Where Faith Belongs, page 19
We drove down the parking lot a bit, finding number six at the far end of the main building. Luke jiggled the key in the door and opened it. The faint scent of cigarette smoke and Lysol hit me and I coughed into my sleeve.
Luke placed his suitcase on the floor. “Home sweet home for the next week or so.”
My gaze swept over the tiny room. A single queen-sized bed perched in the middle with barely enough room on either side to walk around. I cleared my throat. “Is there a pullout somewhere?”
Luke chuckled. “I don’t think so. A queen’s plenty big enough for two, though. Unless you want to take the floor?”
I crossed my arms over my chest and rubbed my arms. “N-no, that’s okay.”
He turned toward me and placed his hands on either side of my arms as he’d done in the Thoreau room earlier that day. He kneaded my skin, and I tried to relax into his touch. “You can trust me, Amie. It’s going to be okay.” He pulled me toward him, planted a chaste kiss on my forehead, then turned to his suitcase. “I can’t always afford to stay in places as nice as your family’s. In fact, I sold a painting to a Camden client and they gave me a gift certificate to the Orchard House. I guess they’d bought it for their son, who couldn’t get away. I was grateful, no doubt. Gave me a reason to paint Camden, but more often than not, it’s places like this where I make my home. I’ve been known to sleep in my van a time or two, as well.”
I choked. “Your—your van?”
“Yeah. It’s all part of the adventure, you know? The experience of a wandering artist. I thought about writing a blog once but could never get up the energy to start it. Maybe that could be a project we work on together.”
The way Luke spoke, I was being given an amazing opportunity. Maybe life wouldn’t be . . . comfortable, but I was living it. I was experiencing it, striving toward my dreams.
Luke’s phone rang and he pulled it from his front pocket. Hmm, I’d have to tell him the dangers of cell phone radiation on the prostate when we got a bit more comfortable with one another.
His brow furrowed. “Oh, hey, Hannah.”
My blood froze. Mom.
I backed away from Luke, as if my mom could sense me with him, and then I hated myself for acting like such a child. Hadn’t I been telling myself all along that I didn’t need Mom’s permission to do as I pleased?
I planted my feet on the carpet of the motel room as Luke continued talking.
“Sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye. I left the key in the room. I hope you received it?”
A moment of silence. “Yes, yes she’s with me. Would you like to talk to her?”
He held his phone out to me, and I considered shaking my head violently, forcing him to lie for me. But that was not acting like an adult. If I truly felt I had nothing to be ashamed of, why hide from my mom?
I reached for the phone, warm from Luke’s hand, and raised it to my ear. “Hey, Mom.”
“Amie.” Mom spoke my name in a single exhalation of relief. “I’ve been out of my mind with worry.”
“Sorry . . . I left a note . . .” I tried to instill a breezy quality into my tone, as if all of this was no big deal. But even I could tell how miserably I was failing.
“Oh. I didn’t see anything. I mean, I don’t ask a lot of you. I know you’re an adult, but I do ask for consideration.” She was rambling, something she only did when she worried. “Josie and I were waiting an hour for you to show up for the shop inventory.”
I winced. I’d totally forgotten about our plans. “Mom, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot.”
I heard dishes clinking and pictured her at the kitchen sink, filling the dishwasher after dinner. “So, you plan to be home late tonight then, I take it?”
I swallowed. I should have put the note on the kitchen counter instead of on my bed, but if I were honest with myself, I’d wanted to give Luke and I some time before our plans were discovered. Now though, I couldn’t skulk away with a simple note. “I won’t be home tonight, Mom.”
The tinkling of the dishes stopped. “Okay . . . is there a time you will be home?”
“No,” I whispered. “I’m going to hang out with Luke for a bit. We’re attending an art festival in Bar Harbor. He’s going to teach me what he knows about painting and selling art.”
Silence. I could practically feel Mom grasping for words.
“Amie, you barely know him.”
“I’m not a little girl, anymore. I can take care of myself.” Even as the words came out, I realized how they sounded like the words of an adolescent instead of a twenty-three-year-old woman. But Mom was treating me like an adolescent instead of a twenty-three-year-old woman.
“What about your job? Colton Contractors is depending on you.”
“No, they’re not. Tripp made it perfectly clear today that he can handle everything without me.” He and August would run the business without me better than with me. At least they wouldn’t offer huge checks to strangers to clean up their dog waste.
“Where is this coming from, Amie? What about saving up for New York, planning for—”
“Luke doesn’t think I need art school.”
“And what is it Luke thinks you need?” An angry edge sharpened Mom’s words.
“Experience, Mom. Life. Studying art.”
Mom released a long sigh. “You’re going to do what you want no matter what. I just wish you had thought this through more.”
“This is right for me,” I whispered. “I’m sorry it was so sudden, though. I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“You don’t have your car . . .” For the first time since Luke handed me the phone, my mom’s voice broke. “What if you need something? What if you want to come home?”
My heart softened. “It’s not the eighteenth century, Mom. I can call an Uber.”
Another long sigh. “Please call me if you need anything at all. Anything, okay? I’m here for you. I’ll come get you anytime, day or night, no questions. I love you.”
