brisk. “You gotta keep up with the acronyms. That one's been around a while. And I'm not buying that he's ‘just a guy.' Not with
that
look on his face.”

“I'm telling the truth.” If Marc didn't already hate her, he would once he got a glimpse of that photo.

“You usually go for more downtown than uptown,” Crystal said, ignoring her protests, just like she always did. “What's the deal?”

Crystal wasn't going to stop until she'd uncovered the truth, so Grace took a deep breath and braced herself to spill. “He didn't recognize me,” she said softly.

Her friend was silent for one long moment as what Grace said finally sunk in. “Aw, honey.” She heard the pain in Crystal's voice. Pain for her.

Crystal had seen her through the good, the bad, and the ugly of every one of her relationships. Mostly the ugly. Like the indie rocker she'd dated. After only two weeks, which he'd mostly spent stoned, he'd threatened to jump off the Staten Island Ferry if she wouldn't go on tour with him. Or the slick club owner who'd used her name—without permission—to advertise his events.

“Would it be too much to ask for me just to have a normal relationship?” she asked.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. And when Crystal spoke, her voice was quiet. “Babe. That's never gonna happen. Normal isn't in the cards for people like us.”

And damned if she didn't know it.

“I miss you,” she told Crystal. “And Monika and Edge and Chauncey.” Her crowd. Her real friends.

“Come into the city this weekend. I'm spinning at this hot new club in the Bowery and we're all going to be there. I know the gang would love to see you. Ooh, and it's cupcakes this time. From that hot new place in TriBeCa. No sex stuff, I swear.”

Grace groaned. “I still owe you for that one.” A couple of months ago, one of Crystal's shows had been sponsored by a national brand-name condom maker, and half a dozen scantily clad models had distributed them to the crowd. As a joke Crystal had stuffed Grace's bag with them, her way of telling her to step up her game. Grace was still finding them buried in the liners of her bag.

“Your dry spell was going on way too long.”

And it's still going on.

Grace took a breath. “Crystal, I would love to come. I would
so
love to. But I'm behind on my painting and I have a ton to do in the greenhouse. Another time?”

“Sure. Okay,” Crystal said, though she didn't sound that enthusiastic.

“I'm sorry I'm being such a bad friend.” Grace had missed the last three of Crystal's shows, and forget about Fashion Week—she'd skipped that, too, even though Crystal was booked to walk in one of the high-profile shows. And she barely talked to her other friends these days. Everyone had such busy lives and was wrapped up in other things.

“You're not a bad friend. Things are just…different for you now. And you're in a better place.”

“Yeah.” At least, she
thought
she was. “Why don't you come out next month? Spend a long weekend at my place?”

“That sounds great,” Crystal said, her voice warm. “I'll tell the others, but their schedules are crazy. It might just be me.”

“That'd be okay.” The distinct sound of rubber tires on her gravel driveway made her turn. She'd completely forgotten about her meeting with George Arbor, president of the Eastbridge Chapter of the Audubon Society. “Oh, God, Crys, I'm sorry but I've got to go.”

“Later, babe,” Crystal said before hanging up the phone.

Grace sighed. Even though she couldn't get her act together, it didn't stop Crystal from reaching out over and over again. She'd been to Manhattan only twice in the last two months, and that was only because she had other business there.

As George parked his Prius, Grace pushed the guilt back down. She had to focus on her art—her life. And her work for the Audubon Society was important, mostly because painting for them could help raise environmental awareness.

George emerged in a flutter of papers and messy hair. He didn't greet her, just opened the rear door and bent over, treating her to a view of his skinny butt as he rifled through some papers. “Not these. No, no. These. Yes.”

Used to his ways, she simply waited until he slammed the door shut and crossed the gravel driveway.

“Hullo, George,” she said.

George Arbor was in his early sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a decidedly beakish nose. He reminded her of a bird—an egret, maybe, with his long frame and spindly legs. He craned his neck to peer at her up and down, until his gaze lit on the braces on her leg.

He gave her a nod, his way of acknowledging her presence. “What happened to you?”

“I took a little spill while hiking.”

“Where?”

“Devil's Den.”

“Excellent wildlife,” was all he said. The man was definitely better with fauna than he was with people, but there was a flip side to that quirk—he didn't care who she was. All he cared about was her art, and that suited her just fine.

“Let me grab my crutches so we can walk over to my studio,” she suggested.

Instead of offering to help, he simply nodded and followed her as she hobbled back to her kitchen door. When she emerged a few moments later, he was on his hands and knees, eyeing a creeping caterpillar.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Lymantria dispar dispar,”
he said with disgust. “Gypsy moth. Destructive little creature. Still, I don't have the heart to kill it, no matter how many trees it'll maim.” He came to his feet. “To your studio?”

“This way,” she said.

Across the clearing was her work space, a medium-sized converted barn. The old wooden siding was worn, the insulation sucked, and the roof could use repairing, but it didn't matter. It was her place to create, to discover, to breathe. And she wouldn't trade it for anything.

She flicked on the overhead light and led him inside, making her way to her big workbench. She'd pulled the folder with her drawings yesterday, so they were right on top of the biggest pile of work.

“Here,” she said, handing him the folder. “What do you think?”

She stepped back and waited while he examined the art. She'd done five drawings so far, and George studied the pictures for a long time, taking in each one for several long minutes. Her cellphone buzzed in her pocket, but she ignored it. Her only focus right now was George and what he might say.

After what seemed like an eternity, he looked up at her. “You've exceeded my expectations with these,” he murmured, pointing to the picture on top. “You really did this grosbeak justice. Look at those lines. You've truly breathed the life into him.”

“Thank you,” she said, suffused with pride at his praise.

“Yes,” he said nodding, and handing them back to her. “These will do nicely. And five more commissioned. Very good. Very good. What else do you have around here?”

George's eyes scanned the room and lighted on a painting propped up against a far wall, one she'd started last fall of an American bittern.

“What is that?” he asked, pointing, his voice sharp.

“Do you like it?” she said, but George had already left her side and was making a beeline for the painting. She limped after him. “I was able to do it all in one sitting down by the water. It was such luck I had my sketchpad with me that day to do my mock-ups. I'm almost finished with it. Just a few more—”

“I want it,” George interrupted, swinging around to face her, his eyes bright.

“It's not part of the Audubon Society folio,” Grace told him gently. “And besides, it's not done.”

George waggled his hand in the air. “I don't care. I'll take it as-is, right now.”

“But—”

“This is for me, not for the Audubon Society, so I'll pay you double.”

Double was good, and if she sold it to him, it would be her first uncommissioned sale.

Still, she hesitated. She could use the money, but she couldn't let one of her pieces go out into the world incomplete.

“I won't take no for an answer!”

She wasn't that comfortable with what George was proposing, but he'd been good to her, giving her a commission as an unknown artist when no one else would touch her work, at least not on its merit.

“Sure,” she said reluctantly. “You can have it.” He made to grab the painting, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. “On one condition.”

George drew back, eyes narrowed. “What?”

“That you let me finish it up. I won't give it to you otherwise.”

George pressed his lips together in a tight line, clearly not happy about having to wait for his prize. “All right,” he finally assented.

“Wonderful,” she said. “Now, if there's anything else I can do for you…?”

“I'll come back soon for the bittern. And take your time with the folio works. We're not going to print until late fall.”

“Good.” That gave her a nice chunk of time to finish up those drawings, as well as to continue work on her own projects.