Crazy Love (6 page)

“Your brother has a pretty impressive home.” Her delicate features contrasted with her bold eyes, which double-dared me to challenge her.

“Yes. He does,” I conceded.

“Looks like the home of a man with his shit together to me.” She muttered under her breath. Against my better judgment, I chuckled. Her smart mouth would have totally been attractive if her bite weren’t directed at me. She quickly shot me a look and then relaxed when she saw I was not laughing at her, but in appreciation of her. The delicious apple scent of her hair made it somehow hard for me to catch my breath. She locked eyes with me for a blissful moment, and I was able to take in her exquisite face unchallenged. I’d never stood so close to such flawlessness, and she stunned me silent. Physically, I couldn’t have found a more attractive package. I’m not sure how long I stared at her, but I could have happily continued to do so for days. But there was something else that pulled me to her. Underneath her undeniable surface beauty, I could just make out a lost little girl. As if she’d caught me reading her diary, Annabelle frowned and blinked rapidly like she was trying to clear her head. With visible effort, she coerced her perfect features into a harsh expression and turned back to the view of the park. Guilt gripped me, and I forced myself to look away. My brother liked this girl, really liked her. Then I remembered Violet, and that crushing weight of guilt vanished from my shoulders.

“Water?” Trip asked from behind us. I definitely needed something to quench my thirst, but I suspected a cold shower would have been considerably more helpful. We both took a bottle from him. The water was painfully cold and I couldn’t suppress a grin when Annie practically chugged hers.

“What the hell are you going to do with all these, Trip?” She asked as she ran her long fingers across a framed rubbing nearby.

“Hang them in the bathroom…or maybe on the ceiling over my bed.” His gold-medal caliber grin scored a perfect ten as she giggled that melodious laugh of hers.

“Classy,” she chirped. “I really want to see the studio. Do we get a tour? ”

Annabelle twirled a strand of her long, wheat blonde hair as she waited for a response. Her enthusiasm felt almost childlike and her clipped, rapid speech must have seemed exotic to Trip, who’d never spent time up north like I had. His face softened in response to her request, reminding me of the look he wore the morning he stole Violet from me. Maybe that explained my sudden bout of nausea.

Violet Duchamp was the only girl Trip and I ever fought over. And did we
fight
. He ended up with two black eyes, a broken nose and a bloody lip. I had to have six stitches and pissed blood for a week. Violet wouldn’t speak to either of us for a month. It’s funny because Trip and I usually attracted very different types of women. He usually lured the kind who chased after the “life of the party.” I usually nailed those who sought out the shy guy. I met Violet first, but unfortunately for everyone involved,
Trip
ended up being her type.

A seventh generation Savannahian, Violet had all the breeding expected of a Beaumont wife. She’d been sent off to boarding school as a child, a fact which probably accounted for some of the glaring differences between her and the Georgia Peaches we were so accustomed to. Violet knew all the rules in the blue-blood handbook and broke them with spectacular panache. Though her family was notorious for having more money than brains, she was definitely an exception. Yes, indeed. Violet had vision. Pursuing a degree in business, the night we met she informed me she intended to be a buyer for Saks Fifth Avenue. Three weeks later, I introduced her to Trip and that was the nail in the proverbial coffin of our romance.

Trip, who had just started grad school at the time, planned to do restoration work for museums after finishing school. He’d been a track star in high school
and
continued to compete in college; his exceptional talent and unearthly charisma made him very popular with the ladies. Vi, it seemed, was no exception, and he was instantly enamored with her. I’d never seen my brother so consumed by a woman, and it was clear to me from the moment I introduced them that I was seeing the beginning of something monumental. They were the talk of the town when they started dating: a perfect blend of good looks, old money, and lofty ambition. My parents adored Violet, especially Cosmo, who remarked many times that Vi reminded her of a younger version of herself. After a whirlwind romance, Trip bought her an obnoxiously large diamond, and they threw an opulent engagement party that was the talk of the Savannah society columns. Their future seemed to overflow with infinite promise.