I sniffed. “I love you too, Mom. Tell everyone I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“I will. Bye, honey.”
I hung up, suddenly cognizant of Luke staring at me. I handed him his phone.
“Everything okay?”
“Uh-huh,” I murmured, turning to my suitcase as he disappeared inside the bathroom. If this were to be my new home, I better start getting used to the stained wallpaper, the carpet where I imagined a thousand different microscopic fleas and dust mites lived . . . the shower. Ew, the shower. I hadn’t brought my flip-flops to protect my beautiful feet from toe fungus.
I looked around the living space, which included the bed, a small sitting area, a kitchenette, and a bathroom, and it struck me.
I was living with a man. A man I didn’t know from Adam. A man who was not my boyfriend, not my husband. For a split-second, I doubted my decision to drive away with Luke, but then I remembered the conversation I had with my mom. It would be absolutely humiliating to come running home before I’d been away for one night. I didn’t like to be wrong, ever, but I really didn’t want to be wrong about this.
It was an adventure, that’s all. A grab-life-by-the-horns adventure. Starting now.
Luke walked out of the bathroom. “Toilet’s clogged. I’m going to track down a plunger. In the meantime, I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”
He gave me a charming grin and I raised my eyes, trying to pull off an amused expression when I was anything but tickled.
A grand adventure, indeed.
31
August stared at Mrs. Martin from where he stood in the small foyer of the living quarters of the bed and breakfast. He attempted to breathe around his tight sternum, but fought to suck in a breath. He turned away from Amie’s mother, stared out the window to the darkening sky.
“She—she left? Like, for good?”
Amie’s mother lowered herself to a chair at the breakfast nook. “She’s always been unpredictable, but I never would have expected something like this.”
“With Luke. She ran away with Luke.” He made himself say the words, each one clawing into the tattered pieces of his heart. Amie really hadn’t wanted him. She’d run as fast as her pretty little feet could carry her away from his mother’s diamond ring. She’d run away from her family, from everything she’d ever known. Away from him. Toward Luke.
He released a frustrated growl, slapped a hand against his thigh. “I—I just didn’t know they were serious.” And how could he? He and Amie had been practically dating the last few weeks. Even if they hadn’t been official, he deserved more than hearing this news secondhand, and from Mrs. Martin, no less.
“I don’t think they are.” Mrs. Martin rolled the edges of the cloth placemat on the table. “She said he’s going to teach her art.”
He paced into the kitchen, and then back. “I bet that’s not all he wants to teach her,” he growled.
“August.”
He hung his head. “Sorry. It’s just—how can she do this? Up and leave everybody who loves her?”
Amie’s mother bit her lip. “Believe me, I know how frustrated you are. When I spoke to her on the phone tonight, I wanted to give her a good tongue lashing. But the reality is she’s a grown woman. She’s trying to find herself. She’s hurting, although I don’t know why. Any harsh words would only push her farther away.”
He exhaled, long and slow, trying to cast out the pain of the news. “She had a bad day at the office. She quit. But I didn’t expect anything this drastic.” Again, he paced into the kitchen, in front of the double ovens, and back toward the breakfast nook. “Should I go after her? What if she’s not safe with this guy? What if—”
“Running after her would only show we don’t respect her. She needs to figure this out herself. If she doesn’t do it now, it might be in New York. I think it’s time for me to step out of the way.” Mrs. Martin placed a gentle hand on his arm, and he sank onto the chair beside her. He knew what she was on the verge of saying—that he needed to step out of the way, too.
“I just love her so much, Mrs. Martin. Why does it have to be so hard?”
She swallowed, and he noticed the faint strands of gray at her temples. “I’ve always thought you and Amie would find your way to one another. And perhaps you still will. But for now, I think the best thing we can both do to show Amie our love is also the hardest thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Letting go.”
He gritted his teeth. Hadn’t he had that same thought earlier at the office? But that was when Amie was still in the same town, a phone call away. Now, he doubted she’d even answer his call.
“It doesn’t mean we don’t care, August. And we can place her in the arms of Someone who cares as much, if not more, than we do.”
He nodded and grasped her hand when she offered it. They bowed their heads as Mrs. Martin prayed for Amie’s safety and protection, that she would find whatever the Lord would have her discover, and above all, that she would know His love.
When she finished, August echoed an “Amen,” and squeezed her hand.
“Thanks for always being there for me,” he said, surprised by the emotion clamping on his throat. “You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to—to a mother, and I want you to know I appreciate you always being there for me. Never giving up on me.”
“Oh, honey.” She wrapped him in a hug and he sank into her warm embrace. “We all need a bit of grace, and if Amie ever decides to come home, that’s what she’ll need too.”
32
The first seventy-two hours, I was able to fool myself into thinking everything was going swimmingly. Sure, the bathroom was disgusting, and sure, I wished I had brought my own sheets from home for the bed, but there was an upside. Spending countless hours at one of the biggest art festivals in New England was inspiring, breathtaking, and downright awesome.
I’d helped Luke set up his tent and display his paintings. I’d spoken to potential customers about his work, and when I’d sold a rather pricey painting on our first day, he’d given me the most dashing grin. I felt like we were a team, that this could work forever and ever.
