Second Chances (Dreams Come True #2) (2 page)

“Don’t I know it,” I grumbled under my breath.

“What was that?” He scowled at me.

“Nothing, Dad.” Stirring, I concentrated on my tea while I watched him wolf down the burger I’d ordered for him. Given how exhausted I was, the caffeine would do me good. Food probably wouldn’t have hurt, but I might work faster when I returned to the shop if I had some incentive. After all, I had little time left before I opened the doors for business. That singular thought helped me hold it together while he ate.

By the time he’d finished the burger and sucked down three cups of coffee, he very nearly seemed like himself again. “So, is there any way I can borrow say…twenty bucks?”

“I don’t have a lot of spare cash right now. What’s this for?” As soon as I spoke, I regretted it. Already his eye had begun to twitch angrily.

“What’s it matter what it’s for? I’m paying you back, right?” He growled and narrowed his eyes.

Still, I was unmoved. I had so much to do and had already lost enough time. “I need to get back to work. Will you be okay on your own?”

He was pouting now, staring out the window. “Sure.” He refused to meet my eyes.

Leaning over, I gave him a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll see you on Sunday, right? You’ll come over and have dinner with Mattie and me?”

“Ugh. That old crone?” He shook his head.

Again I sighed. “Well, since I’m living with her, yes.” His eyes were still averted. “Okay. Suit yourself. I was thinking of throwing a roast in the oven.” He stared down at his empty mug. “And maybe I’ll bake a cake.” I shrugged.

“A yellow one with chocolate frosting?” His voice sounded hopeful as he looked up at me.

“Yeah, Dad. Of course. Six o’clock.” I squeezed his hand before leaving the diner.

As I walked down the sidewalk, I could feel the tension melting away. Relief. I felt guilty, but every time we parted, I felt relieved. He had always had this way of sucking all my happiness like he was some damn dementor.
And me, always without a wand, or an ounce of magic for that matter.
By the time I entered the store and locked the door behind me, I was smiling and feeling more like myself again.

I hadn’t made it three feet inside when Mattie called down the back stairs. “Risa? Is that you?”

Giggling, I responded, the same as I always did. “Yes, it’s me, Miss Mattie. And just what would you do if it wasn’t?” Walking into the back room, I took off my jacket, and threw it over my desk chair.

The stairs creaked as the older woman descended. “You know what I’d do.” When she came into view, she had one hand on the railing and one hand gripping her shotgun. A smile brightened her face. “You disappeared without saying anything. I was worried.”

“Sorry, Mattie. Dad showed up…”

“Say no more.” She waved at the air while I picked up a sanding block. “I can see you’re about to get back at it. I’m going to go watch my shows and leave you to it. That’s the beauty of being retired, you know.” Mattie winked at me, then started up the stairs.

Smiling, I waved. “Night. See you in the morning!” Then I turned my attention to the table. Sanding relaxed me. While doing it I could let my mind wander even as I focused on smoothing out the wood. Usually, I gave the piece a chance to speak to me.
What do you want to be? What will you look like when I’m through?
I tried to avoid the obvious. My goal wasn’t to merely refinish furniture, but to transform it.

Once satisfied with the results, I cleaned up after myself, careful not to track anything into the living quarters above. Turning off the lights, I dragged my aching body up the stairs and dropped onto my bed, falling asleep without even taking off my shoes or pulling up the blankets.

Chapter Two

Sebastian

At minutes after three in the morning, the silent alarm in the gallery screamed to life, not so silently in my condo above. Other than when it was installed and the security company tested it, I’d never had the misfortune of hearing it work. As I rolled from my bed and threw on some clothes, I scowled, wishing I still wasn’t hearing it now.

Seconds later, my phone lit up and began vibrating on my nightstand. “Hello,” I grumbled as I answered it.

“Monsieur Boucher?” The voice on the phone stammered.

“Yes.”

“We wanted to let you know the police have been alerted. According to the live feed into the gallery, there’s a man in there. Stay where you are. Police are on the way.”

“Thank you.” I ended the call, pulled a sweater on over my sleep pants, slid my feet into the nearest pair of slip on shoes, and waltzed over to the stairwell. Carefully, I opened the door and listened a moment before strutting down the stairs. No doubt this was some feeble attempt by my uncle to get me to change my mind.

My eyes narrowed as I considered what to say to the intruder when I confronted him. Now on the main floor, I made my way through the back room, down the hall past my office, and out into the main gallery. The only light was the emergency lighting around the ceiling and whatever happened to be streaming in from the streets through the front plate glass windows. Still, I could hear the man long before I could see him.

Taking one more step forward, I heard the crunch of something underfoot. As I examined it, I realized I’d stepped on broken glass. With a quick glance, I discovered it came from the front door. Judging by the metal garbage can to the side, the perpetrator had used it to gain entry. Now I was getting pissed. I rolled up my sleeves as I followed the angry grunting in the far corner of the gallery.

