The Christmas Backup Plan, page 12
“Pah.” She waved a hand. “You are entitled to your opinion. Just like everyone else.”
“You’re a compassionate person, Aria.”
“So are you, dude. You just don’t seem to realize it. You’ve buried it under years of hurt, but it’s still there.”
She hit a nerve. Remington tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“Have you ever tried art therapy?” she asked.
“What?”
“Did anyone during your rehab suggest art therapy?”
“No.” He hazarded a glance over at her. “What is art therapy exactly?”
“A way to explore your emotions through art. It’s really therapeutic.”
He crinkled his nose. “I’m not very good at art.”
“It doesn’t matter. That’s the magic of it. You are in it for the joy of doing art. It’s playing like when you were a kid.”
“That’s so long ago I can’t even remember what it was like to be a kid.”
“Even more reason you need art therapy.”
“I wouldn’t even know what to draw.”
“What are you interested in?”
You. The thought hit him like a swat. “I don’t know.”
“Sure, you do. Landscapes? People? Animals? Still life?”
He shrugged. Art seemed superfluous, but Aria liked it, so he tried. “The Silver Feather, I guess.”
“You can do better than that.” She twisted herself around so that she was sitting in the seat cross-legged and facing him. He didn’t know how she managed it with her seat belt on, but Aria was something else.
She leaned across the console to rest her hand on his belly.
Instantly, his abdominal muscles contracted, and he felt a rush of heat go straight to his groin.
“What is your gut telling you?” she asked.
His gut was telling him to pull over the vehicle, yank her into his arms, and kiss her like the world was ending. Staring out over the hood, he forced himself to concentrate on her question.
“Well?” Thankfully, she took her hand back across the console and tucked it in her lap. Today, she wore blue jeans and a fluffy white sweater with old-fashioned Christmas lightbulbs embroidered along the scoop neck collar.
“Uh . . .” He had nothing. He felt self-conscious and hopelessly inept. His abdomen still burned from the touch of her hand.
“Quick,” she said. “What’s the first thing that pops into your head?”
But that was the problem. Things didn’t just “pop” into his head. He was studied and controlled. He considered things, sorted them, cataloged, and analyzed. He didn’t know how to identify an instant thought, seize it, and run with it to an instant conclusion.
As if she sensed his thoughts, she said, “This is how art works.” She lightly knocked a small fist against his noggin. “Creativity springs from impulse. You can’t be creative when you’re wrapped too tightly with rules and regulations. Stop thinking so much, Remy, and just feel.”
As if it was that easy. She was asking him to go against thirty-two years of being in the world a certain way.
“Look,” she said. “A rest stop. Please pull over. I need to pee, and you need to close your eyes.”
“Why do I need to close my eyes?”
“To connect with your creative impulse.”
“Aria, I don’t need to do that. I’m no artist.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at him and smiled. “Please? For me?”
Who could resist her? Besides, she needed to go to the bathroom.
He took the exit. Aria clapped and leaned down to put on the boots she’d kicked off during the journey.
He pulled into the rest stop and parked near the bathrooms, killed the engine. “There you go, Zippy.”
“No, no, we’re doing this first. I’m not giving you the chance to back out.” Her palm was back on his belly. “Close your eyes.”
From her expression, he knew she wouldn’t let this go. Might as well get it over with and make her happy.
He leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes.
“Now,” she said, her voice low and coaxing. “What do you see?”
Remington stared at the back of his eyelids, desperate to see something besides the remnants of daylight showing up as white blobs in his field of vision. He had a feeling she would not accept that.
“Look past the shadows and light.”
Straining, he peered harder.
“What do you see?” she whispered. “There’s no wrong answer.”
This creativity stuff was hard.
“I see . . . Geometrical shapes. Squares. Rectangles. Cones.”
“Okay, push past the pedestrian answers.”
“I see a form,” he said, noticing the shapes shifting and changing. He expected her to redirect him again or tell him that he was hopeless.
Instead, she inhaled audibly, and he could feel the warmth of her minty breath against his cheek. Her face was millimeters from his, her distracting palm still flat against his belly. “What kind of form?”
“A person.”
“Male or female?”
He couldn’t tell. He squinted with his eyes closed, trying to will the shape to come into focus. Nothing. “I’m hopeless at this.”
“You’re not. You’ve just never practiced getting in touch with your inner artist.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” He opened his right eye and peered at her.
“Eyes closed.”
Exhaling loudly to let her know he was tired of this game, he closed his eye again.
“This form . . . is it male or female?”
“Female,” he said, just to get her off his back.
“Do you see any colors?”
“No. Just black and white.”
“Can you make out her features? Is she old or young or somewhere in between?”
She’s you, he thought, but said, “I’m looking at the back of her head.”
“Then how do you know it’s a woman?”
“Long hair.”
“Could it be a guy with long hair?”
Zippy, it could be a unicorn, I am just making this crap up. “No,” he said firmly, aching to open his eyes again and get a good look at her face. “Definitely not a guy.”
