Between Two Wolves and a Hard Place (5 page)

"I'm sorry, Miss Jones. That's the best I can do."

"Oh, no, you've been wonderful. Thank you. I'll - I'll be in touch." I hang up, and stare at the phone. Two weeks. I fight back the desire to throw in the towel before the fight's even begun, but then I scowl. No. I'll do my best. Even if I only send in one piece. If it's the only chance I have of beating Marv, then I'll take it.

Though, to be fair, I'm not fighting Marv. I'm struggling against myself. My own art. I have two weeks to produce pieces that will outshine my own very best. I get up and go to the kitchen.

"Dad?" He looks up at me, lowering his paper. "Do you still my old glassblowing equipment in the garage?"

He purses his lips and nods. "Yes, I believe so. I didn't throw anything away. Why?"

My mother has set a plate of scrambled eggs, fresh bread, and sausages on the counter next to my dad, and she points imperiously. I sit. "I've got a chance to beat out Marv and earn the Harrowgate nomination with some new work. He lied." It hits me then. I laugh. "Of course he lied. He doesn't have the contract with Harrowgate yet. He's just in the running. So if I can submit superior pieces, well, I can prevent him from selling my art."

"Oh, honey," says my mother. "That's wonderful!"

"Two weeks?" My father looks skeptical.

I sigh. "I know. But I'm going to do my best. What other choice do I have?"

My dad smiles. "No choice at all. That's my girl." He smoothes my hair, and I give him a weary smile.

"OK, enough." My mother crosses her arms. "If you don't eat now, I'm sending you to your room."

I laugh, and somehow, being here with my parents, my heart lifts a little higher.

Chapter 6

After breakfast I grab my dad's bike and head into town. We live on the outskirts of Honeycomb Falls, on the east side of the Conway River, past the elementary school and right at the edge where the forest begins. It's a cool spring day, and the sunlight filters through the tree canopies and gives me a gentle, warm caress which alternates with the chill of the shadows. It's Saturday morning, and everybody is up and about. The last of the winter snow and ice is noticeable only in the few remaining icy berms that sit humped in the darkest shadows, but everywhere else the green is back, vibrant and amazing.

I get a kick riding my dad's bike. It's how Drake, Dean and I used to get around until Dean bought his secondhand Camaro at the end of that last summer. We'd meet up on Bridge Street, then either head up into the hills to ditch our bikes and go hiking, or if the weather was right, head over to Lookout Pond for a swim.

I'm partly riding around for the fun of it, but also because I need to find a studio. A place where I can work on my art, which is a tough call because I'll need to set up in record time, and few places have the right kind of layout to practice glassblowing safely. Houses are out. Office buildings are out. I need something old, something from Honeycomb Falls' industrial past, when a few large brick buildings were built alongside the Conway at the turn of the century.

I hit Bridge Street, and can't help but smile. It hasn't changed at all. The morning sunlight illuminates the hand-painted sign of the Gypsy Cafe, and there's Tin Pan Alley, a red sign indicating the presence of Art's movie house at the back. I walk my bike along the sidewalk, nodding politely to folks as they pass, some carrying books, some cups of coffee, and one lucky kid a massive ice cream with three scoops balancing precariously atop his cone.

It's good to be back. I've grown used to the tension of living in New York City, where life moves so quickly that I felt like I was diving into a rushing river every time I left my front door. You have to have a purpose in New York. You have to know where you're going, how you're going to get there, and what you're going to do when you arrive. Only tourists wander. Every local is on a mission, focused and moving fast.

Not here. Honeycomb Falls seems to belong to a different era. People walk slowly, for one, and I have to consciously pare back my New-Yorker-quick stride. I see some old folks sitting on a sidewalk bench, just taking in the sun after the long winter. Every other store seems to be a gallery or hobby shop of some kind, and from somewhere comes the delicious smell of coffee.

The road slopes down gently to the Conway River, and the new trestle bridge that crosses it, leading right to Mindy's General Store. I see members of the Women's Club tending the bridge of flowers, grooming and planting and chatting happily as the first blossoms grace the footbridge with splashes of wild color. It hasn't changed a bit.