Sure, most of the time, the paintings didn’t sell. We had to talk to about three hundred customers for every one sale, but I was a good saleswoman. During the lunch hour, Luke encouraged me to walk around and talk to the other vendors and artists, to gain “inspiration.”
And I did.
Luke wasn’t the only one traveling the world to sell his art. A woman from Ukraine sold beautiful jewelry. She sent most of the money back home to help care for an ailing brother. One man made art out of newspaper, another sold lotion derived from bee pollen.
Everywhere I looked, creativity thrived, and I felt certain Luke was right—experience was the best teacher. I couldn’t wait to make my own art, to display it in the tent alongside Luke’s.
When I might do that, however, remained a mystery. We dragged ourselves out of bed before sunrise in order to bring the paintings to the festival tent and set everything up in an aesthetically pleasing manner. Vendors wouldn’t pack up their supplies until dusk, and sometimes, if the crowd was especially thick—we’d stay until well past nightfall.
We ate greasy food and my stomach ached often, probably from too many unfamiliar preservatives. I cringed when I crawled into bed, praying the staff did indeed wash the sheets with hot water, laundry detergent, and—even though I was generally against it—bleach. I spent way too much money at a local craft store on paint supplies I couldn’t afford. The numbers on my bank account app decreased significantly.
Luke stayed well to his side the first night we slept in the same bed. I have to admit, it felt intimate. Though we didn’t touch, the simple act of sharing a bed with a man hit me in a way I hadn’t expected. I chastised myself that first night, and flipped on my left side, facing away from Luke. I’d actually slept with August. There was nothing disgraceful about sharing a bed with Luke in this manner. Unless one of us wanted to sleep in the bathtub, we hadn’t any other options. Luke was helping me—paying for these accommodations, however lacking—paying for my food, exposing me to all this great art and talent.
The second night, we went out to eat with a couple who sold unique glass art. Though I usually avoided alcohol, I indulged in a beer along with Luke. It was the first time I’d seen him drink, and he became even more charming, more funny, more passionate about creating art. And not just his art. He was excited about my paintings, bragged about my leaf lamps, and told our companions I was the next Claude Monet.
It was an exaggeration—I knew it, and so did he. But one thing was clear—Luke believed in me.
He’d forgotten his wallet at home that night, and I picked up the bill for all four of us, thinking it was the least I could do for all he’d done for me. And when we climbed into bed that night and he pulled me toward him, I allowed it. We fell asleep that way—nothing more than me cradled in his arms. I couldn’t deny it felt good to be held, good to be wanted, needed even. We were a team.
The following night, after a heated makeout session, I’d grown suddenly and violently ill. Likely the greasy, nonorganic food. I’d made it to the toilet just in time, and had immediately felt better, although weak.
I’d faced the wall when I climbed back into bed, intense homesickness overtaking me alongside Luke’s soft snores. When I woke up in the middle of the night, Luke stroked my shoulder. I blinked my eyes open, my heart racing. The lights from the motel sign splashed blue onto the wall.
“Amie, are you okay?”
“I—I think so.”
“You were crying.”
I swiped at my eyes. My hand came away wet.
“I—I don’t know why.”
“Do you miss home?” he asked.
Did I miss home? It had been three days. Was this just a passing homesick phase, or would I chicken out after only a few days of living my new adventure?
I didn’t answer, just shrugged, and I wasn’t certain if he saw the gesture by the light of the motel sign. He continued stroking my arm, and I must have leaned into it a little because it was comforting, and I did miss home, and I did feel alone, even with him, even knowing I could go back to Orchard House whenever I wanted.
His hand made a wider sweep, inching toward my shoulder blade and, after a few moments, down to the curve of my waist. I lay there, almost frozen.
I liked Luke. In many ways, we seemed perfect for one another. I knew he was attracted to me, and although he didn’t stir to life my nerve endings in the same way August had, the draw between us wasn’t purely one-sided, either.
He inched closer, his body heat warm and not unpleasant. It would be so easy to turn toward him, allow myself to sink into that solid body. But I’d gone this route before, and though there was nobody else I would have rather lost my virginity to than August, I told myself a long time ago that just because I slept with one guy did not give me free license to give my body away to anyone on a whim.
Luke said we’d take things slow. In my mind, that meant months. But maybe his definition of slow was different.
I shimmied just a centimeter away from him, and he retracted his hand. I waited for his now-familiar snores before I was finally able to relax enough to fall asleep.
The next day, Luke left his wallet in the motel room again, and even though I offered to go back and get it for him, he insisted it’d be easier if I paid for our meals and he reimburse me later.
As I handed over my debit card to a lady in a food truck selling Greek Gyros, a slow dread crawled over me as I looked at my bank app. How had it drained so quickly? If I spent this much in three days, what would this mean for the rest of the summer? I wasn’t making money with my art—I hadn’t time to make art. Neither was Luke paying me for my help at his booth. No, that wasn’t true. He’d paid for the motel outright. But how was this going to last? And what did I assume? That Luke was simply rolling in the dough from his art that he could afford to completely support me, a near stranger?