“This isn’t art!”

With some difficulty, I could make out some of the man’s words, his slurred speech. Finally, as I rounded the corner past a huge metal sculpture, I found him. Squinting, I could barely make out the intruder’s form. Ah, but I could smell him from here. It was the bum from earlier. Disgusted and confident in my safety, I stomped over to the nearest light switches and turned them on.

As the room flooded with light, the man froze. Then when he realized who his audience was, he spoke. “You call this art?” He hefted a bench until it stood on end.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I shook my head. “No, I call that a bench.”

The man tipped it over and watched with some satisfaction as it splintered and broke. “Now it’s art.”

“No, now it’s dumpster fodder.” I sighed. “What can I do for you?” As I spoke I glanced about and discovered the room had been utterly destroyed. There was something splattered all over the walls, on some of the artwork, the sculptures, and even on several paintings. Display cases had been tipped and shattered glass littered the floor. In my mind, I tried to tally up the damage and shook my head.

“Mine is better!” The man lifted his arm in proclamation.

Now I was simply bored. And irritated. Where were the police the security company had promised? If this had been a man intent on harming me, I’d be dead already. “Your work might be better, but I wouldn’t know as I have yet to see it.” I threw my hands up in frustration.

The man walked around to the next section of the gallery, clearly ready to continue wreaking havoc as he went. He picked up a chair and hurled it across the room where it toppled another display case. “I’m better than that and that and that.” He looked down at his hands and realized they were dirty so he wiped them on the wall. When that didn’t produce the desired outcome, he rubbed them on his pants.

Sirens sounded in the street and I began to walk toward the entrance of the gallery. Greeting them seemed the polite thing to do. Since the door was ajar, I didn’t have to let them in.

“You called the police!” The man slurred as he stumbled after me. “You called the police on me?”

“No. The security company did that. I merely came downstairs to see what you were doing and who you were.” I shrugged. “Now I know.”

“You know nothing,” the man spat. “I’m Gilles Rosemont. I sculpt.” He held his hands out. “I’m an artist!”

By now several officers had entered the gallery with weapons drawn. One walked over behind him. “You’re under arrest.” The man was handcuffed without conflict.

Minutes later, the police had him seated in one of the few chairs he hadn’t broken while the crime scene photographer moved through the gallery taking pictures. “We’ll be sure to give you a copy for insurance purposes. We need to talk about pressing charges.”

“Oh, I’m pressing charges.” I leaned on the front counter and stared at the man with disdain.

“Do you know him?” The detective began taking notes on a pad he’d pulled from his pocket.

“Not exactly. He showed up here earlier today and wanted to exhibit his work, but he didn’t have a portfolio…”

“I have a portfolio!” Gilles shouted from several feet away. “Call my daughter. She made it.” He leaned back, his head against the wall, making a dull thudding sound. “She’s gonna be so mad.” The man looked like he might cry. Then his face contorted in rage and he began to pound the back of his head against the wall, harder and harder until it seemed the plaster might crack.

“Stop!” I ordered. When he continued, I tried a new approach. “Stop, or I’ll call your daughter.”

The man paused. A smile slowly spread across his face. “You don’t have the number.”

Pulling my cell phone out of my sleep pants pocket, I swiped the screen. “I do so. Right here. It’s 514-555-0101.” I pretended to touch the screen.

Laughing, the man shook his head. “That’s not it. It’s 514-555-0198.” He seemed so proud of himself, until he realized I’d tricked him.

In my hand, the phone rang once, twice then three times. I felt badly for a moment. The daughter would be woken up in the middle of the night, but quite frankly, why should I have to deal with her drunken father all by myself?

“Hello?” She sounded sleepy. Of course, she could be drunk.

“Have you been drinking?” I crossed my arms over my chest while I listened.

“No, I haven’t been drinking,” she snapped. “I’ve been sleeping. And who the hell is this anyway?” I could hear the sound of her shoes hitting the floor and the creak of mattress springs. Poor thing. She still used an innerspring mattress.

“This is Sebastian Boucher, owner of the gallery your father just destroyed.” I waited a moment for my words to sink in.

“Fuck.”

That didn’t take long. “Any chance you want to come down here and speak with me…and the police…oh, and your father, who’s currently banging his head against the wall?” There was more than a hint of irritation in my voice.

I could hear her blowing air out of her mouth. Or maybe she was deflating. “Give me the address and I’ll be right there.”

After I told her, she promised to come right over and I ended the call. Gilles stared at me. “Your daughter is on her way.” The man hung his head. Interesting, he was more afraid of her than the police. She must be some kind of shrew. I was about to set my phone down when it vibrated. I had a new notification.

