Page 5 of Better Luck Next Time

And she walked out and left.

Chapter Three

“Come on, Bessie,” Adalia coaxed as her car pulled into the inclined driveway of her house. “You can do it.”

Bessie was a hunk of junk, but she wasAdalia’shunk of junk, purchased here in Asheville. She knew Georgie had practically chewed off her tongue to keep from offering to buy her a car, especially after learning just how little she had in her savings account. Her sister had settled for forcing “bonus” money on her for designing the merch and bottle labels for Buchanan and a “stipend” for her work on social media. Adalia had considered turning it down—she was one-fourth owner, which meant she should only make money when the brewery made money—but in all honesty she needed it. It had made her feel like she’d earned the car.

Besides, Adalia’s father had given her enough lectures over the course of her nearly thirty years that it had sunk deep into her skin—there are no free rides. Only losers accept handouts.When will you ever live up to your family name?

When pigs learned how to fly, and she hadn’t seen a winged pig yet, although if she were being honest with herself, occasionally she looked.

Jack’s car was already in the drive, so Adalia steeled her back as she walked toward the front door. To say things were awkward between them was an understatement. Jack had been in the house for three nights, and while they were polite to each other, somehow that made it weirder. If Jack had been a normal roommate, Adalia could have ignored him and hung out in her room, but she felt an obligation to at least make some kind of effort to talk to him. Too bad he seemed to be struggling with what to say just as much as she was.

She dumped her purse on the bench in the small entryway, then headed for the staircase, eager to shower and remove the dried paint smeared all over her hands and lower arms. Red seemed to be her favorite color in Asheville, and she’d already gone through several tubes. She kept meaning to buy more, but the pull toward Dottie’s garage was sometimes so strong it nearly possessed her. She’d find herself in Dottie’s driveway…and a fresh tube of red acrylic paint would be waiting for her next to the palette and brushes Dottie had given her.

Thank God, since Adalia had left anything to do with art in her New York apartment, as well as everything else that hadn’t fit into her suitcases. Georgie had offered to pay for her things to be packed and moved, but Adalia had left the remains for her roommates to pick through.

When she’d left New York, she’d intended to leave art behind too, but it turned out her soul needed art as much as her body needed oxygen. She’d tried to deny it the first month, hoping that doodling with the Buchanan Brewery logos and merch would satiate that unquenchable hunger to create, to pour every bit of her feelings into some medium outside herself. But she’d been a fool. Other than her mother’s death, she was at the lowest point of her life, and her soul begged for release.

Once Adalia had finally acquired Bessie—the salesman had raised his brows and asked, “Are you sure?”—the very first place she’d driven to was Dottie’s garage. She hadn’t even stopped in to say hello, not that she’d needed to. Dottie had told her no greetings were necessary. Somehow she understood that Adalia’s art was a private thing right now, and she respected her privacy as she worked through the tangled emotions consuming her.

She hadn’t painted on canvas in years, but Dottie had left her a stack of sixteen by twenty canvases along with the paints and other supplies. Waiting, as if she’d known that Adalia would be by sooner rather than later. A note had sat beside them:

Georgie told me you worked in mixed media, but the choices for those pieces are such a personal thing—the choosing as tied to the artist as the creation itself—and I would never presume to know your artist’s soul. Start with this or anything else in my studio—what’s mine is yours!—and if you’d like to begin collecting materials that grab you for your mixed media, you can put them in the bin in the corner. Let your heart guide you, Addy. It won’t steer you wrong.

Adalia had laughed bitterly at the last line. Her heart had brought her nothing but pain. Her art too. She still hadn’t put anything in the bin.

Her first painting had been for Alan Stansworth, the man who’d hurt her heart and slashed her soul.

It was Alan who’d driven her to leave New York for Asheville, wounded and broken. Her mentor turned lover had used her in the worst way a person could. He’d stolen her art—her heart’s creations—and claimed them for his own. The pieces had been in an exhibit underhisname.

And so she’d destroyed them. Now she couldn’t seem to stop.

She’d sobbed and sobbed as she poured her heart out onto the canvas that day, ending with a piece so full of chaos and yearning it had stolen her breath. It was good. No, it had been more than good. It had been her best piece yet. But the irony twisted something in her heart, and before she even knew what she was doing, she’d slashed the painting with a utility knife Dottie had left on a workbench, putting as much effort into the slicing as she had into the brushstrokes.

At the end, she was covered in paint and the canvas was shredded into so many pieces it was unrecognizable. An emotion she couldn’t name—although she was sure there was probably a German word for it—swept through her, a mixture of relief and emptiness. Like she’d just dumped every last bit of pain onto the canvas, leaving her heart a shell. She cleaned up her brushes and her palette, dumped the canvas into Dottie’s dumpster and went home, scaring Georgie half to death when she saw all the red paint covering her body and thought Adalia had had a run-in with a serial killer.

But the emotions had built back up again, and three days later, Adalia was back out at the garage, doing it all over again. And again.

Only Dottie had known the truth. Until today. Adalia’s face flushed at the reminder of having been caught by Finn as she hurried up to her room, grateful Jack didn’t pop out. She stripped her clothes and stepped into the shower in the adjoining bathroom. How long had Finn been watching her?

She’d gone over to Dottie’s studio after receiving another wheedling text from Alan, one in a series of texts and emails that had started weeks ago. After a discussion with Georgie, who was certain he was just trying to get back into her good graces so he could use her again—Georgie had, thank God, tricked him into dropping the charges against her—she had ignored them. But they still kept coming, and for some reason, she hadn’t blocked his number like her sister had suggested. It was as if part of her wanted to punish herself. So she’d gone to Dottie’s thinking she’d paint out her emotions about Alan. Instead, she’d found herself painting her relationship with her father, how he’d always been so disappointed in her. How he’d given most of his attention to Lee, and what little was left for Georgie, who had been so desperate for his approval too. That look of appreciation in Finn’s eyes, of wonder tinged with sadness, had strummed something inside of her—and then unleashed a fresh flood of anger that had her handing him the wet painting, slopping red paint on his designer clothes. Alan had admired her work too…and look where that had gotten her.

But being caught in the act, as it were, had thrown her. How long could she go on like this? What if other people discovered what she was doing? She could hear her father’s voice in her head:Mature people don’t throw temper tantrums with paint and knives. Grow up, Adalia!

What if he was right?

After her shower, she went downstairs, wearing a pair of pajama pants and a cami with a built-in bra (only because Jack was there) and raided the fridge for something to eat. Sure enough, there were two casserole dishes in the fridge with notes: “Jack, eat this for a slice of home,” and the other, “Addy, you need more protein.”

Dottie.

She still had a key to the house and often left food in the fridge, even more so since Georgie had moved out.

Adalia reached for the dish addressed to her.

“You found Dottie’s food,” Jack said behind her as he walked through the back door.

She nearly dropped the heavy glass dish. “God! You scared me!”

---