I smile and turn to the left when I reach the bridge, following a narrow street that runs parallel to the river. There's a huge brick mill just a half block down, one of the old dinosaurs from so long ago, chimney stacks rising into the air, narrow tall windows hinting at a different era, a different time and place. It's my number one target, the old mill. I vaguely remember it being privately owned by somebody, and that it was being divided into workshops and studio spaces for artists. I walk my bike along its front, and marvel at its stark, inspiring beauty. The bricks are the color of sunset, handmade and thus a little irregular. I prop my bike by the massive front door and walk inside.

High ceilings, so high I could barely hit them with a tennis ball if I chucked one up. I immediately see that half the interior has been remodeled, the large floor partitioned into separate spaces by white walls that don't reach the ceiling, giving the space a communal feel. A sign to my left reads 'Anna Halsan's Hand-Painted Jewelry', while the space opposite reads 'Art Always'. There are large, plain windows set in the white walls, allowing me to peek into the studios, and I see easels and art on the walls. Art classes, maybe?

I keep walking. There's a photographer, several more jewelers, a pottery studio, a ballet studio, a studio called 'Conway River Rugs' and more. A quick tour of the ground floor shows there to be about eight rented spaces, with another eight on the second floor. Music comes from various directions, and I can hear the buzz of a saw coming from upstairs. Laughter, the smell of coffee, and then a gaggle of kids in karate gis come running down the steps and push their way out through the front door.

I love it! Biting my lip, I hunt around for an empty space, and try not to lose hope when I fail to find an empty studio either upstairs or down. I do find a management card on a bulletin board close to the front door, and I call the number, fingers crossed.

The phone rings twice, and then I hear, "Hello?"

I panic and hang up. That was Drake's voice. I'd know it anywhere. He sounded tired, a little impatient, but it was him. What the heck? I check the number again on the board, then on my phone. They're the same. Impossible. What is Drake doing managing this building?

A tall, good-looking woman wearing beautiful wooden jewelry emerges from 'Anna Halsan's Hand-Painted Jewelry' and smiles at me as she locks the door.

"Excuse me," I say, stepping closer. "Do you rent studio space here?"

She smiles broadly. "I do. I haven't yet found a way to get it for free."

I can't help but smile back. "I mean, you rent directly? From the manager?"

She nods. "I'm Anna. This is where I make my jewelry." She studies my face. "Are you looking to rent space?"

I make a face and move my head from side to side. "Yes? But the manager. Or owner. Is he a good-looking guy? Tall? Goes by the name of Drake?"

Anna presses her hand to her heart. "Tall, dark and handsome? Yes, that's Drake, all right. I've been trying to figure out how to invite him out for coffee for over a year now. Do you know him?"

"I used to, I guess. We lost touch. I was just surprised to hear that he was managing this building..." I trail off.

"With his being a werewolf?" Anna nods. "Drake's a good guy. His family owns the building. Or his pack. I'm not sure. It was abandoned up till a few years ago, and then he decided to renovate and rent it out to artists and craftsmen. For ridiculously low prices too, I might add." Anna hesitates, seems to think, and then her smile turns apologetic. "I don't think there are any spaces right now, unfortunately. Are you an artist?"

I nod. "Yes, I blow glass."

"You blow glass?" Anna looks so surprised, I might as well have said I make out with raccoons. "You do? Then you should call Drake immediately."

"I should?"

"Yes. He left a third of the building untouched except for the installation of some specialty ovens and equipment. It's not for rent, and he doesn't like to talk about it, but a friend of mine who knows a little about everything peeked in through a window and said it looks like a glassblowing shop. Maybe he'll let you use it?"

I press the base of my palm to my temple. "Drake built a glassblowing studio? That he won't rent out?"

Anna nodded. "Right in the beginning, when he first renovated, maybe five years ago? It's never been used. I'm sure he'd let you move in for the right price."

"Oh. Yes. Thank you." Why am I suddenly breathless? Why are my thoughts spinning like dry leaves in a dust devil? I smile gratefully to Anna so that she doesn't start to worry about me. "I'll give him a call. Thank you again."

Anna smiles warmly, pockets her keys, and steps past me toward the front door. I sit on the simple metal bench along the wall and try to process. Five years ago. Just after I left for Venice for my year-long apprenticeship. Did he hope I'd come back? I don't dare imagine. He never mentioned it. Of course not. Until last night, we hadn't spoken since my dramatic departure, all those years ago.