Countdown App: 29 days until My Life is Over Event

Shaking my head, I checked the app settings and discovered I would now be getting daily notifications to remind me of my impending doom. It had seemed almost comical when I made the event back then. I was drunk, obviously, and feeling bitter after a fruitless night out with the guys left me to return home alone. I’d edit the event, but the picture of an exploding atom bomb seemed rather apropos, as did the name I’d given it. Calling it My 25
th
Birthday and a picture of a cake wouldn’t have been nearly as motivating or disturbing. Still frowning, I stuffed the phone in my pajama pants and decided to focus on the immediate destruction of my life rather than the permanent future one.

***

Marisa

I should’ve known better than to think I could get any sleep when my father was in one of his moods. Through the years I’d seen it happen time and again. He couldn’t motivate to do anything good, but when he wanted to do bad, there was no stopping him. He had to be drunk. Somehow, he always found a way to get more alcohol. Tiptoeing out to the kitchen, I left a note for Mattie on the table, in case she woke before my return.

Slowly I crept down the stairs, grabbed my sweatshirt and threw it on over my coveralls. Picking up my purse and keys, I snuck out the front door and locked it behind me. It was only a few blocks to the gallery. I knew the place well. My father had once sold almost exclusively through it more than ten years ago, before my mother died and he decided to drown himself in a bottle of whiskey.

The crisp air burned my lungs and made my nose run, but it didn’t matter. I was more concerned over how I was going to get him out of this mess. The gallery owner might not be interested in a negotiation. After all, the police were already there.

Turning the corner, I saw multiple police cars pulled up at the curb. There was crime tape around the front entrance, but I slipped under it and walked into the gallery anyway. After all, I had been invited. The bright lights caused me to squint for a moment while my eyes adjusted. By then, the gallery owner had found me. He was nothing like I expected.

“You’re so young.” I stepped back to study him. “What are you, my age?”

He crossed his arms, too, and adopted a stance which suggested he studied me as well. “I don’t know. Are you twenty-four?” His eyes sparkled a little as if he were enjoying this.

I shook my head. “Twenty-two.”

“Then you’re two years younger than I am.” He gestured for me to follow him. “This way. I have something that belongs to you.” He laughed then called out. “Oh, Gilles. Your daughter is here.”

My chin dropped when I heard him wail. “Not Marisa. Oh no.”

The gallery owner turned to me and held out a hand. “Are you Marisa? For all I know, he has six daughters.” He smiled. “I’m Sebastian.”

“It’s just me, I’m afraid. And that would make me Marisa.” I sighed. “So, what shall I call you? Bash, like the guy on
Reign
, or Bastian, like the kid in
The NeverEnding Story
?”

“You could call me Sebastian, since that’s the name my parents chose.” He shrugged and smirked.

“I could, but where’s the fun in that?” I shrugged back in response. “Well, let’s get this over with, I suppose.” Putting out my hand, I brushed past him and walked straight to my father’s side. “Dad, what have you done?” I stared down at him angrily.

Dad’s head drooped. “I just wanted to see the art.” A single tear dripped down his face.

I caught Sebastian’s eye and rolled mine. “Tears don’t work on me, Dad. You know this.” I tapped my work boot a couple times. “So what are we going to do about this? You have completely destroyed the place. They’re going to want to lock you up and I can’t say I blame them.”

Leaving his side, I walked around the gallery to survey the damage. It was serious. He’d broken…practically everything. Chairs and benches were everywhere, shards of glass littered the hardwood floors, the walls were covered in what looked to be condiments, and I couldn’t even think about the art. I rubbed my forehead to stave off the headache I felt building. It had been like this with him for as long as I could remember. Suddenly I was aware of Sebastian, standing beside me.

“What is that…blood?” He shook his head. “And if that’s blood, what’s that?” He shuddered as he stared at the thick yellow splatter.

“Mustard.” I snickered. “The red is ketchup.” I looked at the opposite wall and burst out laughing.

“What?” He asked lazily. “I fail to see the humor in any of this, by the way.”

Doubled over from laughing so hard, I pointed at the wall with one hand while gasping for breath. The ridiculousness and stress of the situation had taken their toll. The sleep deprivation hadn’t helped either. “Did you think those were boogers?” I snorted and covered my face in embarrassment while Sebastian watched me, the corner of his lips twitching.

“I guess I didn’t give it much thought.” He rubbed at the sides of his mouth.

“Can’t…breathe…”

Taking a step closer, he wrapped an arm around my waist and guided me to where a chair used to stand. “Oh…fuck me,” he grumbled as he released me and picked up the chair. It only had three legs.

Leaning against the wall, I sank to the floor. “It’s too much. He completely lost control.” I leaned my elbows on my knees and focused on breathing for a moment. “I have no idea how I’m going to fix all of this.”

“Why would you fix it? He’s the one who made the mess.” Sebastian squatted down until we were face to face.

“Because I always fix it,” I whispered without meeting his gaze.

Standing abruptly, he seemed to consider what I’d said. I watched as he turned and looked around the space. Then he held a hand out.

Taking it, I stood and sniffled. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” I turned on my heels and stumbled through the debris on the way to the door.