Then everything went down with Daddy, and my brother cracked and splintered, only to later resurface as a crumpled version of his former self. Violet inexplicably married him anyhow. I suppose she believed, as all of us did, that once he’d had time to properly mourn, he’d eventually return to the exceptional Renaissance man he’d been before Daddy’s death. We were all idiots.

Violet was the last to realize that holding out hope for Trip was wasted energy. Watching her transform from a cheeky spitfire into a bitter whiskey widow was maddening for me. I pleaded with her to leave him. I know that sounds messed up, but I swear it wasn’t because I wanted her back. I’d moved on long before that. They’d had a child, and it was my firm position that I would be damned if Trip’s new brand of bullshit would destroy an innocent life. Thankfully, the same pioneer spirit that had attracted us both to Violet helped her to wriggle free from Trip’s issues which were tethered around her neck like an anchor.

Trip offered his hand to Annabelle and I felt the past and present collide around me. My chest ached when she took it, and I struggled to understand why. My response to their chemistry was downright annoying, and I presumed it was all just echoes of his betrayal with Vi. He led Annabelle out of the door, and I followed robotically. As I stepped back out into the heat, I was tempted to continue up the street away from my brother and our tumultuous past. But something told me to join them on the studio tour, so along I went.

As we crossed the threshold into the studio, the smell of paint thinner stirred my adrenaline, and I was instantly energized. As a kid, my brother’s gift for painting always blew me away. I could barely draw stick people, so watching my brother’s genius with a brush was like watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat. When we both still lived at home, I’d be in my room studying or in the rec room training at the speed bag, and the scent of fresh paint thinner would permeate the house, calling to me. I’d drop everything I was doing to see what amazing creation Trip was pulling out of the thin air. That was really how it seemed, like he had some exclusive third eye that allowed him to somehow see what belonged on that empty, creamy canvas.

I entered the studio in time to hear Annabelle gasp and immediately understood her reaction. Paintings overtook the room – dozens of them. They hung from the walls and leaned in bunches against the sparse furniture. Unlike the melancholy paintings that hung in my mother’s foyer, these were bright, vibrant pieces. Bold, colorful and brilliant. The kind he
used
to paint.

Old school Trip Beaumont.

Sober Trip
.

Trip and Annie had moved on to the next room, but I was stuck as if the wood beneath my feet were quicksand. Goosebumps erupted on my arms, and I gaped as I slowly turned 360 degrees. Seeing those paintings was like glimpsing into the past through a peephole, and I was floored by my emotions as a lump rose in my throat. My eyes stung and when I finally inhaled, it was more like a heave. My physical response embarrassed me, and I felt juvenile…vulnerable. I was suddenly very glad they’d left me alone. A tiny part of me dared to wonder if Trip had finally managed to follow the trail of breadcrumbs out of the twisted forest he’d been lost in for so long.

When I was finally able to propel myself onward, I joined them in the back room which I took to be his work room. A man-sized canvas loomed in the center of it, facing away from me toward the widows. Annabelle stood to one side, examining its contents with wide-eyed wonder. Trip stood on the other side, arms folded with his thumb to his lips. His eyebrows were critically drawn together as he examined his own handiwork. Curiosity gripped me and I rushed around the mammoth easel to see what it held.

The subject of his painting was a narrow road canopied by draping oaks and Spanish moss. Shades of green dominated the large canvas. Though one side was only three-fourths completed, the detail was already phenomenal. As with the bounty of canvases in the first room, Trip had chosen dynamic shades of color. It didn’t escape me that the avenue that tunneled down the center of the painting stood conspicuously empty.

“So you’re going to paint me naked…onto this?” Annabelle’s genuine awe charmed me, and had I not been so disturbed by the location he’d chosen for his subject, I would’ve chuckled.

He shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’d like you to wear a white dress, if that’s alright.”

Trip seemed to be a million miles away, his voice reflecting a quiet thoughtfulness. As I beheld his Technicolor depiction of the avenue at Wormsloe Plantation, I was awestruck by its perfect detail and optimistic vibrancy. This picture was practically a snapshot of the spot where he proposed to Violet; however, the startling colors gave it an otherworldly feel, as if the viewer were the Mad Hatter peering through the looking glass. I felt a familiar weighty pressure in my chest, and my blossoming hope for Trip’s recovery blinked out of existence.

I chewed aggressively on the inside of my lip as Sam and I drove in silence. Just as we were leaving Trip’s place, the ashen sky dumped torrential rain down on us, and I’d insisted on giving Sam a ride. Though he’d been nothing but a master douche-lord all day, I didn’t want his catching pneumonia on my conscience.

Trip’s jaw-dropping talent intimidated the hell out of me, but I was psyched about being a part of his latest creation. He’d told me he’d need a few days to finish the background and detail work and that he’d call me about dress shopping later in the week. Imagining hours alone with Trip intrigued me, but the way Sam was telegraphing his angst, I knew he had a lot more to say about the matter.

“Why’d you leave law school?” Keen to redirect him, I took the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity.

I could feel his eyes boring into me, but even with the wipers on full blast, visibility sucked. I trained my sights on the road ahead, and I heard him exhale.

“I hated it. It was a soul-sucking bore.” He sounded tired, and I snickered.

“A bore? Well, duh. What the hell did you expect?” I stopped at a red light, and then turned to look at him. He was way too good looking. Trip had that ruffled around the edges quality, but even with his stubble Sam looked immaculate…airbrushed. I knew something had to be terribly wrong with him. “Were you failing?”

“What?” His response was practically a whisper. He looked distracted, and he seemed to be fixated on my mouth. The way his eyes locked on my lips was incredibly hot, and I felt like my face was on fire.

“Were you flunking out?” I pointedly enunciated each word. He met my eyes, and I spied some inner struggle bubbling beneath his polished exterior. He ripped his eyes away and turned to face forward.

“Green light,” he informed me, so I turned away from his perfect profile and pressed the gas. “No. It actually came really easily to me.”

“Then you
are
an idiot,” I scoffed. I’ve never been known to hold my tongue well, and it seemed our charming little car ride would be no exception.

“What?” His shocked response came out with a laugh.

I flipped my hair out of my face. “If you were away from the family drama and doing well in school, dropping out was pretty moronic.”

“Thanks a lot, Annabelle.” His drawl engulfed my name as if he were a chocolate fountain at a decadent buffet. Rich, sweet, and incredibly bad for me. The way his wet hair clung to his tanned skin was hypnotic, and I greedily stole a sideways glance at him. I involuntarily pursed my lips and pressed on.

“You think pharmacy school is fun? Talk about dry reading! But you know what? It’s better than working at 7-11…and when I’m finished I’ll have a career that’s important.”

“Hey, now.” He mockingly objected. “Buying my daily Slurpee at 7-11 is
very
important to me.”

“You know what I mean…impacts the world around me in a meaningful way. And
that’s
motivation worth busting your ass for.”

“Sounds like you have a real passion for it.” I couldn’t tell if this was more of his tell-tale sarcasm or not, but I blundered on as if he was serious.

“Someone’s got to do it.”

“Well the world has plenty of lawyers. No one’s gonna miss me.”

I shook my head at his flippant words. “Wasted opportunity has always pissed me off. Dropping out of a school people would kill to get into? It’s bullshit.”

“Interesting philosophy.
I’m
a piece of shit for changing my mind,
but
Trip should be embraced in all of his rum-soaked glory.” His bitterness lashed back at me like a whip. I paused, debating with myself. Deciding this battle was worth fighting, I pushed forward.