Chasing Castles (Finding Focus #2) (15 page)

“No,” Tucker says, pouring two cups of coffee when the pot stops percolating. “Dad and Kay went for a drive down to the back forty. He said there was some fence down yesterday, and he wanted to get it patched up this mornin’.”

“And Kay went with him?” I ask, putting my lips to the welcomed mug and inhaling before I sip.

“Yeah, I think she goes out there with him almost every day,” he says as we walk out onto the porch.

“I’m happy,” I say, out of the blue. “I’m happy for him . . . for them. They seem like they’re really in love.”

“Yeah,” Tucker agrees, sitting down beside me on our front porch swing. “How about you?” he asks. “Are you happy?”

“Yeah,” I say, cocking my head at him in confusion. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I just want you to be happy, and I don’t see you often enough. So, I worry.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, quietly, patting his leg. I want to say more, but the words are stuck in my throat. If you’d asked me a few years ago if I’d ever miss his meddling ways, I would’ve given you a strong and hearty hell no, but now, there are so many days I miss my brother . . . and Deacon and Micah. I miss feeling like I always have someone in my corner, even if they did get on my nerves. Having someone fight for you and for what’s best for you is not the worst thing in the world. I see that now.

“Have you seen Deacon and Micah lately?” I ask, feeling the familiar pain in my chest at the mention of Deacon’s name. I miss him so much it physically hurts.

“Yeah, I spent a few days with them a month or so ago when we were passing through.”

“How are they?” I ask, staring out across the front yard.

“Good. Busy. Deacon asked how you were,” he says and lets it hang in the air. I don’t know what my brother knows and doesn’t know, but I often wonder if he’s ever caught on to my feelings for Deacon. If he has, he’s never said anything.

“Oh?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yeah, he said it had been a while since he’d seen you and was wondering how you were doing.” He takes a large sip of his coffee and doesn’t look my way when he says, “I’m surprised ya’ll don’t talk much.”

“Why?” I don’t know why I ask why. Maybe because I think Tucker’s going to have some information that’ll make my heart feel better. Maybe because I think he knows something I don’t.

“Because the two of you were always so close. There for a while I thought you might, I don’t know, go out or something.” And this time, I feel like Tucker is baiting me.

“No,” I say quickly and adamantly. “Just friends.”

“Crazy how things change, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Tucker’s arm wraps around my shoulder, and he brings me in for a hug. “I miss you.”

“I never thought I’d hear those three words come out of your mouth,” I say, needing to lighten the mood before things get too serious.

“Stop,” he chides. “You know I love you.”

“I do. And I love you too.”

“Don’t forget it.”

“Never.”

Camille

Present

MY BROTHER WALKING THROUGH THE
doors of the hospital brings me a small sense of relief. I don’t know why, but his presence calms me. He’s always been there for me. He was the first person I hugged when I found out our mama died. He was the one waiting on me after my first day of school. He beat up J. J. Smith in second grade for making fun of me when I accidentally peed my pants. When I was younger, his meddling ways were something I was always trying to get away from, but now, I appreciate him and his protectiveness. I know that if he’s around, no one’s going to hurt me.

And even though he can’t protect me or my heart today, I still want him near me.

He doesn’t say anything, probably fighting emotions like the rest of us. So, instead, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me to him. I feel his hard breaths on the top of my head, and then he presses a kiss to my hair.

“How was Carter?” I ask, needing to focus on something besides the fact that the doctor still hasn’t been out to talk to us.

“Fine.” Tucker’s voice is gruff. “He wanted to come with me.” I hear the break in his voice with that statement, and I squeeze tighter.

“Thank you for goin’ by to check on him.”

He takes another deep breath before saying, “Of course.”

“It’s better that he doesn’t know what’s going on right now,” I tell him, trying to help him feel better about leaving Carter at Ms. Becky’s, because I know how hard it is for him to say no to his nephew. “This wouldn’t be good for him.”

“No, I know. I told him one of us would be back to get him in a couple of hours. He asked for Deke.”

Those words break me. I feel the crack deep inside my chest.

Deacon is all that Carter has ever known as a father figure. We’d planned for Deacon to adopt Carter after the wedding, but we were waiting to tell him, wanting it to be a wedding surprise for him.

How will I tell him?

How will he bounce back from this?

I know kids are resilient, but I don’t want Carter to have to be. I don’t want him experiencing that level of heartache at such a young age like I did.

I don’t want history to repeat itself.

I want Deacon.