I dig out my phone. I'm suddenly terrified. Do I dare call? Do I dare ask? I need the space. What are the odds that I'll find another unused workshop in town? I know the answer. None. I gulp, and think of the man I saw at Fool's Gold. Thick hair falling to his shoulders, his broad, manly shoulders, his large hands, his square jaw. His eyes. Troubled. Deep. Compassionate and hard at the same time. A vision from my past. He was just as tall when I saw him last, but gawky and gangly. How he's filled out over the years. Muscle layered on muscle, so he looks like a professional athlete.

My heart is jumping rope. My throat is dry. I have to call. I want to call. I'm also terrified. I pick up the phone and dial again.

"Hello?" His voice is even more terse than the first time.

"Hi, Drake?" My heart gets bored with playing jump rope, and decides to climb up into my throat.

"Yes?" A pause. "Kiera?"

"Hi. I'm sorry. Please don't hang up."

The silence grows painfully long, and then, just when I'm sure he's going to hang up regardless, he speaks. "How did you get this number?"

"Well. You won't believe this, but I'm in your building by the Conway. Your mill?"

"You're what?" He sounds shocked. "What - but - wait, what are you doing there?"

I want to grin and cry at the same time. He sounds exactly as I remember when he gets flustered. Drake was always so fixated on being proper and honorable that he was the easiest person in the world to embarrass. I used to love teasing him, doing scandalous things or saying the most inappropriate words just to watch him get all tongue-tied.

"I need studio space. I'm willing to pay." My words come out in a rush. "Anna says you have a glassblowing studio set aside that nobody's using."

Silence. I can almost hear his disbelief. As if he's hearing a voice from beyond the grave.

"Please, Drake. Please. I need this more than I can say."

More silence. My whole world narrows down to my phone. There's so much I want to say. To explain. To apologize for. Yet I can't choke out the words. I can only wait and listen as Drake wrestles with himself, his anger, and what little regard for me he has left.

"Wait," he finally says. "I'm driving over. I'll be there in ten."

Then he hangs up.

Chapter 7

These have to be the ten longest minutes of my life. I try to study the studio spaces around me. I peer inside windows. I read signs. I admire art. But I can't focus on a single thing. All I can think about is how Drake is on his way over. What will he say? Is he going to curse me out? No, not his style. Will he be cold and distant? For sure. Insulted? Maybe. Will he kick me out on my ear? Please, lord, no. I'm already feeling fragile after the nightmare of last night. My conversation with Hanscomb and Julia from Harrowgate this morning, along with my family's presence, have tentatively put me on track, but I can't take another blow.

I almost leave in a panic. I almost just get up and run away. Jump on my bike and race home. But I can't, obviously. So I wander back and forth like a ghost, haunting the mill, trying to collect my thoughts and failing miserably, time and again.

Each time the front door opens I jump and spin around, only to see a random person coming in and giving me a startled look. I don't blame them. The way I stare must be unnerving. Some go upstairs, some go into the various studios. I sigh each time and try to calm down. Run through little mantras I learned in yoga classes over the years. Nothing helps.

Finally the front door opens, and it's him. Tall, broad, with a narrow waist and a face to die for. Was he this handsome back when we were young? No. He was cute, for sure, incredibly cute, but now he's stunningly hot. All shifters are, but it's hard to believe just how big a difference the six years have made. His body has filled out, his face grown stern and strong, and a summer storm roils in his blue eyes, making me weak at the knees and tight at the throat.

"Kiera." He almost stops in the doorway, then forces himself to approach. With some reluctance, I note.

"Hi," I say, giving my stupid little wave. It's a habit of mine I've tried to break, but each time I'm nervous I wave my hand in a way that I always think will be disarming. I doubt it is.

Drake stops in front of me, close enough that I could reach out to touch his muscled chest. He's wearing a worn navy shirt, a little tight across the shoulders in a way I totally don't mind, and frayed black jeans. Simple. Devastatingly hot. He could have shown up in a bathrobe and I'd be hooked. He searches my face as if it's a particularly annoying treasure map that's missing the large 'X'. "What are you doing?"