Tattooed Hearts (15 page)

“Go back to L.A., Claire. That’s your
home.” He pulled his coat tight and walked out of the center.

Her heart
contracted then shrunk from Forrest’s blow. She couldn’t
move, couldn’t breathe. The hairs on her arms stood at attention as a militia
of chills marched down her spine.

“You all
right?”

She glanced over at Jason
and gave him a tight smile.
“Yeah.”

He came
to stand next to her and wrapped one arm around her
shoulder as he’d always done. He was in big brother mode. She’d always loved
that about him.

“No, you’re not. You’re
still in love with the big goof. Why did you leave, Claire?”

“I wasn’t good enough,” sh
e whispered.

“Says who?”

“Your
mom.”
The words leaked out of her lips. “Jason…” She aimed for
damage control, but his hands gripped her shoulders and turned her to face him,
crystal blue eyes crashing into hers.

“What are you saying?”

She shook her head. “
I didn’t mean to say that.”

“What did my mother say to
you?” he persisted.

“Nothing.”
But her voice shook a
little
.
M
ore importantly, Jason knew her better than anyone else in
her life. “I’m sorry, Jason, there’s no need to talk about it. It’s been ten
years.”

He scrubbed a hand over
his face. “You left that night over something my mother said.”

She could deny it, but
what would be the point. Claire stepped out of his hold to the other side of
the hallway. “Yes,” she whispered. “I overheard her telling m
y mother I wasn’t good enough for Forrest or any of you.”

“What?” His voice
resonated
her shock a decade ago.

“How are things between
you and your dad?” she asked, changing direction of the conversation. “The
night of the funeral you were pretty upset with
him.”

“We spoke. We are fine.”
His blue eyes stared straight through her. “Let’s talk about you and the night
you hightailed out of town.”

“It hurt then.” She rubbed
a hand over her arm. “It still hurts.”

“My mother was sick.”

Something they all later
fou
nd out after the sickness took her life. Perhaps
that explained why she held no grudge toward Victoria. “I didn’t know that
then. I don’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t realize she was
sick until it was too late.” Jason leaned against the wall, head hung to th
e floor, eyes fixed on his shoes. Neither spoke, silence
lay between them as they wallowed in a valley of despair. “How come you don’t
hate me or my father?” he asked into the silence.

“I never hated your mom. I
admit for a while I was angry, but never hat
e.” She
swallowed back some of the hurt. “As for you and your dad, neither of you ever
made me
feel
inferior.” She let out a
soft laugh over the memories. “Your dad never wanted me to find out what your
mother thought of me.”

“She was sick,” he said
again.

“I know.”

He exhaled. “I’m sorry you
went through that.”

“I’m fine.”

He came to stand next to
her again. “No, you’re not. You’re broken just like me and I never knew.”

“I’m fine,” she said
again, but her inside was damp with uncried tears.

He pulled her
into his arms once more, and placed a kiss on top of her
head. “Are you going to fight for him?”

Claire blinked the tears
away. “He doesn’t love me anymore.”

Jason chuckled. “He still
loves you, Claire. You shredded him to pieces, but Forrest has never got
ten over you. The question is do you have it in you to
fight for him.”

“His dad just died. He’s
hurt and angry right now.”

“Fight
or flight, Claire.
I have to go home to my wife.” He gave
her arm one final squeeze. “I hope you stay and fight.”

* * * *

Th
e bitter cold bit Claire’s face, seeped through her woolen hat, and crept
under her clothes. Chill spread across her skin like the delicate tide on the
frigid desolate beach. She wrapped the thick coat around her tighter and
continued her walk.
Other than
the howling wind, a frozen puddle here and there cracking
under her winter boots, the beach was empty, barren, yet still with beauty.
She exhaled, puffs of
white vapor floated in the air. A blustery beach walk was a great way for her
to combat post-Forrest
comedown.

Two weeks had come and
gone
,
her heart was still empty. Something throbbed in her guts,
deep and warm, but not in a good way. She inhaled and exhaled again, time to
pack up and leave.

Fight or flight.
Jason’s words replayed in her head.

Regret
was never sweet. It washed over her like the long slow
waves on the beach–icy and cold, sending shivers down her spine. She longed to
go back and take a different path, but now that was impossible. There was no
way back, no way to make things right between
her and
Forrest. He even told her to go back home.

Home.
A home was where the
heart felt the most at peace, where one was surrounded by friends, family,
traditions, and safety.
A place where one hung their hat.

