Page 8 of Sweet Escape at Bayside
She opened her eyes, staring up at the greenhouse-type glass roof. She ground out, “Forget it,” and pushed to her feet, telling herself she wasnotgoing down the pathetic path of a woman pining after a man. She flicked on the stereo and forced herself to focus on the sculpture she was making for the Wilks, whose six-year-old daughter, Erin, had passed away last spring from a brain tumor. Violet volunteered in the pediatric ward of the hospital, and she’d spent a lot of time with Erin, working with art as a means to ease the sweet little girl’s anxiety. She’d loved Erin like a younger sister. The Wilks were holding a memorial for her in March, and Violet was making a garden sculpture of Erin for them.
She began unwrapping the plastic that kept the clay moist. Her specialty was pottery and batik work, both of which she sold in the gallery at the inn, but neither felt special enough for Erin’s parents. She looked over the partially finished sculpture. She was sculpting Erin from memory, sitting with her knees bent, legs at her sides, her little feet pointed out. Erin was leaning back on one hand and looking up at a butterfly that had landed on her other hand. Her beloved pet cat, Igor, had remained by her side through the worst of times, and he’d been with her when she died, which was why Violet was sculpting Igor snuggled against Erin’s leg.
She hadn’t begun working on the finer details yet, and she wasn’t confident in her ability to create a face as sweet and innocent as Erin’s, but she hoped she’d do a good enough job to do Erin justice. This would not only be Violet’s first time sharing a sculpture, but it would also be the first time anyone other than Justin and Andre would learn she sculpted. She was nervous about that, but her love for Erin was bigger than her fear of exposing this piece of herself.
She set the plastic aside, and her thoughts moved to her other large-scale work in progress on a neighboring table, where the torso of a man, recently fired, waited to be glazed. Her heart ached, remembering how Andre had helped her take her love of working with clay to a larger scale. When she’d stumbled upon him in a tent behind the clinic in Ghana, standing barefoot and shirtless, his hands covered with wet, murky clay, her heart had nearly stopped. Not only because she hadn’t had access to supplies to do pottery for a long time, but also because standing before her was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and he was completely engrossed in his artwork. His hair and broad chest were streaked with clay, as were the jeans that rode low on his hips. He was working by candlelight, and she was utterly captivated. She’d been around artists her whole life, but she was drawn in by the energy Andre radiated. She wanted to walk over and put her hands on his as he molded the face of a woman. She didn’t know how long she’d stood there, but at some point his gaze found hers, and to this day she still felt the burst of light in her chest that their first glance had caused. She didn’t find out he was a doctor until later that evening.
He may have wowed everyone else—in Ghana and at the wedding tonight—with his medical skills, but it was their shared love of art that had first brought him and Violet together, sparking the most intense connection she’d ever experienced.
She looked away from the torso to try to push those memories aside. Her hands were shaking.Darn it.Huffing out a breath, she went to fill a bowl with water and organized her tools. Then she set to work smoothing an area on the sculpture that had become too soft, adding and molding clay, willing her mind to become absorbed with the process. The feel of the clay and the concentration it took to get the lines of the sculpture just right usually overshadowed every other thought. But as she moved on, dampening an area on the little girl’s leg that was too dry, and began molding the gentle curve of her calf, she was still shaking.
Half an hour later, she was still consumed by thoughts of Andre. She dropped her tools on the table and began pacing.What am I doing?
The door opened, and Justin sauntered in. He lifted his bearded chin and said, “Hey, babe.”
“Hey,” Violet said as a tall, thin redhead followed him in.
“Hi,” the redhead said, strutting toward Violet wearing a T-shirt that hadWHISKEY BRO’Semblazoned across the chest, a pair of skintight jeans, and knee-high black leather boots. She had tattoos on both arms and gave off a tough vibe.
Justin came to Violet’s side, and she feigned a smile. He was thick chested, hard bodied, and had a chip on his shoulder the size of Iceland, which went nicely with his ice-blue eyes.
His eyes raked down her body, and he said, “Nice outfit, babe. Say hello to Dixie.”
“Hello, Dixie,” she parroted, holding his gaze and wondering why he’d bring Dixie into the studio when he knew she kept her sculpting private. The last thing she wanted to do was make small talk with some chick he was banging.
Dixie came to her other side and admired her sculpture. “You’re making a little girl?”
No. I’m making a snake.“Mm-hm.”
“Shouldn’t you be at your sister’s wedding?” Justin asked.
Violet turned back to the sculpture and began using her thumbs to smooth the clay. “Shouldn’t you be entertaining yourdate?”
She probably sounded jealous, but she didn’t care. Sure, she’d slept with Justin a few times, but the last time was right after she’d returned to the Cape, when she’d tried to bang Andre out of her system. It hadn’t worked. She and Justin had gone back to being just friends who liked to hang out, create art, and ride their bikes.
“Ha! Holy cow, Jus,” Dixie said. “She thinks we’redating.”
The edge of his lips curved up as he said, “Not dating.”
“Whatever,” Violet mumbled.
“He’s mycousin,” Dixie said. “I live in Maryland. I’m just passing through, and don’t worry. He told me no one knows you sculpt. I’m not going to spill your secret.”
She grabbed a rag and wiped her hands, glad Dixie wasn’t a loose-lipped local. “Sorry. I’m not jealous. I’ve just had a crappy day. Your cousin can sleep with whoever he wants.”
“Wanna talk about it?” Justin asked.
“Not really.” She sighed and said, “I can’t even focus on this.” She picked up the sprayer to spritz the clay and rewrap it, but Justin grabbed her hand.
“I’ll do it. You’re too upset. You’ll mess it up.”
She tried to wrench the bottle away, but he snapped it from her hand.
“Guy trouble?” Dixie asked as Justin began spritzing the clay.
Violet shook her head and headed for the sink.
“You’re wearing a killer dress,” Dixie pointed out. “Justin said your sister’s getting married—”