“So, you see the back of a woman’s head. Has anything shifted?”
He looked again, and this time, he saw the back of a woman’s head. The power of suggestion.
“What do you taste?”
“Huh?”
“What do you taste?”
“I taste nothing.” But just then his mouth filled with the taste of Aria.
“What about sounds or textures or scents?”
“You hear sounds and feel textures and smell scents and taste things when you paint?”
“For sure. More than that. I can taste colors and smell sounds and feel the weight of everything. It’s called synesthesia.”
“And this is without benefit of hallucinogens?”
“I don’t do drugs,” she scolded. “You know that.”
“You’re the artist, Aria,” he said, still keeping his eyes closed. “I don’t hear or smell or taste or feel anything when I close my eyes. I see mostly darkness.”
“Ahh,” she said, sounding impossibly sad, and he couldn’t help feeling he’d let her down in some deeply fundamental way.
“Look, I’m a warrior. That’s all I am. I don’t have your artist eye or your quicksilver mind.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“You give me too much.”
“Remy, you are so much more than your job. So much more than the rigid way you’ve learned to think.” She seemed beyond disappointed in him that he couldn’t play her game.
God, he wanted to please her, but he couldn’t give her what she wanted.
Then she issued a strange little sound, and said, “Oh, I get it.”
“Get what?” He was uncomfortable sitting here with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. He felt defenseless.
“You can’t allow yourself to let go and explore your creativity because you’re terrified that if you do, you’ll go where you go in your nightmares.”
Ding. She’d hit the nail on the head. He knew it as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Felt the truth of it smack the pit of his stomach.
“Remy.” She wrapped a hand around his right wrist. “This is fabulous. This is progress. I am so proud of you.”
“You are?”
“Could you try one last time, for me? If your mind takes you back to the war, you can just open your eyes right up. It’s not like in a nightmare where you get stuck. I’ll be right here with you.”
Shows what she knew about PTSD. A person could get caught in the grips of the damn thing with their eyes wide-open. But she had a point. He had been letting his fears of the past hold him back.
Bracing himself for an onslaught of images he did not want to see, Remington gave it one last shot. Drilled a hole through the back of his eyelids, and suddenly something popped, and technicolor images filled his mind.
But thankfully, it was not about his experience in the war.
It was a memory of last night, and he saw it as if it was happening all over again. Aria in his arms. Her taste in his mouth. Her silky hair falling over his skin. Her eyes wide and bright. The sound of his name rolling off her lips.
He laughed then, an unexpected sound that surprised him, and from the way she jumped, he knew it surprised her too. He opened his eyes, unexpectedly full of joy.
“Wow, that smile on your face.” She grinned like he’d gifted her with a set of expensive art pencils. “What did you see this time?”
“You.” He gave her a wicked smile. “Last night.”
“I saw last night too.”
“What?”
“I closed my eyes too and when I did, I saw you with me, last night.”
“It was a night to remember,” he murmured, and locked his gaze onto hers.
She lowered her lashes. “Indeed.”
“I had a good time last night.”
“So did I.”
“It was beautiful.” He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“The best.”
“But we’re not gonna—”
“Oh no, no, no. Last night was just road trip sex. It doesn’t count. You can keep it in your fantasies though.”
“Good,” he said, but it didn’t feel good at all. She seemed to supply that edict pretty fast, no hesitation. He straightened in his seat.
“It’s for the best, really.” She opened the SUV’s door. “I’m just gonna go pee.”
While he waited on her to return from the restroom, Remington mulled over the situation. Now, every freaking time he closed his eyes, he saw her. It was like turning a movie on and off every time he lowered his eyelids. Not that he really minded. It was a helluva lot better than war images dancing in his brain.
She got back in, breathless and red-cheeked. “Let’s hit the road.”
He started the engine, but before he shifted the Escalade into Drive, he said. “I’ve been thinking. Instead of hanging around for four days, maybe I should just drop you off in Twilight and come back for you on Monday after the wedding.”
“The wedding is Saturday. You would just get home and have to turn around and come right back. There’s no sense in that. I promise, I can keep my hands to myself if you can.”
He looked at her and she beamed at him. Not an easy promise to keep. Not when she was smiling at him with those kissable lips and friendly eyes.
“Sure,” he mumbled. “I can do that.”
“Great. Now that’s settled, let’s hit the road.” She popped the earbuds back in and returned to her audiobook. “I gotta see how the detective gets away from the killer.”
Just like that, she closed herself off to more conversation, leaving Remington feeling shaky and off-balance.
No more physical contact between them was the smart thing, the sane thing, but he didn’t know if he could trust himself to hold up his side of the bargain. What he needed was a backup plan. Something that assured him he could keep his word.
Right.
He needed to stay in different accommodations. He’d drop her off at the Merry Cherub, the B and B where Vivi had made their reservations, and find himself another place to stay.
Satisfied with his decision, he drove the final sixty miles to Twilight. An hour later, they arrived.