She hadn’t had a home in
years. As much as s
he enjoyed living in Los Angeles,
it was semi-permanent, a short-term accommodation. It always felt that way.
Claire kicked a small rock with the tip of her boots and sent it flying.
Remorse ate at her the way it had every day since she left. She’d lost he
r chance at love, her one chance to truly be happy. She
surveyed the pebbles with envy, hard and lifeless, unable to feel the torments
of life.

She walked off the private
beach, crossed the rolling meadows of the Montgomery compound to the tucked
away cott
age
sitting
 
distance
away from the main house
. From the large farmer’s
porch, she peered across the nearly fifty-acres where she grew up. Visions of
Jason and his parents playing croquet came to her. Charles would always wave at
her and insist she joined
them. Her heart squeezed
over the memories.

Home.

She was homesick for a
place which may no longer exist, or able to return to.
A place where her heart was full and her soul was
understood.
Once upon a time the island had been
her sanctuary, her home sweet
home.
Until
that night.
Shoving the bitter memories to the back of her mind, she
pushed the cottage door open.
A smile crept in as soon as Claire
stepped inside the open design two-bedroom house. Like any other day, she was
greeted by her mother’s morning
coffee. Claire
inhaled the strong, smooth aromatic scent.

“How was
your walk?” her mother asked.

“Good.”
She removed her hat and
tossed it on the sofa.

“Two weeks went by so
fast.”

She couldn’t agree more.
“I guess it’s true what they said. Time flies
when
you’re having fun.”

Her mother looked her over
and for a moment Claire thought she saw pity in her eyes.

“Are you having fun,
honey?”

Yeah, definitely pity in
those deep brown eyes. Claire’s throat tightened. Her heart was tight too. “I
have to go fin
ish packing.”

“Sure, love. I’ll bring up
coffee.”

Claire made her way to the
open staircase leading to the second floor, down the hall to her bedroom. The
black leather overnight bag, firm and upright on the bed, hailed at her.

Go back to L.A., Claire
,
that’s your home.
Forrest’s harsh words replayed like an
echo. She snatched her favorite cable knit pullover from the wicker chair and
jammed it into the bag. The tote fought the pressure and spit out the
intrusion. Why was it always easier to pack when go
ing
somewhere and never on the return trip? Hands knotted into fists, she pressed
the sweater into the little space left.

“So you’re really
leaving,” her mother said at the door.

“Of
course, Mom.
I have a life back in L.A.” She examined the pile of
clothes
on the bed, skirts, sweaters, pants, jackets.
One day she’d learned to pack light.
“I’ll be back in the
spring or something.”

Stepping further into the
room, her mother handed Claire the coffee
“You’re running.” She picked up a
sweater from the pile on an
d started folding.
“When will you stop running, darling?”

“I have a song to write.”

“How’s that going? Did you
make any progress?”

Well, the last few days,
she’d written
Tattooed Hearts
at least twenty times a
day. The title was important. One word at a ti
me,
she’d written two. That was an accomplishment. Eventually, Forrest would stop
taking every space in her brain and let her creativity flow. “I’ve made great
progress.”

“You’ve always been a
terrible liar.”

Claire took a sip of the
coffee. “It sucks that
you know me so well.”

Her mother folded the
sweater and looked at the overnight bag. “Did you just throw things in there?”

As a matter of fact, last
night after returning from the potluck, she had done just that. Claire swatted
at the air. Her mother chuc
kled and pulled the
stuffed clothes out of the bag.

“You’re so emotionally
stunted, darling.” Her mother’s voice was low and without daggers. “I can’t
believe I raised you to be a coward.”

As calmly as the words
were spoken, they still cut Claire and numbe
d her
circulation. “I’m not a coward.” Or sub-par. Or a little fish in the sea. All
she had to do was look at her bank account, her investments, the charities she
supported, all the chart-topping hits she’d written, co-produced and sang. The
shiny awards o
n the mantel in Los Angeles were proof
of her accomplishments. Cowards didn’t leave all they’d ever known to pursue a
dream.

Her mother glanced at her.
“You’re in love with Forrest. Have been forever, but you’re blinded by the fact
that I manage this place
.” Her mother folded another
sweater. “And because of that you’ve convinced yourself you’re not good enough
for him.”

“I didn’t convince myself
of that. It was pointed out to me, remember?” The day after she left the
island, Claire had called and revealed
to her mother
she’d overheard her conversation with Victoria.

“So you let the words of a
sick woman dictate
who
you are.” She picked up a
camisole and folded the delicate fabric. “You think Forrest will abandon you
like your father did to me.”

Silence fill
ed the room. Claire scratched the inside of her wrist where
colorful corded bracelets strategically covered the tattoo. She’d been the one
to leave. Not Forrest.

Her mother picked up
another sweater and held it before her. “I like this one.”