I want him to be Carter’s father.

I want the life we’ve planned . . . the one we’ve waited so long for.

Once again, I’m left with the feeling that my life is spiraling, and I’m grasping onto Tucker, needing something to anchor me . . . something to keep me from falling.

Camille

Past

I LOVE JACKSON SQUARE FIRST
thing in the morning.

The beauty of the cathedral, old buildings, and the landscaping of the park is breathtaking. It’s exciting to be here surrounded by all of the talented artists. Every inch of this place inspires me. There’s also the freshness of a new day that is comforting. The crowds of tourists haven’t picked up yet, and the streets are clean for the time being. All of the vendors are setting up for the day while shopkeepers are opening their doors.

It’s like a fresh lease on life with possibility permeating the air.

Maybe a portion of this good mood and positivity can be attributed to selling ten pieces yesterday. Ten. In one day. It’s the best business I’ve done in a day since last summer, and it gives me hope and validation. The lady who purchased two of the canvases said she had a friend she wanted me to meet. She said he’s very charming and happens to run a small gallery down on Harrison Avenue.

Maybe he’ll show up today?

Maybe he’ll like what he sees?

Having my art displayed in a gallery would be life changing, a dream come true. Even though I’m normally a dreamer with my head in the clouds, I’m also a realist. I hate getting my hopes up and being disappointed, so I’m trying not to think about it. Too much.

If he shows, he shows.

If he doesn’t, I’ll still be here, painting and selling my work.

One of my favorite parts about this place is being able to watch people all day. From the passers-by, I gain inspiration. The coolest part is painting, right there on the spot.

This is me.

This is who I am.

I feel free.

I feel like a wild horse running through an open field.

Okay, that might be the caffeine talking.

“Good morning,” a deep voice says, catching me off guard.

I spin around to see a man standing a few feet away. He’s knelt down by one of my larger canvases. The painting he’s inspecting is the Mississippi River. It’s a piece I painted just last week.

“Good morning,” I reply, sitting my coffee down by my chair and getting up to stand behind the man, admiring my own work. I really love this painting.

“You must be Camille,” he says, turning to look at me.

“I am,” I say, my heart beating a little faster when he says my name. I’m not sure if it’s a fight or flight mechanism from all of those stranger danger talks with my dad or if it’s something else entirely. The way his eyes glisten in the early morning sun makes me take a longer look at him, holding his gaze.

“And you are?” I ask when all he does is stare up at me.

“Smitten,” he says, giving me a wide smile, showing off his perfectly straight, bright white teeth.

“That’s my favorite painting,” I blurt out, unsure if he’s talking about me or the canvas.

“It’s lovely,” he says, turning back. “I’d like to buy it.”

“O-okay,” I say, my breath catching in my throat and causing me to stutter.

“How much?”

“Fifty?” I don’t know why my response comes out as a question. It’s fifty. I sell the small paintings for twenty-five, the medium-sized paintings for fifty, and the large ones for a hundred. “Fifty,” I say a little louder, without the question mark on the end.

“I’d say I’m getting a steal.” He stands, taking the painting with him as he begins to walk down the wrought iron fence, looking at my other paintings on display.

“I still didn’t get your name,” I hedge, feeling weird that he knows mine, but I don’t know his. I’m assuming he’s the guy I was told about yesterday, but that doesn’t mean anything.

“Tristan.” He sits the painting down and offers me his hand. I hesitantly place mine in his and watch in awe as he places his lips on my skin. I’ve only seen someone do this in movies and read about it in books, but experiencing it first-hand has my stomach doing somersaults. “Tristan Harding.”

I stare at his dark eyes for a split-second too long. Clearing my throat and shaking my head slightly, “Camille Benoit.”

“Such a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

Woman?

Me?

“Uh, thank you,” I say, once again a statement becoming a question when I don’t mean for it to be.

“You’re very talented, Camille Benoit. Where did you learn to paint like this?” he asks, turning his head back to my work, but his hand still holding mine.

“I, uh, I taught myself.”

“No art classes?”

“Well, yes, I’ve been a student at UNO the last couple of years.”

“Very nice. I’ve witnessed some great talent come from that school,” he says, finally letting my hand go and it falls back to my side. “They’re fortunate to have you.”

“I’m sure it’s the other way around,” I say, honestly. “I love my classes, and I’ve learned so much but, really, I just want to paint. Comin’ here and sellin’ my work seemed like a good way to get some real life experience outside of the classroom.”