As Remington navigated the streets, it quickly became clear that Twilight was that special sort of small, lakeside village, a close-knit, yet entrepreneurial bedroom community that capitalized on its proximal separateness from the sprawling Dallas metroplex.
Cowboy heritage was taken quite seriously from Fort Worth westward. Mostly, denizens in these parts didn’t drive Teslas or hybrid cars; almost exclusively they owned pickups or dual axle trucks meant for hauling livestock trailers, or SUVs with dark-tinted windows to protect against the relentless Texas sun.
Not much different from home in Cupid. But whereas Cupid was nestled in the isolated high desert terrains of the arid Davis Mountains, Twilight was blessed with humidity, trees, and abundant tourism.
Ten minutes later, they were standing in the lobby of the old Victorian house converted into a B and B, surrounded by an impossible array of angels, the owners, Jenny and Dean Cantrell, telling them every hotel, motel, and B and B within a thirty-mile radius was booked up. Not only was December the height of Twilight tourist season, but the wedding of the mayor’s daughter had filled every space.
He could either drive to Jubilee, the next town over, or stay in the rooms Vivi had booked for them.
It would be okay, he told himself as he followed Aria and their chattering hostess up the stairs past the overdose of heavenly images—angels on the wallpaper, thick and velvety-looking. Angel mobiles flying from the ceiling. Angels carved into the staircase. Angel figurines crowding the curio cabinet in the hallway. Angel umbrella stand. Angel coatracks.
Angels every freaking where.
Jenny Cantrell was in her midforties, had light brown hair mixed with threads of silver pulled back into a bouncy ponytail. She deposited Aria in her room, then she turned and guided Remington to the room right next door.
“Would it be possible for me to swap rooms with another guest? Someone who hasn’t arrived yet?” he asked. “On another floor?”
“If you’d arrived last night as planned,” Jenny said, “maybe. But everyone is already checked in and settled.”
“The ice storm stranded us in Armadillo,” he explained.
“I know. Miss Alzate texted me about that. While I do appreciate the heads-up, it’s out of my hands.” Jenny shrugged. “This will have to do.”
“Thanks for trying.”
Jenny paused, studying him up one side and down the other. “Could I ask you something?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Why don’t you want to be near Miss Alzate?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Right.” Jenny laughed. “None of my business.”
“We were stranded in the same motel room last night. Things didn’t go well.”
“Ahh.” Jenny’s eyes glistened with a mischievous light. “Then you’ve come to the right place.”
“Huh?”
“Twilight.” She waved her hand as if it was a magic wand. “Has a way of turning everything around.”
“How’s that?”
“The town is magical,” she said. “Especially at Christmas. Especially for lovers.” She handed him his key and headed back down the stairs as her husband trudged up with their luggage.
“We’re not lovers,” Remington mumbled under his breath, which wasn’t true. That was the problem.
He let himself into the room—yikes, more freaking angels—heard a door lock click open, turned, and saw Aria standing in the threshold of another door.
“Look.” She laughed. “You can’t get away from me. Adjoining rooms!”
Chapter 13
Dirt dive: To rehearse a skydive on the ground by walking through the positions and stations.
If Armadillo was a slice of cheddar, Twilight was an entire cheese wheel, and Remington was feeling decidedly lactose intolerant.
The angel-imbued B and B was just the start.
Remington walked around the town, shoulders hunched, the hoodie of his heavy sweater pulled up over his head, his face lowered against the cold wind blowing off Lake Twilight. He’d changed from his jeans and cowboy boots into sweatpants and sneakers.
Jogging had saved his sanity in the weeks and months following his accident, and he’d gotten addicted to his daily running routine. The last two days with no exercise left him jonesing for physical activity.
After appearing in the doorway of their connecting rooms—and leaving the door wide-open, dammit—Aria had announced she was going to hang out with Olivia, and he was free to occupy himself for the evening.
Part of him felt relieved she was letting him off the hook and he didn’t have to socialize with Aria and her friends. But another part of him couldn’t help feeling rejected. Why had she left him out of her plans?
She doesn’t want a tagalong, you big galumph.
Galumph.
It was something his father had called him when Remington hit a growth spurt his thirteenth summer and sprouted five inches over three months and ended up clumsy, awkward, and towering over his two older brothers. Galumph was as close to a term of endearment as Duke ever got, even though his father had not meant it as a compliment.
So here he was, wandering the streets of this Christmas-addled, touristy lake town with nothing to do except run.
The Merry Cherub was only a few blocks from the town square. In early afternoon on a Thursday, the streets were surprisingly packed. If the town was this crowded on a weekday, he sure as heck didn’t want to see it on the weekend.
In the middle of the square sat a stately courthouse built in the late 1800s. It was constructed of limestone in the French Second Empire architectural style popular with many county seats in Texas in its day. The three-story clock tower was a throwback to the wild west. When he’d strolled onto the square, he’d seen a plaque on the side of a building proudly proclaiming that the entire Twilight town square was listed in the National Register of Historic Places.
